The Vision of Desire
wearing, though unmistakably of good cut, were old and shabby. In her hand
she held an open note-case, eagerly counting over the Swiss notes it
contained, while every now and again she lifted her sombre, tragic eyes and
cast a hungry glance towards the room where boule was played, the doors of
which were not yet open.
"She might be an exiled Russian princess," commented Ann, observing a
certain regal turn of the head which wore the battered mannish hat.
Tony nodded.
"That's just what she is. She used to play a lot at Monte before the war.
Now she can't afford to go there. So she lives here and plays every
night--on the proceeds of any odd jewellery she can still sell."
Ann regarded her commiseratingly. The woman seemed to her a pathetically
tragic figure--a sidelight on the many tragedies hidden among that
cosmopolitan crowd on the terrace. Then her straying glance shifted to a
man seated alone at the next table to the Russian's, apparently absorbed in
a newspaper. Tony followed the direction of her eyes.
"That chap plays bridge at the club sometimes," he vouchsafed. "I don't
know who he is--never spoken to him. Foreigner, too, I should imagine. He's
so swarthy."
Ann bestowed a second glance on the man in question. He was wearing evening
kit, and at first sight the brown-skinned face above the white of his
collar, taken in conjunction with dark hair and very strongly-marked brows,
seemed to premise the correctness of Tony's surmise. Suddenly the man
lifted his bent head, and over the top of the newspaper Arm found herself
looking into a pair of unmistakably grey eyes--grey as steel. They were
very direct eyes, with a certain brooding discontent in their depths which
looked as though it might flame out into sudden scorn with very little
provocation.
She dropped her glance in some confusion. She felt rather as though she had
been caught looking over her neighbour's garden wall. There had been an
ironical glint in the regard which the grey eyes had levelled at her that
suggested their owner might have overheard Tony's frank comment. Under
cover of a fortissimo finale on the part of the orchestra she leant forward
and spoke in a low voice:
"He's as English as you are, Tony. No one but an Englishman ever had grey
eyes like that."
But Tony's interest had evaporated. The band's final burst of enthusiasm
heralded the finish of the first part of the programme and the consequent
opening of the tables for boule. With a hurried "Come along, quick," he
jumped up and, with Ann beside him, was first in the van of the throng
which was hastening into the rooms to play. In a few moments the gaily-lit
terrace was practically deserted, and an eager-faced crowd pressed up
against the green-clothed tables, each individual eager to secure a good
place.
For a little while Ann contented herself with watching.
_"Faites vos jeux, messieurs. Messieurs, faites vos jeux."_
The ball spun round, and the croupier's monotone sounded warningly above
the whispering of notes and the clink of coin.
_"Le jeu est fait."_ It reminded Ann of the vicar intoning at the little
church she had attended in the old Lovell Court days. Only there were no
responses! Everybody was engrossed in watching the ball as it dodged in and
out amongst the numbers, hesitating maddeningly, then starting gaily off on
a fresh tack as though guided by some invisible spirit of malice.
_"Rien ne va plus!"_
Like the crack of doom came the last gabbled utterance, and the croupier's
rake descended sharply on a claw-like hand which was attempting to
insinuate a coin on to the cloth "after hours," so to speak.
_"Cinq!"_ An announcement which, five being the equivalent of the zero in
roulette, was followed by the hungry rake's sweeping everything into the
coffers of the bank except the five-franc note which Tony had staked on the
number _cinq_.
He gathered up his winnings, and, turning excitedly to Ann, demanded why
she wasn't playing.
"Follow me," he told her. "I'm going to win to-night. I feel it in my
bones."
His eyes were brilliant under their absurd long lashes, and the smile he
gave her was the confident smile of a conqueror. Ann caught the infection
and began to play, staking where he staked, as he had suggested. Now and
then she ventured a little flutter of her own and tried some other number,
but usually her modest franc lay side by side with Tony's lordly five-franc
note.
Evidently Tony's bones had the right prophetic instinct, for after every
_coup_ the croupier pushed across to him a small pile of notes and silver.
Ann's own eyes were sparkling now. It was not that she really cared much
about her actual winnings. She was staking too lightly for that to matter.
But it entertained her enormously to win--to beat the bank as embodied in
the person of the croupier, who reminded her of nothing so much as of an
extremely active spider waiting in a corner of his web to pounce on an
adventurous fly. Each time the ball dropped into the number she had backed,
a little thrill of sheer, gleeful enjoyment ran through her.
Now and again, in spite of her absorption in her own and Tony's play, she
was conscious of a muscular brown hand on her right that reached out to
place a fresh stake on the table--never to gather up any winnings. Its
owner must be losing heavily. He was betting, not only on single numbers,
but putting the maximum on certain combinations and groups of numbers. And
every time the long-handled rake whisked his stakes away from him.
Ann glanced sideways to see who was the unlucky player, and once more she
met the same ironical grey eyes which she had last encountered over the top
of a newspaper. The man who was losing so persistently was her Englishman.
