CHAPTER XXIIITHE PRINCE PLAYS
THEY still tell, at the Sporting Club, of the last visit of Prince Danilo. There have been other visits more spectacular, ending with a pistol-shot on the terrace or a draught of poison in the wash-room; but of them no one speaks. There have been many persons who won more or lost more—and were promptly forgotten. But there was something about the prince that night, an air of mystery and unreality, which the onlookers never forgot; and his style was so exquisite, his bearing so perfect, that they have ever since served as a model by which the attendants measure each new aspirant for the honours of the rooms. And all are agreed that they have never been approached.
That visit, indeed, has not only been remembered, but is rapidly passing into legend. Already it has been richly embroidered, and reasons the most fanciful have been advanced as to why the prince chose to play a certain number, or why he chose to play at all, and dazzling stories have been woven of what would have happened if he had played at any other table in the room, instead of the one he actually selected. All of which is, of course, inevitable, because the great diversion of the habitués of Monte Carlo, aside from trying to devise a system to beatthe bank, is explaining what would have happened “if!” How many times daily the bank would be broken but for that little word!
As a matter of fact, when the prince left the Hotel de Paris, he probably did not expect to play at all, for he asked the giant be-medalled negro who keeps the door to call his car. The negro explained respectfully that it was his infinite regret to be obliged to inform M. le Prince that a slight accident had happened to the car; a careless chauffeur, in turning, had backed into it and damaged the front axle slightly. Already it was being straightened in the hotel garage, and would be ready in twenty minutes. If M. Le Prince wished another car?
“No,” said the prince. “I will wait,” and he walked slowly down to the terrace and stood for a moment looking out to sea. A gardien saw and recognized him, and saluted respectfully as he passed.
He might have stood there until the car was ready but for a violent gust of rain which swept suddenly in from the sea and drove him back up the steps. At the top he hesitated. The lights of the Sporting Club gleamed on his left, and at last he turned slowly toward them. Perhaps it was in his mind that, since the Goddess of Fortune had dealt him one staggering blow that night, she might now, like a true woman, relent and smile upon him.
At any rate, he mounted the steps to the entrance and passed in.
The rooms were crowded, as always, and all the tables were in play, but he passed through without pausing or looking at any one, and walked on into the buffet, where he ordered a whiskey and soda anddrank it standing at the bar. Then, as though his resolution was taken, he walked quickly back into the gaming rooms, stopped at the nearest table, changed a thousand-franc note for ten plaques, and placed them around the number nineteen.
The chef de partie, sitting in his high chair behind the croupiers and surveying the whole board, must have sensed something unusual in the prince’s manner, for he watched him intently, but no one else paid any attention to him. Every one was absorbed in the play.
An attendant asked him if he wished a chair, but he shook his head and remained standing.
“Faites vos jeux, messieurs; faites vos jeux!” called the croupier, and bets were placed up and down the board, but the prince alone was on nineteen. “Les jeux sont faits?” and the croupier leaned forward, picked the little ivory ball out of the compartment into which it had fallen the previous play, gently reversed the motion of the wheel, and with a quick snap of his middle finger sent the ball circling around and around the cupped rim of the wheel—around and around, six times, seven times, eight times, and then its pace began to slacken.
“Rien ne va plus!” called the croupier sharply, and the ball fell with a rattle into the middle of the wheel, coasted up its raised centre, hesitated for the merest instant, and settled with a quick snap into one of the compartments.
“Le dix-neuf!” announced the croupier. “Rouge, impair et passe.”
Breaths that had been held were released, and there was a murmur of voices lamenting that theyhad not been on nineteen. For the prince had won.
It was not very much—perhaps fifteen thousand francs—but he seemed to regard it as a sign, for he too took a quick breath and nodded to an attendant, who hastened to find a chair for him. The prince sat down, placed his winnings in front of him, and began to play with absorbed attention, always on or around or in connection with the number nineteen.
There have been many stories of desperate persons who risked an entire fortune on a single turn of the wheel and lost, or of lucky individuals who won enormous sums by permitting their stakes to accumulate as the same number came out again and again. Neither of these things is possible, for the bank sets arbitrary limits to the play, running from a hundred and eighty francs on a number, which pays thirty-five for one, to six thousand francs on the simple chances, odd or even, red or black, high or low, which wins an equal amount. So that, if one plays the maximum on all the chances, it is possible—though rather difficult—to lose about thirty thousand francs, or to win a little over a hundred thousand. But that is the limit.
So the prince, playing cautiously and confining himself at first to the cheveaux and carrés, took a long time in losing the fifteen thousand francs he had won, even though nineteen did not come again. Twenty, seventeen and twenty-three came, which helped to recoup his losses, and it was at least an hour after he had sat down that the last of his fifteen thousand francs were swept away.
He glanced at his watch and made a motion as if to rise, then decided to wait for the next play.
The ball fell into nineteen.
There was an outcry of sympathy and indignation on the part of the spectators. What a shame, what a crime, that his number should come at the very moment he had ceased playing!
Quietly, as though moved by some power stronger than himself, the prince drew his purse from his pocket, opened it and laid it on the table before him. And this time he staked the maximum.
It is not often that any one stakes the maximum at Monte Carlo. Even in this day thirty thousand francs is a considerable sum. So an electric whisper ran around the room that something unusual was going forward at the prince’s table, and the crowd around it became thicker and thicker. The chef de partie, scenting a battle royal, sent hastily to the cashier for an extra supply of funds.
