Читать книгу The Kingmakers - Burton Egbert Stevenson - Страница 9

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THE Sporting Club at Monte Carlo is a creation of recent years, an effort on the part of M. Blanc and his associates to meet the demand for a place where one can gamble longer and higher and more variously than is possible at the casino. So here the wheels revolve and the cards fall until four in the morning, instead of stopping at midnight, and to roulette and trente-et-quarante is added baccara, with the sky as the only limit.

It is supposed to be more select, this club, and the proviso is made of requiring an introduction; but introducers can be picked up any morning on the terrace, or the management of any of the hotels will supply them if requested; so that any one of fairly presentable appearance and willing to pay a hundred and fifty francs for the privilege, may gamble there as long as his money lasts.

The club is housed in a beautiful building of white stone just around the corner from the Hotel de Paris, so Selden had only a few steps to go. His card and the payment of the fee admitted him, for he had been “introduced” the year before, and in a moment the electric lift had carried him noiselessly to the gaming-room de luxe which occupies the length of the upper story.

It was filled with a crowd of which at least two-thirds were women—the same sort of women he had seen earlier in the hotel lounge—and the air was stale and heavy with perfume and tobacco. It was a strangely silent crowd, sitting or standing with eyes intent upon the tables, the only sounds being those incident to the game: the voices of the croupiers inviting their patrons to place their bets, the quick whir of the ivory ball about the rim of the roulette wheel, the warning that no more bets could be placed, the rattle of the ball falling into a compartment, the announcement of the winning number, and the clatter of the little rakes pulling in the bank’s winnings. It is less picturesque and exciting than in the days before the war, for then the wagers were made in gold, and there was the clink of coins and the gleam of yellow metal which men have always found so fascinating; but now gold circulates no more in Europe, and wagers are made with disks of coloured celluloid, purchased from the croupiers with the paper notes which have been pouring so freely from the printing-presses. And if one wins, it is with this same flimsy paper that one is paid. A fool’s game, truly!

Selden threaded his way among the groups, looking for the countess and her companions, but he succeeded in discovering only the prince. He was seated at the end of a table next to the croupier, and at the moment Selden caught sight of him he was drawing toward himself a pile of notes which the croupier in charge of the bank had just counted out and pushed toward him. He seemed to be well known—or perhaps one of the attachés had noised his identity about as an advertisement—and a curious crowd was watching his proceedings.

Selden assured himself that neither the countess nor Lappo was in the rooms, then he returned to watch, too, for he was curious to learn something of the prince’s personality. One glance at his face was enough to show that gambling was indeed, as the countess had said, in his blood. He was the true type. Utterly oblivious of the crowd about him, his dark skin aglow with inward fire, but entirely calm and collected—cold as ice, indeed!—he was playing without hesitation or timidity, relying apparently upon some inward guidance which he trusted implicitly and upon which he was ready to wager his last franc. With a run of luck, a gambler of this type sometimes wins enormously; but, on the other hand, when luck is bad it requires not many turns of the wheel to take away all he has. And the wheel turns very rapidly!

At this moment, the prince was having a run of luck, and the crowd was watching to see how far it would take him, while a few were trying to follow his plays and get the advantage of his luck while it lasted. He was playing the number twenty-seven, with maximums not only en plein, but also on the cheveaux, the carrés and the transversales—a total of about six thousand francs—and twenty-seven had issued three times in the last fifteen plays. In other words, in fifteen plays the prince had lost seventy thousand francs and won two hundred thousand. And as Selden watched, twenty-seven came again and another sixty thousand was added to the prince’s winnings.

A murmur of excitement ran through the watching group, for the chef de partie had rung a little bell and had sent the attendant who answered it to the cashier for more money—which is as near to breaking the bank as any one can come.

“It is now that he should quit,” said a woman at Selden’s side. “If he keeps on he will only lose.”

Perhaps the voice reached the prince’s ears, or perhaps some such thought was in his mind, for he hesitated, as his stake was swept away after the next play, and passed his hand before his eyes, as though awaking from a dream. He tried again, however, and lost; a second time, and lost; a third time, and lost; then he tossed a thousand-franc note to the croupier, folded up his winnings and thrust them into his pocket, and made his way through a respectful crowd to the buffet.

It was not until then that Selden perceived the prince had a companion. A blonde young man who had been sitting next to him rose as he did, with an approving nod, and disappeared into the buffet with him. Selden scarcely had time to look at him, but he got the impression that he was very young, and also that he was an American. The prince had found a new victim, perhaps....

“Ah, M. Selden,” said a voice at his elbow, and he turned to find the Baron Lappo smiling up at him; “the work is finished, then?”

“Yes; I got it off,” answered Selden, and glanced behind the baron and on either side of him.

