Chapter V: Monaco

I heard a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad ones to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man had made of man.
WORDSWORTH.

Spots of blackness in creation to make its colours felt.
_Modern Painters._

"Now this is first rate," said the old captain, as he stepped off the pier at Folkestone on to the steamer. "Ah, Donovan, my lad, if we were going for a good cruise it would do you all the good in the world, better than a dozen Monacos, eh? Not so profitable, you say? Well, perhaps not, but I wish I was captain of the _Metora_ again, a prime little steamer she was, you wouldn't think much of such a tub as this if you'd been aboard the _Metora_."

Donovan, with the delicious sense of returning strength, rolled himself up in his railway-rug, and with his elbow resting on the deck railing looked out seawards. The captain was in great spirits, the breath of sea air seemed to awake his better self, and he was besides very happy in having his favourite companion with him again.

"Now that you're about again, milord, I shall be a different man," he said, cheerily; "I've been dreadfully down in the mouth since you were ill, I missed you frightfully; and there was Noir as grim as death, and even Sweepstakes as cross as could be. You wouldn't believe what a bother we had with that bird, milord; just after you were laid up he caught, somehow or other, one of his old couplets which always enrages Noir. I suppose I'd said it, and he'd remembered it, for day and night that creature said nothing but,

"He who prigs what isn't his'n;"

you know the old rhyme!"

"There's something uncanny about Sweepstakes," said Donovan, laughing, "he has a good deal of the wizard about him. It's to be hoped he'll be quiet on the journey, or Noir will threaten to wring his neck."

"Yes, he doesn't approve of our menagerie," said Rouge, adjusting the covering of the parrot's cage, "though I will say that the dog is a marvel of obedience."

"I back the winner!" screamed Sweepstakes, as the bell sounded and the steamer began to move. "Now be gentle, be gentle."

"Hullo! the creature is beginning to talk," said Donovan, "you'll have a crowd round him."

And true enough before long they found themselves the centre of an amused group, to whom the parrot held forth in his choicest language. But presently Noir came up, and directly the bird caught sight of him he put his head on one side and began with his most sanctimonious manner to say,

"He who prigs what isn't his'n
When he's cotched shall go to pris'n."

"You must keep the parrot quiet," said Noir, crossly, "he's disturbing the whole deck."

The passengers at once disclaimed this, and expressed their admiration of the bird's cleverness, but Noir was not to be baffled, he drew the black covering over the cage, and Donovan saw by the frown on his brow that he was vexed by this particular sentence of the malicious parrot. He sat down on the other side of the cage, ready to check any further talking, but he could not prevent the mild refrain which Sweepstakes invariably resorted to when he was snubbed, and all through the crossing he gently murmured to himself, "When he's cotched--cotch--cotch--cotched!"

It was a grey day at the end of February, and the English shore was enveloped in mist, but there was, nevertheless, a strong breeze blowing. "East-nor'-east," Rouge declared it to be, "and a heavy swell which would prove fatal to the land-lubbers."

Donovan, though making no pretensions as to his sailing powers, enjoyed the change and novelty most thoroughly, and, indeed, after seven or eight weeks of the unwholesome atmosphere of Drury Lane, the fresh sea-breeze was almost intoxicating. In spite of adverse circumstances and a naturally melancholy temperament, the young life within him sprang up to greet the novelty of all around, his eyes brightened, his taciturnity disappeared, and he and the old captain sat talking together as happily as two school-boys.

Then came the landing at the sunny little French town, with the chatter of bad English and broken French, the hurry and bustle of the passengers, Rouge's anxiety over his precious parrot, and Donovan's difficulty in steering him safely past the door of the _buffet_, with all its temptations. After a few minutes' delay, they were off once more, fairly started now on their route to the south, and Donovan, in the first exuberance of his new strength, really thought he had found something to satisfy his restlessness, and to fill the emptiness of his life. Fair France, with her sunny plains and genial atmosphere, looked very tempting, Monaco offered plenty of excitement--why should he not be happy now?

