he went to the house agent on the main street and from him procured the exact position of madame serpilot’s residence.
“an old madame?” said the agent. “no, monsieur, i cannot say that she is old. and i cannot say that she is young.”
he thought a moment, as though endeavouring to find some reason for this reticence on the subject of her age, and then added:
“i have not seen her. madame is a widow,” he went on. “alas! there are so many in france as the result of the terrible war.”
“then she is young,” said timothy. “they didn’t send old men to the front.”
“she may be young,” replied the agent, “or she may be old. one does not know.”
he called the assistant who had shown the lady the house and had taken the documents for her to sign. the assistant was aged sixteen, and at the age of sixteen most people above twenty are listed amongst the aged. he was certain she was a widow and very feeble, because she walked with a stick. she always wore a heavy black veil, even when she was in the garden.
“is it not natural,” said the house agent romantically, “that the madame who has lost all that makes life worth living should no longer desire the world to look upon her face?”
“it may be natural in monte carlo,” said timothy, “but it is not natural in london.”
he located the house on a large plan which the obliging agent produced, and went back to the hotel, firmly resolved to take the first opportunity of calling on madame serpilot and discovering what object she had in view when she arranged to endanger his young life.
mary was waiting for him, a little impatiently for one who had such a horror of gambling.
“we have to get tickets at the bureau,” she said, “and the concierge says we must have special membership cards for the cercle privée.”
the tickets were easy to procure, and they passed into the great saloon where, around five tables, stood silent ovals of humanity. the scene was a weird one to timothy and fascinating too. besides this, all the other gambling games in the world, all the roulette tables and baccara outfits, were crude and amateurish. the eight croupiers who sat at each table in their black frock coats and their black ties, solemn visaged, unemotional, might have been deacons in committee. the click of rakes against chips, the whirr of the twirling ball, the monotonous sing-song announcement of the chief croupier—it was a ritual and a business at one and the same time.
it was amazing to reflect that, year in and year out, from ten o’clock in the morning until ten o’clock at night (until midnight in the cercle privée) these black-coated men sat at their tables, twirling their rakes, watching without error every note or counter that fell on the table, separating notes from chips with a deftness that was amazing, doing this in such an atmosphere of respectability that the most rabid anti-gambler watching the scene must come in time to believe that roulette was a legitimate business exercise.
through the years this fringe of people about the table would remain, though units would go out, and as units went out new units would replace them, and everlastingly would sit shabby old men and women with their cryptic notebooks, making their tableaux with red and black pencils, religiously recording the result of every coup, staking now and again their five-franc pieces, and watching them raked to the croupier with stony despair or drawing with trembling hands the few poor francs which fortune had sent them.
timothy was very silent when they passed the portals of the cercle privée, into that wonderful interior which, viewed from the entrance room, had the appearance of some rich cathedral.
“what do you think of them?” asked mary.
he did not answer at once.
“what did you think of the people?” she demanded again. “did you see that quaint old woman—taking a chance? i’m sorry,” she said quickly, “i really didn’t mean to be——”
“i know you didn’t,” said timothy, and sighed.
the roulette table did not attract him. he strolled off to watch the players at trente et quarante. here the procedure was more complicated. one of the officials dealt two lines of cards, ending each when the pips added to something over thirty. the top line stood for black, the lower line for red, and that which was nearest to thirty won. after mastering this, the process was simple; you could either back the red or the black, or you could bet that the first card that was dealt was identical with the colour that won, or was the reverse.
the game interested him. it had certain features which in a way were fascinating. he noticed that the croupier never spoke of the black. the black might have had no existence at the trente et quarante table; either “red won” or “red lost.” he staked a louis and won twice. he staked another and lost it. then he won three coups of a louis and looked around uncertainly, almost guiltily, for mary.
she was watching the roulette players, and timothy took a wad of bills from his pocket and counted out six milles. that was another thing he was to discover: there were three classes of players—those who punted in one or five louis pieces, those who bet handsomely in milles (a thousand-franc note is a “mille” and has no other name), and those who went the maximum of twelve thousand francs on each coup.
money had no value. he threw six thousand down to the croupier and received in exchange six oblong plaques like thin cakes of blue soap. he put a thousand francs on the black and lost it. he looked round apprehensively for mary, but she was still intent upon the roulette players. he ventured another thousand, and lost that too. a young englishman sitting at the table looked up with a smile.
“you’re betting against the tableau,” he said. “the table is running red to-night. look!” he showed a little notebook ruled into divisions, and long lines of dots, one under the other. “you see,” he said, “all these are reds. the table has only swung across to black twice for any run, and then it was only a run of four. if you bet against the table you’ll go broke.”
at any other place than at the tables at monte carlo advice of this character, and intimate references to financial possibilities, would be resented. but the rooms, like the grave, level all the players, who are a great family banded together in an unrecognised brotherhood for the destruction of a common enemy.
“i’ll take a chance against the table,” said timothy, “and i shall go broke, anyway.”
the englishman laughed.
the four thousand francs he had left went the same way as their friends and timothy changed another six thousand and threw two on the black. then, acting on the impulse of the moment, he threw down the remaining four.
“timothy!”
he turned at the shocked voice and mary was standing behind him.
“do you gamble like that?” she asked.
he tried to smile, but produced a grimace.
“why, it is nothing,” he said, “it is only francs, and francs aren’t real money, anyway.”
she turned and walked away and he followed. the englishman, twisting round in his chair, said something. timothy thought he was asking whether he should look after his money and answered “certainly.”
the girl walked to one of the padded benches by the wall and sat down. there was such real trouble in her face that timothy’s heart sank.
