The fault of us women is that we so often over-esteem the value of our good looks. To my mind the possession of handsome toilettes is quite as essential to a woman's well-being and man's contentment as are personal attractions. A woman, however beautiful she may be, loses half her charm to men's eyes if she dresses dowdily or without taste. Nobody ever saw a really beautiful Parisienne. For the most part they are thin-nosed, thin-lipped, scraggy-necked, yellow-faced, and absolutely ugly, yet are they not, merely by reason of their chic in dress, the most attractive women in the world? I know that many will dissent from this estimate, but as my mirror tells me that I have a face more than commonly handsome, and as dozens of men have further endorsed the mute evidence of my toilet-glass, I can only confess that all my success and all my harmless flirtations have had their commencements in the attraction exercised by the dainty creations of my couturière. We hear much complaining among women that there are not a sufficient number of nice men to go round, but, after all, the woman who knows how to dress need have no lack of offers of marriage. American women can always be distinguished from the English, and it is certain that to their quiet smartness in frills and furbelows their success in the marriage mart is due.
Yes, there was no doubt that Reggie Thorne admired me. I had suspected it on the night when we had waltzed together at the Pendymans' and afterwards gossiped together over ices, but with a woman dance-flirtations are soon forgotten, and, truth to tell, I had forgotten him until our sudden and unexpected meeting.
"What awfully good luck we've met Gerald and Reggie," Ulrica said when half-an-hour later we were seated together in the privacy of our sitting-room. "Gerald, poor boy, was always a bit gone on me in Washington, and as for Reggie—well, he'll make an excellent cavalier for you. Even if Mother Grundy is dead and buried, it isn't very respectable to be constantly trotting over to Monte Carlo without male escort."
"You mean that they'll be a couple of useful males—eh?"
"Certainly. Their advent is quite providential. Some of Gerald's luck at the table may be reflected upon us. I should dearly like to make my expenses at Monte."
"So should I."
"There's no reason why we shouldn't," she went on confidently. "I know quite a lot of people who've won enough to pay for the whole trip to Europe."
"Reggie has money, hasn't he?"
"Of course. The old man was on Wall Street and died very comfortably off. All of it went to Reggie, with an annuity to his mother. Of course, he's spent a good deal since. A man doesn't live in Washington as he does, drive tandem, and all that sort of thing on nothing a year."
"They used to say that Gerald Keppel hadn't a dollar only what the old man allowed him monthly—and a most niggardly allowance, I've heard."
"That's quite possible, my dear Carmela," she answered. "But one's position might be a good deal worse than the only son of a millionaire. Old Benjamin is eccentric. I've met the old buffer several times. He's addicted to my pet abomination in a man—paper collars."
"Then you'll take Gerald as your cavalier, and allot Reggie to me?" I laughed.
"Yes. I'm self-sacrificing, am I not?"
She was in high spirits, for she had long ago fascinated Gerald Keppel, and now intended to make use of him as her escort to that Palace of Delight which somebody has suggested might be known by the Sign of the Seven Sins.
Ulrica was a typical woman of the up-to-date type, pretty, with soft, wavy chestnut hair, and a pair of brown eyes that had attracted a host of men who had bowed down and worshipped at her shrine, yet beneath her corsets, I alone knew, there beat a heart from which, alas! all love and sympathy had long ago died out. To her, excitement, change, and flirtation were as food and drink; she could not live without them. Neither, indeed, could I, for, living with her ever since my convent days, I had imbibed her smart ideas and notions, stimulated by attacks of nerves.
A few days later, having lunched with Reggie and Gerald at the Grand Hotel, we went over to Monte Carlo by the two o'clock "yellow" express.
Reader, you probably know the panorama of the Riviera—that stretch of azure sky, azure sea, of golden coasts, purple hills fringed with olive and pine, rose and geranium running riot over hedge and hollow, oranges golden and flowers white upon the same branch. The pale violet of the Alps answers the violet of the valleys; white and gold marguerites spangle the hill-side where the old rock village of Eze is perched above; white and gold villas dot the wayside, and white and gold are the decoration of that Casino wherein is centred all the human vices—painted tastefully in white and gold—The Sign of the Seven Sins.