They were to travel straight on to Nice, a rash project for a semi-invalid, but naturally the Frewins consulted their own wishes, and Donovan, though tired enough when they reached Paris, preferred going on with them to staying for the night alone, for he was still not at all fit to be left quite to himself; old Mrs. Doery had only resigned her post a few days before, and he shrank from entire self-dependence. So the night journey was undertaken, and he sat back in his corner watching his sleeping companions, sometimes dozing himself for a few minutes, but oftener wide awake, and fully conscious of his weary misery, bearing it with a sort of philosophic endurance, and thinking a good deal of the life he had left behind him, of his parting conversation with Mrs. Doery, of the interview which by this time she had probably had with his step-father, of the luck which he had had at the club a few nights ago, which had enabled him to pay his doctor's bill and start comfortably on his foreign trip, and of sundry passages which had impressed him in Renan's book. An odd medley, truly, in an utterly unregulated but well-disposed mind--well-disposed, that is, as far as it was capable of seeing the light.

At last the long night wore away; as they passed Lyons, with its gleaming lights and its broad river; the first faint grey of dawn was quivering on the horizon, and gradually the pale morning twilight began to steal into the railway carriage, falling with a most ghastly effect on the faces of the sleepers--Noir, with his hard, grim features, Rouge serenely comfortable and animal-like, a priest with a heavy face, which nevertheless looked quite spiritual compared with the old captain's, and four average Frenchmen in every variety of night _déshabillé_ and posture. Donovan glanced at them curiously, then, with that shivering misery which invariably accompanies the dawn, he once more looked out over the grey landscape. His cough began to be troublesome, nor did his discomfort end till the sun had risen; in the early morning, when they stopped for a minute at Orange, he dashed out of the carriage, held face and hands under the pump on the platform, and, somewhat refreshed by the cold water, got in again, to endure as well as he could the long day of travelling.

A night's rest at Nice set him up again, however, and he was as eager as either of his companions to go on to Monaco the next morning. The day, too, was so gloriously bright, and the air so exhilarating, that he fancied himself stronger than he really was. Nor was the exquisite scenery altogether wasted on him; it is to be doubted whether it has any effect on the _habitués_ of Monte Carlo who daily pass through it, but Donovan was a stranger, not yet seized with the gaming mania, which seems to destroy all the nobler faculties.

Leaving Nice behind them, with its green hills and clustering white villas, they sped on through a very paradise of beauty. To the right lay the Mediterranean, with its wonderfully deep blue, broken here and there by the tiniest foam-wreathed breakers, gleaming whiter than snow; to the left rose the Maritime Alps with their softly mantling olive groves, while in the distance every now and then a snowy peak stood out clearly against the blue sky.

The three Englishmen certainly took their own fashion of enjoying it all, there was no studying of Murray or Baedeker, not a single exclamation of wonder or admiration. Rouge looked sleepily at the sea, and thought of his voyages in the _Metora_; Noir, who for the last day or two had been engrossed with his "system," and had done nothing but cover sheets of paper with dots, barely looked up from his employment; Donovan looked at all the beauty silently, with no lack of admiration, but with a certain sadness, his one definite thought being how much Dot would have enjoyed it. In a very short time they reached their destination; old Monaco on its rocky promontory, new Monaco, with its gay white houses and red-tiled roofs, Monte Carlo, with its gorgeous casino--all lay as it were in a nutshell. Strange little Principality! one of the most ancient in Europe, originally a sort of garden of Eden, but now a perfect hot-bed of vice! Noir, who knew the place well, had his own reasons for avoiding the fashionable Condamine. He took his companions to an out-of-the-way hotel in old Monaco, where at the expense of a stiff climb they would be free from some of the objections of the more frequented quarter.