“i’m sorry, mary,” he said, “but this is my last fling and you told me i could have it. after to-night i cut out everything that doesn’t qualify for the ‘earned income’ column of the tax-surveyor.”
“you frighten me,” she said. “it isn’t the amount of money you were venturing, but there was something in your face which made me feel—why! i just felt sick,” she said.
“mary!” he said in surprise.
“i know i’m being unreasonable,” she interrupted, “but timothy, i—i just don’t want to think of you like this.”
she looked into his dejected face and the softest light that ever shone in woman’s eyes was in hers.
“poor timothy!” she said, half in jest, “you’re paying the penalty for having a girl friend.”
“i’m paying the penalty for being a loafer,” he said huskily. “i think there must be some bad blood in us. mary, i know what i’m losing,” he said, and took one of her hands. “i’m losing the right to love you, dearest.”
it was a queer place for such a confession, and in her wildest dreams the girl never imagined that the first word of love spoken to her by any man would come in a gambling saloon at monte carlo. above her where she sat was the great canvas of the florentine graces; half nude reliefs on the ceiling dangled glittering chains of light and over all sounded the monotonous voice of the croupier:
“rouge perd—et couleur.”
the young englishman at the table turned round with an inquiring lift of his eyebrows, and timothy nodded.
“he wants to know if i’m finished, i suppose,” he said, “and honestly mary, i am. i’m going back to london when this trip’s over, and i’m going to start at the bottom and work up.”
“poor timothy!” she said again.
“i’m not going to lie to you, or pretend any longer. i just love you, mary, and if you’ll wait for me, i’ll make good. i have been a gambler,” he said, “a poor, low gambler, and all the time i’ve thought i’ve been clever! i’ve been going round puffed up with my own self-importance, and my head’s been so much in the air that i haven’t seen just where my feet were leading me,” he laughed. “this sounds like the sort of thing you get at the salvation army penitent form,” he said, “but i’m straight and sincere.”
“i know you are, timothy, but you needn’t start at the bottom. i have my money——”
“stop where you are, mary,” he said quietly. “not a penny would i take from you, darling.”
“what did they ring that bell for?” she asked.
it was the second time the tinkle of sound had come from the croupier at the trente et quarante table.
“heaven knows!” said timothy. “maybe it is to call the other worshippers.”
again the young englishman looked round and said something.
“what did he say?” asked timothy.
“he said seventeen,” said the girl. “was that the number you backed?”
timothy smiled.
“there are no numbers on that table except no. 1—and no. 1 is the fat man with the rake—he gets it coming and going. mary, i’m going to ask you one question: if i make good will you marry me?”
she was silent and again the voice of the croupier came:
“rouge perd—couleur gagne.”
“what does ‘rouge perd’ mean?” she asked. “he has said that ever so many times.”
“it means ‘black wins,’?” said timothy.
“does black always win?” she asked.
“not always,” said timothy gently. “maybe he’s only saying that to lure me back to the table. mary, what do you say?”
“i say yes,” she said, and to the scandal of the one attendant who was watching them he bent forward and kissed her.
a terrible act this, for the gold-laced and liveried footman, who came with slow, majestic steps to where they sat.
“monsieur,” he said, “this is not done.”
timothy looked up at him.
“chassez-vous,” he said firmly.
it was startling french, but it was the nearest he could get at the moment to “chase yourself.”
again the bell tinkled, and the young englishman rose, thrust a small packet of money into his pocket and came toward them, bearing what looked to be a large book without covers. his face was a little haggard and the perspiration stood upon his forehead.
“this is getting on my nerves, old man. you had better play yourself,” he said, and he handed the book to timothy, and timothy looked vaguely from his hands to the hot englishman.
“what’s this?” he croaked.
“a run of twenty-eight on the black,” said the englishman. “it is phenomenal! you wanted me to go on, didn’t you? i asked you whether i should play your thousand francs. the bank bust four times—didn’t you hear them ring for more money?”
timothy nodded. he had no words.
“well, your six went to twelve and i left the maximum run,” the englishman said. “i asked you if that was right and you nodded.”
“yes, i nodded,” said timothy mechanically.
“you’ve won twenty-seven and a half maximums.”
timothy looked at the money in his hand, looked up at the ceiling and gulped something down.
“thank you,” he gasped. “i am obliged to you.”
it was inadequate, but it was all that he could say.
“not at all,” said the englishman. “i won a lot of money myself.”
“i’m not a great hand at arithmetic,” said timothy, “will you tell me how many pounds twenty-seven and a half maximums make?”
it was a remarkable situation. somebody should have laughed, but they were all too serious, the girl as serious as timothy, and the young englishman scrawling calculations on a loose page of his notebook.
“thirty-five francs to a pound,” he said, “makes ￡340 a coup. twenty-seven and a half is about——”
“thank you!” said timothy, and he gripped the other’s hand and wrung it. “thank you, fairy godmother—i don’t know your other name.”
they stood together watching his lanky figure, as he, wholly unconscious of the providential part he had played, moved down to the roulette table, eyeing the game with the air of superiority which every player of trente et quarante has for a game with a paltry maximum of six thousand francs.
“timothy,” whispered the girl, “isn’t it wonderful?”
he put the money into his pocket and it bulged untidily.
“what are you going to do with it?” she asked.
“give it to the poor,” said timothy, taking her arm.
“to the poor?”
she was wondering whether his fortune had driven him mad.
“the poor,” he said firmly, “money won by gambling——”
“nonsense,” she broke in, “to what poor are you giving it?”
“to poor timothy,” said he. “let us dash madly to the bar and drink orangeade.”