“The countess decided she would not come to-night,” said the baron, interpreting the look. “I also would have sought my bed—the old need the sleep of beauty even more than the young!—but, alas, I have responsibilities. Have you, by any chance, seen our little prince?”

“Yes,” said Selden, smiling at the adjective; “I think you will find him in the buffet.”

“So long as he is not playing!” and the baron breathed a sigh of relief.

“He has been playing—breaking the bank, in fact.”

“What, he has won?” exclaimed the baron.

“Hugely.”

“Then I am indeed alarmed! I must seek him. You will join us, I hope?”

“With pleasure,” said Selden, and followed the baron across the room.

The old diplomat was evidently well known and highly esteemed, for he had many respectful salutations to acknowledge, but the buffet was reached at last. The prince and the blonde young man, seated on a banquette in one corner, were watching a waiter fill their glasses with champagne.

The baron’s face darkened as he saw the prince’s companion.

“Imbecile!” he muttered under his breath, and advanced straight upon them.

The prince, raising his glass to his lips, raised his eyes also, and saw the baron.

“Come along, my old one!” he cried, no whit discomposed by the baron’s stormy face. “You also, M. Selden. Two more glasses,” he added to the waiter.

“Not for me at this hour!” protested the baron. “A demi Vittel,” and as the waiter hurried away, he turned to the blonde youth. “I am happy to meet you again, M. Davis,” he said. “I hope that your mother and your sister are well.”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Davis responded.

“Permit me to introduce a compatriot of yours, M. Selden,” went on the baron.

“Happy to meet you,” said Davis, with a negligent nod.

Selden reflected that Davis did not seem particularly glad to see the baron. He was a good-looking youth, too young for his face to have taken on much character, evidently self-willed, and probably spoiled by that mother and sister for whom the baron had inquired.

The baron was regarding the prince with a mildly ironic glance.

“I hear you have been winning,” he said.

“Yes—I had an inspiration for twenty-seven,” the prince replied. “It is a long time,” he added to Selden, “since I have had any luck.”

“Perhaps it is the turn of the tide,” Selden suggested. “I hope so!” and he raised the glass the waiter had filled for him.

“Thank you; it was time!” said the prince, and the three young men drank, while the baron sipped his water moodily. “You do not seem pleased, M. le Baron,” added the prince, looking at him.

“For you to win!” said the baron with a grimace. “It is so unusual—like the sun rising in the west. I am wondering what great misfortune is about to happen!” and he added a sentence in a language which Selden did not understand—his native tongue, no doubt.

The prince flushed rebelliously, and the baron spoke another sentence, in a tone more peremptory. The prince nodded sulkily and rose.

“You will excuse us for a moment,” said the baron, rising too, and he slipped his arm through that of the prince and led him away.

Davis stared after them speculatively until they disappeared through the door into the outer room.

“Queer duck, the baron,” he remarked, and refilled his glass. “I wonder what game he is up to now.”

“I met him just this evening,” said Selden; “but I rather like him.”

“Oh, he’s all right,” agreed Davis; “deucedly clever and all that—makes me feel like I belong in the infant class; but he is too blamed serious and he seems to think the whole world centres in that little speck he calls his country. I give you my word, I hunted it on the map for half an hour the other day before I found it, and then I could scarcely see it. Do you know anything about it?”

“Yes, I’ve been there.”

“The deuce you have! Now tell me,” and he leaned closer; “did this old king really amount to anything?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean did his position amount to anything. Was he really a king, or was he just a joke?”

“Of course he was a king, the social equal of any other king. He married his children into the most exclusive courts of Europe.”

“Yes, I know that. And if he got back again, it would be the same thing?”

“If he got back, he might have even more prestige,” said Selden, “since there are fewer kings in business these days, and to get back would be a great feat.”

“I see,” said Davis, and settled back again in his corner.

Selden wondered what interest this youth could possibly have in the king’s restoration—just his friendship with the prince, no doubt. It was evident that he had been drinking too much—just enough too much to flush his face and loosen his tongue. He could not be over twenty, and in spite of his good looks, there was something in his mouth and chin which spoke of weakness and self-indulgence. And it was also plain that his inhibitions to indiscreet utterance were not as strong as they should have been.

Selden was well aware that nothing is more revealing of a man’s character than a glass of champagne too much. It loosens the tongue of the weak man—the ordinary man; breaks down his reserve and prods him on to talk carelessly and boastfully, to prove his importance at whatever cost. But with the strong man the effect is quite the contrary; he grows more guarded with every glass—the result, perhaps, of breeding, of wisdom gained by experience. At any rate, in vino veritas does not work with him.