Before long they had set off for an afternoon at Monte Carlo, all three in good spirits; Noir with implicit faith in the system of play which he was about to try; Donovan exulting in the sense of novelty and excitement; Rouge ready to be amused by anything, and eager to try his luck so far as the restricted allowance which his son made him would permit. Driving up the long hill they were set down at last at the entrance to the casino. This, then, was the goal they had been making for, this the place where fortunes were won--or lost, this the refuge for all who craved excitement, for all who would fain banish thought. It felt half dream-like to Donovan, a palace of the genii, transported straight from one of the "Arabian Nights." Passing into the beautiful vestibule, with its great marble columns, gorgeously decorated roof and walls, and handsome mosaic floor, the impression grew upon him, but was speedily dashed into the world of cold realities by a word from Noir.

"Come, we won't waste time. You'll have to give your name at the _bureau_, and get your ticket. Of course, by-the-way, you're twenty-one? Else they won't admit you."

"All right," replied Donovan. "I was of age last spring," and therewith came memories which brought a look of hard resentment to his face.

Having given the name which he used, he picked up his pink admission-card, and followed his companions through the double swing-doors into the _Salle de Jeu_. After all, even in this enchanted palace, thoughts would intrude themselves. Would this journey to Monte Carlo prove less satisfactory than he had expected?

It is a strange sight that _Salle de Jeu_. Its richly decorated walls, its heavy square pillars, coloured and begilt in the Alhambra style, form the setting to a dark picture. How many wretched faces, pale with despair, are reflected each day in those mirrors! how many victims pace restlessly up and down the slippery parquet floor, never satisfied with gain, half crazed with loss; and yet with what persistency all throng round the tables, a curiously mixed multitude, when one pauses to study them--people of all ranks and ages: florid-looking Germans, sharp-faced Frenchmen, dark, vindictive Italians, handsome Russians, hard-featured Englishmen; women, too, in almost as large a proportion as men, and staking with quite as much _sang-froid_. Round every table sit the favoured few who have secured chairs, behind these stand the eager crowd absorbed in watching the whirling roulette-wheel, or the dealing of the cards, and on the outskirts of all linger the mere lookers-on; Americans "doing Europe," and including Monte Carlo in their list of things to be seen, pale-faced invalids from Mentone, English tourists of every description, who come to see this sight which happily is not to be met with in many places. A questionable proceeding though in some ways is this looking on, and yet to those who really study the gamblers the sight can hardly fail to teach a very grave lesson. Only, to anyone who expects pleasure in the mere sight, the disappointment would be great. Monte Carlo merely heard of is one thing, Monte Carlo seen is a revelation of sin, of infatuation, of all that is most sad and pitiable; a black spot in creation which does indeed make the on-looker thankful for all existing purity and goodness, but which, at the same time, cannot fail to sober and sadden.

The three companions quickly separated, Rouge remaining at one of the roulette-tables in the outer room, Noir steadily settling himself at the first trente-et-quarante table, and in course of time securing a chair, Donovan wandering restlessly from place to place. He had no faith in any system, though Noir had tried hard to convert him to his, but, although he was usually as successful by luck in games of chance as he was by cleverness in games of skill, his customary good fortune seemed now to have deserted him. Before long he had not only lost a great deal more than was at all convenient, but had conceived a strong dislike to the whole thing. Dispirited by his unbroken losses, he felt at once that there was nothing here to satisfy him, nothing to call out his faculties; for he was more than a mere gambler, he was a first-rate card-player, and to him half the pleasure of gaming lay in the sense of power, the exultation in his own skill. In spite of all the talk about "systems," he saw that the ruling goddess at Monte Carlo was blind chance; she had not dealt kindly with him, he would waste no more time or money in her gorgeous shrine.