The hand of the croupier was perhaps a shade less steady than usual as he picked up the marble and started it on its run. It spun, faltered, rattled, clicked....
“The twenty-seven,” announced the croupier. “Red, odd and low.”
The prince had won six thousand and lost twenty-four. Imperturbably he placed his bets again. It was at this moment that Selden entered the room.
The prince’s abrupt departure had left a constraint upon the dinner-party, which was not to be shaken off. They had gone from the dining-room into the salon, and there, after one or two ineffectual attempts at gaiety, Davis and his fiancée had withdrawn to a corner sofa to discuss certain strictlyintimate affairs, and Selden had smoked a cigarette with Madame Ghita and talked of desultory and unimportant things—of anything, indeed, except the one thing which had been in his mind to say when he was buying the roses.
Impossible to say that now—impossible even to hint at it. It would be indecent—like wooing a woman whose husband was dying in the next room! Besides, she was in no mood for such confidences; she was distrait and sad. The conversation faltered and died away; and presently he summoned up courage to take his departure. She had been obviously grateful that he should go.
He was too depressed and agitated to think of sleep, so he slipped into his coat, left the hotel and descended to the terrace, just as the prince had done half an hour before.
The rain-squall earlier in the evening had swept the terrace bare, and he found himself alone there, except for the gardien. Masses of slaty clouds were fleeing across the sky before the gusty wind, with the moon peeping between them now and then and sending fugitive gleams of light over the white-capped waves, which hissed and moaned dolefully as they were driven in upon the rocky shore. More doleful still was the rustle of the palms and the clatter of the rubber trees flapping in the wind like a flock of ghostly night-birds. And above him gleamed the lights of the casino, standing like a courtesan, white and gilt and laboriously gay, but at heart most dismal of all!
Selden gave himself up for a time to the luxury of self-pity—to that most dangerous of all dissipations,a fit of the blues. What was the use of going on? What was the use of having ideals or of fighting for them? The world paid no heed. What, indeed, was the world but a huge casino, where every one was struggling to win his neighbour’s gold?
Why, above all, should he worry himself about a woman who was sad because another man was leaving her?
But here his sense of justice asserted itself. The man was not leaving her—she was sending him away. He had come seeking her and she had refused to go. She had made her choice; but how could she help being sad at the thought that one epoch of her life was ended? She had lived with this man in closest intimacy; he had no doubt been kind and generous. He had loved her. At the end he had come offering everything he had—and she had sent him away. Where had he gone?
A sudden thought startled Selden out of his moodiness. What had the prince meant when he promised to give his money to the bank? Why had he smiled so ironically? Which bank?
In a moment Selden was hurrying toward the Sporting Club, and the instant he entered the rooms he knew that his suspicion was correct. That dense crowd around a single table could mean only one thing—somebody was playing the limit.
“He is playing nineteen—always nineteen,” said a man beside him to his neighbour.
Nineteen! Then of course it was the prince.
It was some time before Selden could get near enough to see what was going on, but meanwhile the marble had been spun twice and he heard thecroupier announce two and eleven. Then he managed to worm himself into a position from which he could see the prince.
Danilo seemed entirely cool, nonchalant—listless, even. He was smoking a cigarette and tossing his notes into place upon the board as though they were so many bits of worthless paper. He appeared equally indifferent as to whether he won or lost, and totally unconscious of the gaping crowd that watched him. Selden recognized in his bearing the cold fury of the confirmed gambler, which stops at nothing. There had been in his head the idea that he might intervene, but he saw that it was useless. To speak to the prince now would be to insult him.
“The thirty-five!” announced the croupier. “Black, odd and low.”
Well, that was not so bad—six thousand on low and six on odd. But the next number was six and the board was swept clear again.
The prince proceeded calmly to renew his bets.
Nineteen must come sometime, Selden told himself. If it came once, the prince would win back all he had lost. If it came twice, he would be a hundred thousand francs ahead.
Sixteen! That was good—thirty thousand francs, nearly—a gain. But the next numbers were fifteen, thirty-three, three and again six, and the prince had lost another hundred thousand.
Nobody else was playing; it was a battle between the prince and the bank. M. le Directeur des Jeux had come out from his little office to watch it, and to take command if necessary. The prince lighted another cigarette and placed his money again.
Nineteen!
There was a little cheer from the crowd as the croupier counted out the various bets one after the other, and pushed the notes across to the prince.
Again now! And every one pulled for nineteen as the little ball spun gaily around. But it fell into eight, and again the board was swept clean.
That was the beginning of a bad run; six—there was a fatality about that six!—eight again—thirty-three—twelve—two—twenty-four—a little gain there!—fifteen. And then there was a short rally: sixteen—twenty—twenty-three; but never again nineteen. Then another bad run, and the pile of notes under the prince’s hand diminished rapidly. He did not hesitate—always nineteen.
The crowd was beginning to get impatient with him. Why nineteen? Why keep it up when he saw it was not a good number? And as if to mock him, the croupier at the next table could be heard announcing nineteen! But certainly he should change—if not the number, then the table. It was imbecile to keep on like that!
But the prince did not change.
It was nearly two o’clock when he finally put his empty purse away and rose to his feet.
“Messieurs,” he said, with a little bow to the directeur and the chef de partie, “I have to thank you for a very pleasant evening.”
And he walked calmly to the door, got his hat and coat from the vestiaire, and went out into the night.