But young Davis was not at all of this class. It was plain that he had neither breeding nor experience; and Selden told himself that a boy like that should be at work, or at least in college, not lounging in the Monte Carlo Sporting Club with no one to look after him.

“The thing I particularly object to in the baron,” went on Davis, reverting to his original grievance after the manner of slightly tipsy men, “is that he seems to think I need a guardian.”

On this point Selden thoroughly agreed with the baron, but he didn’t say so.

“In what way?” he inquired.

“Oh, he’s all the time trying to keep the prince away from me—seems to be afraid to leave us alone together! Good gad, if he only knew!” and he chuckled to himself.

“Are you staying here?” Selden asked, to change the subject. He had some scruples about encouraging champagne confidences.

“No; we’ve got a villa over at Cimiez—just above Nice, you know. But I’m over here a good part of the time. Dingy place, Nice, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

“No; I got in just this morning.”

“From Paris?”

“No; from Austria.”

Davis looked at him with sudden interest, as though struck by a new idea.

“What did you say your name is?” he asked.

“My name is Selden.”

“Selden, that’s it. You’re not the chap who has been writing those articles in the Times?”

“Yes,” Selden admitted; “but you don’t mean to say you’ve read them?”

“Oh, no,” Davis hastened to assure him; “too heavy for me. But my sister has—she’s nutty about them. I say, can’t you come over and have lunch with us to-morrow?”

“Sorry,” said Selden drily, “but I have an engagement.” He had no desire to discuss central Europe with immature Americans.

“But look here,” Davis protested; and then he sprang to his feet so violently that he nearly upset the table. “There you are at last!” he cried, his face beaming.

Selden turned to find that two women had approached and were standing just behind him—two most unusual women, both young; but one, the younger and prettier, evidently jeune fille; the other, the elder and more striking, just as evidently a poised and finished woman of the world.

“M. le Prince, ees ’e not ’ere?” inquired the latter in delightful English, and she permitted her eyes to rest calmly and inquiringly upon Selden, who had also risen, as though asking what right he had to be there and what manner of man he was.

“We are waiting for him,” Davis explained. “The baron took him away a minute ago.”

“Ah, le baron!” and she made a moue of distaste; “’im I ’ave no wish to see,” and she started to move away.

“But look here,” protested Davis, “the prince is expecting you—I want to see you.”

“Farceur, eet is Cicette you wish to see!” she laughed, and glanced at the pretty girl beside her. And indeed it was at Cicette that Davis had been gazing—insufferable young fool, Selden told himself, to look at Cicette, mere milk-and-water beside this other woman, so distinguished, so unusual, so surely poised—not beautiful exactly, but with such charm, such magnetism....

Again her eyes were resting upon his.

“Do you speak French, monsieur?” she inquired in that language.

“Yes, madame.”

“Then say to this young man—for my English gives me shame—that we are going back for half an hour of chemin-de-fer. If he and M. le Prince care to join us before that, good; if not, we will look in here again on our way out. Thank you,” she added, when Selden had passed this on. “Come, Cicette.”

As she turned away, her eyes met his again in that same questioning, impersonal regard. Yet it was not altogether impersonal, for somehow, at bottom, it was deeply intimate—if one could only tear away a veil! Looking after her, he noted the exquisite poise of her head, how superbly she moved—like a queen; no, he had never seen a queen who walked like that! Why the devil hadn’t Davis introduced him?

Cicette glanced back over her shoulder and gave Davis an encouraging nod and smile as she passed from sight.

That young man, who had been watching, fascinated, dropped into his seat again and poured himself out some more wine.

“Isn’t she a corker?” he demanded.

“She is certainly a pretty girl,” agreed Selden, and was tempted to add a word of caution, but checked himself. After all, it was no affair of his. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Cicette Fayard. She is a niece of Madame Ghita. Believe me, madame takes good care of her—never lets her out of her sight—makes me feel like a beast of prey! I’ve been trying to pick up some French, so I can talk to her, but I haven’t made much out of it yet.”

“Madame Ghita?” repeated Selden. “That is the name of the elder one?”

Davis nodded.

Ghita. Selden repeated the word to himself, for it had awakened some faint echo of recognition in his brain. Ghita. Where had he heard that before? For the life of him he couldn’t remember.

“She looks like a clever woman,” he said.

“She is clever,” agreed Davis; “the cleverest woman I’ve ever known.” He spoke as though he had known hundreds.

“Is she a Pole?” asked Selden. “Poles are sometimes very clever—and the name sounds Polish.”

“Oh, that’s her husband’s name,” said Davis. “I don’t know for sure, but I fancy she’s French.”

Again some memory stirred in Selden’s brain, more strongly. Her husband’s name. Ghita. And then it came like a flash.

Ghita—that was the family name of the old dynasty—the family name of the prince....