But now that all excitement was over he began to feel unbearably weary, he threw himself down on the crimson velvet ottoman in the middle of the gaming-room, idly scanning the passers-by, men old and young; croupiers just released from their wearisome duties, and leaving the room with tired faces from which all other expression had died; the servants of the casino in their blue and red livery; the ever-shifting throng of gamblers; the extravagantly-dressed women. Realising at length that his peace was in danger of molestation, he rose to go, and found his way across the vestibule to the beautiful music-hall, where the finest orchestra in Europe is made a bait to draw great crowds to the casino. Wearily he leant back in one of the luxurious arm-chairs and listened to the closing strains of a grand symphony. The concert was nearly over; he was so weary that he almost fell asleep, but in, the last piece suddenly came to himself with a thrill of pain. With exquisite expression, with unrivalled delicacy of light and shade, the orchestra was playing a selection from "Don Giovanni," and now through the great hall there rang Dot's favourite air "Vedrai Carino."

It did him good in spite of the pain. When the audience dispersed, and he strolled out into the gardens, a child's pure gentle face haunted him; there among the palms, and aloes, and flowering cactus two visions of the past were with him, Dot's radiant beauty, and the quiet maidenly grace of a stranger whom he had involuntarily taken as his standard of what a woman should be. From what evil these two guardian angels shielded him who can say?

Before long he wisely went in search of the old captain, whom he found in low spirits, having lost every five-franc piece in his possession.

"We've both had enough of this," said Donovan, not sorry to have the old man's arm to lean on. "I'm about cleared out too, and, what's worse, I feel awfully seedy."

"Humph!" ejaculated the captain. "In for a second go of inflammation, I'll be bound."

"Well, Rouge, if I am," said Donovan, slowly, "you'll just have to bolt and bar the door and nurse me yourself. Do you understand?"

The captain nodded assent, and little more was said as they made their way back to the hotel.

The surmise proved perfectly true, however, and that night Donovan was again tossing to and fro in weary misery, haunted by whirling roulette wheels and stony-faced croupiers, raving about the endless losses and the tantalizing gains which always eluded his grasp. The relapse was the natural consequence of all the fatigue he had gone through, and had it not been for the old captain's devoted though rough nursing, and for the care of an exceedingly clever French doctor, he would most likely have sunk under it.

However, he struggled through, and woke one morning, after a long sleep, to realise for the first time his position. There he was lying as weak as any baby, surrounded by mosquito net curtains, in an odd-looking foreign room; there was poor Waif lying at the foot of the bed, keeping anxious guard over him; there was Rouge sitting by the open window smoking. Where was he? What was this new place? Not Drury Lane, for the dingy green paper was changed to a gorgeous blue one, and the ceiling was decorated, or defaced, with bluewash studded with glaring white stars, in the middle of which grew by some strange anomaly a great clump of red and yellow roses. Donovan, though not artistic, was strangely irritated by looking at the horrid daub. He called the old captain to him.

"So I've been ill again," he said, interrogatively.

"Very," replied Rouge. "In fact, milord, we as good as gave you up at one time, you wouldn't believe what an anxious time I've had of it, with Noir all day long up at that casino, and no one here who could speak a word of English."

"You have been nursing me?"

"Well, of course, what else could I do?" said Rouge.

"Thank you, captain," said Donovan, adding resolutely, after a minute's pause, "I shall get well now."

He was as good as his word, and from that day recovered rapidly; not that he cared much to get well, but he was anxious to free himself from the state of dependence he was now in, for dependence was uncongenial to his nature, and to submit to rough and ready attendance is never pleasant. Before many days had passed he was up and dressed, just able to drag himself across the room, and to relieve the monotony of the long hours by such amusement as he could find at either of the windows. One of these faced the Place du Palais. There just opposite to him he could see the Prince's Palace, could count the slow minutes by the clock in the tower, speculate when the cannon and the great pile of cannon-balls would be used, study the two sentries who, in their red and blue uniforms, kept guard over the entrance gate, and watch the few passers-by. From the other window a much wider view was obtained. Here he could see the whole of the beautiful bay, and the exquisite loveliness of the place made him long to quit his room.