He did not seek to hold her gaze, but bent his own immediately upon the
table again. She stole another glance at him. He was very brown, but she
could see now that he was naturally fair-skinned, although tanned by the
sun. A small scar, high up on the left cheek-bone, showed like a white line
against the tan. Probably he had lived abroad in a hot climate, she
reflected; that deep bronze was never the achievement of an elusive
northern sun. It emphasised the penetrating quality of his eyes, giving
them a curious brilliance. Ann had been conscious of a little shock each
time she had encountered them. She was inclined to set his actual age at
thirty-six or seven, though his face might have been that of a man of
forty. But there was a suggestion of something still boyish about it,
notwithstanding the rather stern-set features and bitter-looking mouth. She
felt as though the bitterness revealed in his expression did not rightly
belong to the man's nature. It was in essence alien--something that life
had added to him.
_"Faites vos jeux, messieurs; messieurs, faites vos jeux."_
The croupier's droning voice recalled her sharply from her thoughts.
"Which is it to be this time, Tony?" she asked, smiling.
"Seven and _impair_," he replied tersely. And in due course the seven
turned up.
Their run of luck was continuing without a break, and plenty of amused and
interested glances were cast at the young couple of successful players.
They were taking it all so easily, with a careless, light-hearted enjoyment
that was rather refreshing to turn to after a glimpse of some of the
furtive, vulture-like faces gathered round the tables. Meanwhile, the
grey-eyed Englishman continued to lose with the same persistency as his
young compatriots were winning. Apparently he was playing on a system, for,
in spite of his want of success, he continued steadily backing certain
definite combinations. He showed neither impatience or annoyance when he
lost. His face remained perfectly impassive, and Ann had a feeling that he
would play precisely as steadily, remain as grimly unmoved, if the stakes
were a hundred times as high as those permitted at the Kursaal. She could
imagine him staking his whole fortune, losing it, and then walking out of
the rooms as coolly composed as he had entered them.
Once more the ball slithered into the number she had backed, and she opened
a small silken bag, that already bulged with her evening's gains, and added
the winnings of the last coup. At the same moment, some one pressing from
behind jolted her arm, and the bag fell with a little thud, its contents
spilling out on the floor. Tony, engrossed in the play, failed to notice
the mishap and went on staking, but the Englishman, apparently quite
unconcerned as to the chances he might be missing, stooped at once and
collected the bag and its scattered contents.
"I think I've rescued everything," he said, as he handed it to her. "But
you'd better count it over and make certain."
"Oh, no, I won't count it. It's sure to be all right. Thank you so much."
Ann spoke rather breathlessly. For some reason or other she felt
unaccountably nervous.
The man smiled.
"You've become such a Croesus to-night that I suppose an odd franc or two
doesn't matter?" he suggested.
"I _have_ been lucky, haven't I?" she acknowledged frankly. "It's been such
fun." Then, with friendly sympathy: "I'm afraid you've lost, though?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I'm used to losing," he replied indifferently.
Somehow, Ann felt as though he were not thinking only of his losses at the
tables. That note of bitterness in his voice sprang from some deeper
undercurrent.
"I'm so sorry," she said simply.
"I never expect to win," he returned curtly. "If you expect nothing, you're
never disappointed. Pray don't waste your sympathy."
The rudeness of the speech took her aback. Yet, sensing in its very
churlishness the sting of some old hurt, she answered him quietly, though
with heightened colour:
"If you expect nothing, you'll get nothing. That's one of the rules of the
road."
He checked himself in the act of turning away, and regarded her with a
mixture of contempt and amusement, much as one might smile at the
utterances of a child.
"Don't you think we get mostly what we're looking for?" she went on
courageously. "If you expect good things, they'll come to you, and if
you're expecting bad things, they'll come, too."
He gave a short laugh.
"The doctrine of faith! I'm afraid I've outgrown it--many years ago."
"_Faites vos jeux, messieurs_," intoned the croupier.
The Englishman tossed a coin on to number nine. Ann followed the circlings
of the ball with a curious tense anxiety. She wished desperately that the
nine would turn up.
_"Numéro un!"_
With a feeling akin to revolt she watched those who had staked on number
one grab up their winnings, while the croupier raked in the Englishman's
solitary bid for fortune.
"You see?" The bitter grey eyes mocked her. "Quite symbolical, wasn't it?"
With a slight bow he moved away from the table and passed quickly out of
the room.
Ann felt disinclined to play any further. She watched Tony win, then lose
once, then win again several times in succession. He was flushed and there
was a look of triumph on his face.
"Haven't you finished yet, Tony?" she asked at last "I'm ready to go home
when you are."
"Go home? When I'm winning?" he expostulated. "Rather not!" Then, catching
sight of her face, "Hello! You look tired. Are you, Ann?"
She nodded.
"Yes, I think I am a little."
Tony held a five-franc note in his hand, ready for staking. Without the
least sign of disappointment he stuffed it back into his pocket.
"Then we'll go home," he said. And somewhat to the amazement of the people
nearest him, who had been watching his phenomenal run of luck, he made a
way for Ann through the crowd and followed her out of the room.
"That was nice of you, Tony," she said gratefully, as they started to walk
home through the deserted streets.