The Sign of the Seven Sins
viatique so difficult to obtain. Human life is held very cheap here, I
can tell you.”
“Oh, don’t talk like that,” I protested. “You make one feel quite
nervous. Do you mean that murder is often committed?”
“Well--not exactly that. But one must always remember that here, mixing
with the best people of Europe, are the very scum of the world, both
male and female. Although they dress elegantly, live well, play boldly,
and give themselves airs and titles of nobility, they are a very queer
and unscrupulous crowd, I can assure you.”
“Do you know any of them by sight?” I inquired, much interested.
“Oh, one or two,” he answered, laughing indifferently. “Some of them,
of course, are eccentric and quite harmless characters.” Then a moment
later he added: “Do you see that tall, thin old man just ascending the
steps--the one with the soft, white felt hat? Well, his is a curious
story. Twenty years ago he came here a millionaire, and within a month
lost everything he possessed at trente-et-quarante. So huge were the
profits made by the bank, that instead of giving him his viatique to
London they allotted him a pension of a louis a day for life, on the
understanding that he should never again enter the Rooms. For nearly
twenty years he lived in Nice, haunting the Promenade des Anglais
and brooding over his past foolishness. Last year, however, somebody
unexpectedly died and left him quite comfortably off, whereupon he paid
back to Monte Carlo all that he had received and returned again to
gamble. His luck, however, has proved just as bad as before. Yet each
month as soon as he draws his income he comes over, and in a single
day flings it all away upon the red, his favorite color. His history is
only one of many.”
With interest I looked at the tall, thin-faced old gambler as he
painfully ascended the steps, and even as I watched he passed in, eager
to fling away all that stood between himself and starvation.
Truly the little world of Monte Carlo is a very queer place.
Ulrica and Gerald came laughing across the leafy Place and joined us
at our table. It was very pleasant there, with the band playing the
latest waltzes, the gay promenaders strolling beneath the palms, the
bright flowers, and the pigeons strutting in the roadway. Indeed, as
one sat there it seemed hard to believe that this was actually the
much-talked-of Monte Carlo--the plague spot of Europe.
I don’t think that I ever saw Ulrica look so well as on that afternoon
in her white serge dress, which she had had made in Paris; for white
serge is, as you know, de rigueur at Monte in winter, with a white hat
and white shoes. I was also in white, but it never suits me as it does
her; yet one must be smart, even at the expense of one’s complexion.
At Monte Carlo one must at least be respectable, even in one’s vices.
“Come, let’s go back to the Rooms,” suggested Ulrica when she had
finished her tea, flavored with orange-flower water, which is the mode
at the Café de Paris.
“Miss Rosselli won’t play any more,” said Reggie.
“My dear Carmela,” cried Ulrica; “why, surely you’ve the pluck to
follow your good fortune?”
But I was obdurate, and although I accompanied the others I did not
risk a single sou.
The place was crowded and the atmosphere absolutely unbearable, as it
always becomes about five o’clock. The Administration appear afraid of
letting in a little air to cool the heads of the players, hence the
rooms are hermetically sealed.
As I wandered about with Reggie, he pointed out to me other well-known
characters in the Rooms--the queer old fellow who carries a bag purse
made of colored beads; the old hag with a mustache who always brings
her own rake; the bright-eyed, dashing woman known to the croupiers
as “The Golden Hand;” the thin, wizen-faced little hunchback who one
night a few months before had broken the bank at the first roulette
table on the left; men working so-called “systems” and women trying to
snatch up other people’s winnings. Now and then my companion placed a
louis upon a transversale or colonne and once or twice he won, but,
declaring that he had no luck that day, he soon grew as tired of it as
myself.
Ulrica came up to us presently flushed with excitement. She had won
three hundred francs at the table where she always played. Her favorite
croupier was turning the wheel, and he always brought her luck. We both
had won, and she declared it to be a happy augury for the future.
While we were standing there the croupier’s voice sounded loud and
clear “Zero!” with that long roll of the “r” which habitués of the
Rooms know so well.
“Zero!” cried Reggie. “By Jove! I must put something on,” and he dashed
over to the table and handed the croupier a hundred-franc note, with a
request to put it on the number 29.
The game was made and the ball fell.
“Vingt-neuf! Rouge, impair et passé!”
“By Jove!” cried Gerald, “he’s won! Lucky devil! How extraordinary that
after zero the number twenty-nine so invariably follows!”
The croupier handed Reggie three thousand-franc notes and quite a
handful of gold. Then the lucky player moved his original stake on to
the little square marked 36.
Again he won--and again and again. The three thousand-franc notes he
had just received he placed upon the middle dozen. The number 18 turned
up, and the croupier handed him six thousand francs--the maximum paid
by the bank on a single coup. Every eye around that table watched him
narrowly. People began to follow his play, placing their money beside
his, and time after time he won, making only a few unimportant losses.
We stood watching him in silent wonder. The luck of the man with whom
I had been flirting was simply marvellous. Sometimes he distributed
his stakes on the color, the dozen, and the “pair,” and in that manner
often won in several places at the same coup. The eager, grabbing crowd
surged around the table, and the excitement quickly rose to fever-heat.