And so the days dragged on, and little by little he regained his strength, would crawl out to the almost deserted Promenade St. Barbe, and sit on one of the green benches under the plane-trees, or, passing through the curious old archway which leads by a footpath from old to new Monaco, he would stretch himself out on the low stone wall, and rest among a sort of jungle of flowering cactus and pink geranium, while before him stretched a glorious panorama; the beautiful blue of the Mediterranean, Monaco with its gay-looking houses, the mountains skirting the water here clothed with olive groves, there craggy, bare, and brown, or glistening pearly grey in the sunlight. Then just facing him, half way up the mountain side, the pretty little town of Roccabruna, till--the slope of the mountain hiding Mentone and its bay--the chain gradually lessened, and ended in the long low promontory of Bordighera. Only one conspicuous object stood out always as a blot on the fair landscape--the casino, with its gilded roof and its two minarets.

Donovan had wisely resolved to keep clear of modern Monaco, but he began rather to weary of the narrow bounds of the old town. True he had, as usual, made friends among the children; his favourite resting-place on the wall happened to be on the way to the school, and troops of little brown-eyed, bare-headed girls and boys passed him every day, and soon learnt to crowd round the strange English gentleman and his wonderful dog, and to bring him presents of flowers or unripe nespoli. But, as he grew stronger, he began to hate the feeling of imprisonment, until, happening one morning to notice a little boat on the sea with its white lateen sail, he conceived the happy idea of taking a daily cruise. The old captain was always ready to accompany him, and the hours which they spent in the _Ste. Dévote_, as their boat was named, did each of them untold good.

Meanwhile each evening Noir, returning about eleven o'clock, when the casino closed, would bring in one or two acquaintances who, not satisfied with the day's gambling, were anxious for play. In this manner Donovan made an easy living.

Noir tried in vain to induce him to go once more to Monte Carlo; he himself had been remarkably lucky, and he rarely let a day pass without remonstrating with Donovan on what he alternately called his "cowardice," his "laziness," and his "puritanical fanaticism."

This last accusation was so novel that it called forth one of Donovan's rare laughs.

"Come, this is quite a new line," he said, when Noir's tirade was ended. "You are the first person in the world who ever gave me such an honourable name. Zealous folks have addressed me as 'infidel dog,' and 'blind atheist,' and 'miserable agnostic,' but 'fanatic Puritan' is a title to which I never dreamt of aspiring! In the strength of it you must allow me to gang my ain gait!"

"Please yourself," said Noir, crossly. "Do you know Berrogain's last name for you--for the young man who is too virtuous to be ensnared? You are the young Bayard, the----"

"He's welcome to call me what he pleases," interrupted Donovan, sharply. "All I know or care for is that he loses hundreds of francs to me every evening we play. It's not the least good talking. You'll never see me in that _Salle de Jeu_ again. You with your system, and Berrogain with his luck, may do very well. Fortune wasn't so kind to me, and I'd rather depend on my own brains."

Sweepstakes ended the discussion by reiterated injunctions to "be gentle," and the words, coming in after a hot dispute, amused both speakers, and really did put a stop to the quarrel.

Noir finished his lunch, and set off for his afternoon at Monte Carlo, leaving his father and Donovan to such amusement as they could find in a long sail in the _Ste. Dévote_. Strangely enough, however, it so happened that the infallible "system" failed dismally on that very afternoon. Noir was singularly unfortunate, lost almost all that he had previously won, and returned to the hotel at night crestfallen and dispirited. He had burnt his fingers, and for the time had lost all desire to risk a fresh effort.

Rather sulkily he consented the next morning to go for a walk with Donovan, and, _déjeuner_ over, the two set out towards the quaint little town of Roccabruna. As they passed through old Monaco and down the sunny road, a furious rattling attracted their notice. All the small boys of the place had armed themselves with impromptu policemen's rattles made of odd bits of wood and iron, and were swinging them round with frightful energy.

"What is all this infernal row about?" grumbled Noir.

Donovan, rather amused by the comical effect of the energetic _gamins_ and their clumsy rattles, accosted a brown-eyed boy, and asked him the meaning of it all.

