“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 reticence3 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 aged4 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.
“We have to get tickets at the Bureau,” she said, “and the concierge6 says we must have special membership cards for the Cercle Privée.”
The tickets were easy to procure1, and they passed into the great saloon where, around five tables, stood silent ovals of humanity. The scene was a weird7 one to Timothy and fascinating too. Besides this, all the other gambling games in the world, all the roulette tables and baccara outfits8, were crude and amateurish9. 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 monotonous10 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 deftness11 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 legitimate12 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 everlastingly13 would sit shabby old men and women with their cryptic14 notebooks, making their tableaux15 with red and black pencils, religiously recording16 the result of every coup17, staking now and again their five-franc pieces, and watching them raked to the croupier with stony18 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 quaint19 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 spoke20 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 coups21 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 plaques22 like thin cakes of blue soap. He put a thousand francs on the black and lost it. He looked round apprehensively23 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 brotherhood24 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, acting25 on the impulse of the moment, he threw down the remaining four.
“Timothy!”
“Do you gamble like that?” she asked.
“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 confession28, 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 nude29 reliefs on the ceiling dangled30 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 eyebrows31, 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 puffed32 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 Salvation33 Army penitent34 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 tinkle35 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 lure36 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 bent37 forward and kissed her.
A terrible act this, for the gold-laced and liveried footman, who came with slow, majestic38 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 tinkled39, 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 perspiration40 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 vaguely41 from his hands to the hot Englishman.
“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 bust43 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.”
It was inadequate46, 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 remarkable47 situation. Somebody should have laughed, but they were all too serious, the girl as serious as Timothy, and the young Englishman scrawling48 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 wrung49 it. “Thank you, fairy godmother—I don’t know your other name.”
They stood together watching his lanky50 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 paltry51 maximum of six thousand francs.
“Timothy,” whispered the girl, “isn’t it wonderful?”
“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.”
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1
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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outfits
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| n.全套装备( outfit的名词复数 )；一套服装；集体；组织v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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amateurish
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| n.业余爱好的，不熟练的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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deftness
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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everlastingly
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| 永久地，持久地 | |
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cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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tableaux
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| n.舞台造型，（由活人扮演的）静态画面、场面；人构成的画面或场景( tableau的名词复数 )；舞台造型；戏剧性的场面；绚丽的场景 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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coups
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| n.意外而成功的行动( coup的名词复数 )；政变；努力办到难办的事 | |
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plaques
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| （纪念性的）匾牌( plaque的名词复数 )； 纪念匾； 牙斑； 空斑 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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46
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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scrawling
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的现在分词 ) | |
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49
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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50
lanky
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| adj.瘦长的 | |
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51
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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