The assault Reggie was making upon the bank was certainly a formidable
one. His inner pockets bulged with the handfuls of notes he crammed
there, while the outer pockets of his jacket were heavy with golden
louis.
Ulrica stood behind him, but uttered no word. To speak to a person
while playing is believed by the gambler to bring evil fortune. When he
could cram no more notes into his pockets he passed them to Ulrica, who
held them in an overflow bundle in her hand.
He tossed a thousand francs on the red, but lost, together with the
dozens of others who had followed his play.
He played again with no better result.
A third time he played on the red, which had not been up for nine times
in succession, a most unusual run.
Black won.
“I’ve finished,” he said, turning to us with a laugh. “Let’s get out of
this; my luck has changed.”
“Marvellous!” cried Ulrica. “Why, you must have won quite a fortune.”
“We’ll go across to the Café and count it,” he said, and we all walked
out together. Then while sitting at one of the tables we assisted him
to count the piles of gold and notes.
He had, we found, won over sixty thousand francs.
At his invitation we went along to Gast’s, the jewellers in the
Galerie, and he there purchased for each of us a ring as a little
souvenir of the day. Afterwards we turned into Ciro’s and dined.
Yes, life at Monte Carlo is absolutely intoxicating. Now, however, that
I sit here reflecting on the events of that day when I first entered
the Sign of the Seven Sins, I find that even though the display of such
wealth as one sees upon the tables is dazzling, yet my first impression
of it has never been altered. I hated Monte Carlo from the first--I
hate it now.
The talk at dinner was, of course, the argot of the Rooms. At Monte
Carlo the conversation is always of play. If you meet an acquaintance,
you do not ask after her health, but of her luck and her latest
successes.
The two bejewelled worlds, the monde and the demi-monde, ate, drank,
and chattered in that restaurant of world-renown. The company was
cosmopolitan, the conversation polyglot, the dishes marvellous. At
the table next us there sat the Grand Duke Michael of Russia with his
wife, and beyond a British Earl with a couple of smart military men.
The United States Ambassador to Germany was at another table with a
small party of friends, while La Juniori, Derval, and several other
well-known Parisian beauties were scattered here and there.
I was laughing at a joke of Reggie’s when suddenly I raised my eyes and
saw a pair of new-comers. The man was tall, dark, handsome, with a face
a trifle bronzed--a face I knew, alas! too well.
I started and must have turned pale, for I knew from Ulrica’s
expression that she noticed it.
The man who entered there, as though to taunt me with his presence,
was Ernest Cameron, that man whom I had loved,--nay, whom I still
loved,--the man who had a year ago cast me aside for another, and left
me to wear out my young heart in sorrow and suffering.
That woman was with him--the tow-haired woman whom they told me he
had promised to make his wife. I had never seen her before; she was
rather petite, with a fair, fluffy coiffure, blue-gray eyes, and
pink-and-white cheeks. She had earned, I afterwards heard, a rather
unenviable notoriety in Paris on account of some scandal or other, but
the real truth of it I could never ascertain.
Our eyes met as she entered, but she was unaware that she gazed upon
the woman who was her rival and who hated her. She had stolen Ernest
from me, and I felt that I could rise there, in that public place, and
crush the life from her slim, fragile frame.
Ernest himself brushed past my chair, but without recognizing me, and
went down the room gayly with his companion.
“Do you notice who has just entered?” asked Ulrica.
I nodded. I could not speak.
“Who?” inquired Reggie quickly.
“Some friends of ours,” she answered carelessly.
“Oh, everyone meets friends here,” he laughed, and swallowed his
champagne unsuspectingly.
Reader, if you are a woman you will fully understand how sight of that
man who held me in a fatal fascination caused within me a whirl of
passions. I hated and loved at the same instant. Even though we were
parted, I had never ceased to think of him. For me the world had no
longer any charm, for the light of my life had now gone out, and I was
suffering in silence, just as all women do who become the sport of fate.
Yes, Ulrica’s notion was, after all, very true. No man whom I had ever
met was really worth consideration. All were egoists. The rich believed
that woman was a mere toy, while the poor were always ineligible.
Reggie spoke to me, but I scarcely heeded him. Now that the man I
loved was near me I felt an increasing desire to get rid of this male
encumbrance. True, he was rich, and I knew by my own feminine intuition
that he admired me, but for him I entertained no spark of affection.
Alas! that we always sigh for the unattainable.
For me, the remainder of the meal was a dismal function. I longed to
get another glimpse of that dark, bronzed face, and of the tow-haired
woman whom he had preferred to me, but they were evidently sitting at
a table in the corner out of sight. Ulrica knew the truth, and took
compassion upon me by hastening the dinner to its end. Then we went
forth again into the cool, balmy night. The moon shone brightly and its
reflection glittered in a long stream of silver brilliance upon the
sea, the Place was gayly lit, and the white façade of the Casino with
its great illuminated clock shone with lights of every hue.
Across to the Hermitage we strolled and took our coffee there. I
laughed at Reggie’s pockets bulging with notes, for, the banks being
closed, he was compelled to carry his winnings about with him.