"It is the Holy Thursday, monsieur," was the answer. "We crush the bones of the wicked Judas, the betrayer. This evening, in the church, it will be very beautiful. The priests will wash our feet, the lights will be extinguished, and all the people will crush the bones of Judas. A great noise it will be, monsieur. It will resemble the thunder!"

Donovan rejoined Noir with a bitter smile on his face. This then was Christianity! They walked on in perfect silence.

The day was gloriously fine and bright, the April air soft and balmy, the atmosphere in that state of almost intoxicating clearness only to be met with in the South. Certainly the two men were a strange contrast to their surroundings; the elder grim, clouded, dissatisfied, the younger worn with suffering, weary with the weariness of a life-long unrest, and bearing on his handsome features that peculiar expression of constant inward struggle which often gives pathos to the hardest face.

Around them were the thick olive groves, above the clear deep blue of the cloudless sky. It was a paradise of peace and loveliness that these two were treading together. How far it influenced them it would be hard to say, but probably both owed more to it than they knew. Roccabruna, with its cavernous houses and quaint archways, did not greatly interest them. They had come for exercise rather than for lionising and, contented with a very brief survey of the little antique place, they struck off to the left, along a somewhat rough and rugged mule-path, and walked on silently in the direction of Mentone, each bend bringing them to fresh loveliness, to glimpses of new rocky heights, to little silvery impetuous waterfalls, to different views of the exquisite coast and of the Mediterranean, which at its very bluest spread out before them in calm beauty. At last Donovan spoke.

"Have you had enough of Monaco yet? Shall we go?"

"Certainly, I'll go to-morrow, if you'll come back on the old footing to London," said Noir, with a quick glance at his companion.

"To that you've had your answer already," he replied, coldly. "I shall never go back to the old life. I told you so."

"Saint!" said Noir, with his most disagreeable sneer.

"Saint or devil, I'm not going to do it," said Donovan, his voice rising. "Call me what names you like, but understand once for all that when I say a thing I mean it."

Noir knew that this was true enough, knew, as he looked at the firm resolute face, that he might more easily move the rocks at Monaco than turn this fellow from his purpose.

"A month at Paris might not be amiss," he suggested, after a pause. "Berrogain is going back next week; he's made his fortune now--broke the bank yesterday."

"I am ready to go, then," said Donovan. "The sooner we're out of this place the better."

"Paris would not be bad," mused Noir, half to himself; "we shall come in for the meeting at Chantilly; perhaps induce Darky Legge to come over. Yes, that'll do; are you agreed?"

"Agreed? Oh, yes," replied Donovan, shortly; and then, as they passed a little wayside chapel in the midst of an olive grove, he said, with an abrupt change of tone, "Let us rest here; one doesn't often get shade like this."

And throwing himself down under one of the gnarled old trees, with arms crossed pillow-wise beneath his head, he lay watching the glimpses of blue through the graceful network of branches above him, and the still bluer depth of sea down below, against which the dark outlines of an iron cross stood out distinctly. Noir filled his pipe, and sat with his back against the trunk of the olive, not caring to attempt any further conversation.

"Life," thought the elder man, depressed by his losses, "was particularly worthless and uninteresting just at that time." "Life," thought the younger, perplexed by his increasing difficulties, troubled within and without, "life was more than a man could well stand; it was weary, and profitless, and utterly hateful."

Thus they mused, each following his natural bent, each calling that "life" which was in reality death, each wondering that they found it so barren and worthless. Neither could understand that the very sense of insatiety which came to them in their selfish lives was the token of those higher affinities within them, those faint needings and longings for the Omnipresent Fire Divine, which He can--nay, surely _does_, everywhere kindle.

By-and-by, the one with a shrug, the other with a sigh, the reveries were ended, the burden of the so-called "life" was taken up once more; the two walked on slowly, past the beautiful villas and the fragrant orange groves, to Mentone.