When I entered for the first time that wild, turbulent, close-smelling salle-de-jeu where the croupiers were crying in those mechanical, strident tones "Messieurs, faites vos jeux!" and uttering in warning voice "Rien ne va plus!" I gazed around me bewildered. Who were those grabbing crowds of smartly dressed people grouped around the tables? Were they actually civilized beings—beings who had loved, suffered, and lived, as I had loved, suffered, and lived?
How beautiful it was outside in that gay little Place with the red Hungarian band playing on the terrace of the Café de Paris, and half the grande monde of Europe lounging about and chattering. How enchanting was the grim Dog's Head as a fitting background in dark purple against the winter sunset, the old bronze Grimaldi rock rising sheer from the turquoise sea surmounted by the white tower of Monaco and the castellated walls of the Palace; to the right Villefranche and San Juan shining in topaz and amber,—the Esterels as a necklace of radiant jewels,—while to the left Bordighera was lying at the base of its neck, like a pearl at a fair throat. And beyond there was Italy—my own fair Italy! Out in that flower-scented, limpid air earth was a paradise; within those stifling gilt saloons, where the light of day was tempered by the thick curtains and the clink of gold mingled with the dull hum of the avaricious crowd, it was a veritable hell.
Some years ago—ah! now I am looking back: Ulrica is not at fault this time. No, I must not think. I have promised myself in writing this narrative not to think, but to try and forget all past unhappiness. Try. Ah! would that I could calm my soul—steep it in a draught of thoughtlessness, such that oblivion would come.
It is terrible to think how a woman can suffer and yet live. What a blessing it is that the world cannot read a woman's heart! Men may look upon our faces, but they cannot read the truth. Even though our hearts may be breaking we may wear a smile; we can fold our sorrows as a bird folds its wings, for they are part of our physical being; we can hide our grief so completely that none can know the burden upon us. Endurance, resistance, patience, suffering, all are, alas! a woman's heritage. Even in the few years I have lived I have had my share of them all.
I stood bewildered, watching the revolving red and black roulette-wheel and the eager crowd of faces around it.
"Vingt! Rouge, pair et passé!" the croupier cried, and a couple of louis which Ulrica had placed on the last dozen were swept away with the silver, notes, and gold to swell the bank.
I thought of my secret grief. I thought of Ernest Cameron and pursed my lips. The old Tuscan proverb which the nuns in Florence had taught me so long ago was very true, Amore non è senza amaro.
The millionaire's son at my elbow was explaining to me how the game was played, but I was paying no attention. I only remembered the man I had once loved—the man whose slave I was—the man whom I had forgiven, even though he had left me so cruelly.
Only three things could make life to me worth living—the sight of his face, the sound of his voice, the touch of his lips.
But they could never be, alas! we were parted for ever—for ever.
"Now, play this time," I heard Reggie beside me exclaim.
"Where?" I inquired mechanically, his voice awakening me to a sense of my surroundings.
"On the line, there—between the numbers 9 and 12."
I took a louis from my purse and with the rake carelessly pushed it upon the line he had indicated. Then I turned to talk with Gerald.
"Rien ne va plus!" cried the croupier.
A hundred necks were craned to watch the result.
The ball fell with a final click into one of the little spaces upon the wheel.
"Neuf! Rouge, impair et manque!"
"You've won, my dear!" cried Ulrica excitedly, and in a few moments Reggie, who raked up my winnings, gave me quite a handful of gold.
"There now," he said, laughing, "you've made your first coup. Try again."
I crammed the gold into my purse, but it would not hold it all. The three louis which would not go in I held in indecision in my hand.
"Play on the treize-dix-huit this time!" urged Reggie, and I obeyed him blindly.
The number 18 came up, therefore I again received another little handful of gold. I knew that many envious eyes were cast in my direction, and to me the excitement of winning was an entirely new sensation.
Ulrica fancied the last dozen, and I placed five louis upon it, winning a third time. Having won eight hundred francs in three turns of the wheel, I began to think roulette not such wearying fun as I had once believed it to be.
I wanted to continue playing, but the others prevented me. They knew too well that the bank at Monte Carlo only lends its money to the players.
With Reggie at my side I went out and strolled through those beautiful gardens beside the sea, watched the pigeon-shooting, and afterwards sat on the terrace of the Café de Paris and enjoyed the brilliant sundown.
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