Chapter IX

Gerald and Christopher were a little disappointed with their rendezvous, so far as regards its possibilities for intimate conversation. Although it was twenty minutes to nine when they entered the place, there was still a fair number of loungers around the bar, drinking cocktails, and many of the little tables around the room were already taken. They chose as remote a one as possible, however, and seated themselves side by side, with their backs against the wall. Gerald ordered the dinner and the wine. Then he started the conversation with a somewhat abrupt question.

“Chris,” he asked, “exactly what do you think of Mademoiselle de Ponière?”

“I don’t know her,” Christopher reminded him.

“As a matter of fact, neither do I,” Gerald declared, a little bitterly. “She permitted me to introduce myself down on the sands below the Villa, and she has been for a ride with me in the car every afternoon since; yet she does this secretly, and if I meet her with her aunt I am not allowed to speak to her or to expect recognition. I am not permitted to call at the Villa, I don’t know where they come from, I don’t know even her nationality. Furthermore, they do not appear to know a soul in Monte Carlo, nor have we ever stumbled across a single mutual acquaintance.”

“The situation seems peculiar,” Christopher admitted. “I can’t see the faintest reason why she shouldn’t introduce you to her aunt.”

“Neither can I,” Gerald agreed. “I flatter myself that for my few but well-spent years I have seen something of the world and its snares, but I honestly cannot place these two women.”

“What is mademoiselle’s attitude towards you when you are alone?” Christopher asked.

“Ridiculously reserved,” Gerald answered. “I once touched her fingers and I thought she would have struck me. Humiliating though it may be, I am half inclined to believe that it is the motoring alone which attracts her in the slightest degree, and that I represent very little more to her than the man who is driving the car.”

“Do you wish to represent more?” Christopher asked bluntly.

“I don’t know,” Gerald answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “She attracts me horribly. She has done so from the first.”

Their conversation was momentarily interrupted by the arrival in the place of a newcomer, a stranger to both the young men. He was tall and broad-shouldered, sallow-skinned, with a mass of black hair, good features, but with hard, almost brutal mouth. Although the night was warm, he wore a huge overcoat, from which he seemed to part with some reluctance. He was in morning clothes of fashionable cut, and he wore a singular number of rings upon his massive fingers. Immediately he had been relieved of his coat, he made his way to the bar, drank two cocktails in rapid succession and lit a cigarette. Then he wandered to the table adjoining the one at which the two young men were seated, and, having given his order for dinner, busied himself making calculations upon some scraps of paper which he tore up as soon as they were filled with figures. Gerald spoke to the waiter who served them, with whom he was well acquainted.

“A stranger here, Charles?”

The man glanced over his shoulder and lowered his tone.

“A Russian gentleman, milord,” he announced, “staying at the Hôtel de Paris--Monsieur Zubin, he calls himself. They say that he has been playing very heavily.”

“Russians who play high are no great novelty here,” Gerald remarked, under his breath. “There are not so many of them with money, nowadays, though.--Chris,” he went on, as the man left them, “you asked yesterday what was the matter with me. I’ll tell you. It’s this uncertainty about Mademoiselle de Ponière. It’s an absolute torment to me. It’s getting on my nerves.”

“Define the exact nature of your uncertainty?” Christopher suggested.

“Define it? What the devil do you mean?” Gerald answered gloomily.

“Is it the character and reputation of these ladies concerning which you cannot make up your mind, or is it mademoiselle’s lack of reciprocation to your overtures which you find distressing?”

“For God’s sake, chuck that legal tosh!” Gerald begged. “It’s both!”

“Has she ever mentioned the subject of money, directly or indirectly?” Christopher asked.

“Not once,” Gerald replied. “She always has the air of having plenty, and her clothes are quite wonderful. Furthermore,” he went on, helping himself to wine, “she doesn’t encourage me in the slightest. I wish to God she would! She really seems to look upon me just as a chauffeur.”

Christopher laughed quietly. There were people who called Gerald the most spoilt young man in London, and his present predicament had its humourous side. Gerald himself made a little grimace.

“It’s all very well, Christopher,” he said, “but I am a great deal too near being in earnest over this. Pull yourself together and suggest some way of getting hold of the truth.”

“If the girl herself won’t help you,” Christopher replied, “how can any one else?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Gerald assented gloomily.

“Ask her pointblank where she was brought up and how it is she knows no one here,” Christopher went on.

“I’ll try it,” Gerald agreed. “The worst of it is, she has such a terrible way of looking at you when you ask anything she doesn’t approve of; she makes you feel as though you’d been guilty of an impertinence. Only yesterday, I suggested Mary’s calling on her. I’m not at all sure that Mary would have played up, but I risked that. ‘My aunt is not receiving here,’ was her only reply. Hang it all, you know, Chris, I’m not a snob, but that does seem a trifle offhand, considering all things.”

“I should call it a little ominous,” Christopher pronounced. “If she and her aunt really are wrong ’uns, she’d be jolly careful not to put you in a false position by letting your sister call upon her. She knows quite well that’s the sort of thing a fellow doesn’t forgive.”

The place had become very crowded indeed. A small orchestra was playing in the far corner. Several unattached young ladies, who preserved an air of haughty indifference towards the company generally, but seemed to be on remarkably good terms with the head waiter, had brought colour into the little assembly. The large man who was reputed to be a Russian had called for pen and ink, and between the courses was writing a letter. The _maître d’hôtel_, who knew Gerald, stooped and whispered in his ear.

“Monsieur Zubin, the large gentleman you asked me about, milord,” he announced, “has just won two million francs over at the Casino. Some of these people have followed him over. He must have the money in his pocket.”

To Christopher the scene was a novel one, and he leaned forward in his seat. Two young ladies had seated themselves at the next table to the Russian, and the nearest was glancing tentatively at him now and then, without, however, evoking the slightest response. A rather seedy-looking individual, seated upon a stool before the bar, had made one or two moves in the same direction and was apparently only waiting for the Russian to finish his letter before he addressed him. On every side were signs of a sort of parasitical hero worship. People from all quarters were whispering together and glancing towards him. The object of all these attentions continued to write his letter unmoved. Presently he called for a _chasseur_, thrust his letter into an envelope and addressed it. The boy made a prompt appearance and stood, cap in hand, waiting for his orders. The man who had just won two million francs handed him the letter, gave him some brief directions and a handful of coins. The _chasseur_ saluted and hurried off. Gerald gripped his companion by the arm.

“Did you hear that, Chris?” he whispered.

“I heard nothing,” Christopher replied.

“I saw the address, too,” Gerald continued eagerly. “The letter is to Madame de Ponière, Villa Violette!”

The dispatch of the letter was the signal for certain almost imperceptible advances on the part of those who had been watching the great man. The young lady at the next table leaned over and congratulated him on his good fortune, an overture which was received a little gruffly and without enthusiasm. Mademoiselle smiled, however, and did not take the rebuff to heart. A bottle stood in ice by her neighbour’s side, and she judged that a more propitious moment would arrive. The seedy-looking stranger slid from his stool, leaned over the table and whispered a few words in the Russian’s ear. He was a sandy-haired man, with puffy cheeks and a nervous manner. His clothes had once been well enough but were now shabby. He had the gambler’s restless air.

“Sir,” he began, “forgive my addressing you.”

“What do you want?” was the blunt rejoinder.

“I stood behind your chair in the Rooms. I flatter myself that I brought you fortune, as I have brought it to many others. I have been an immense loser at the tables, but, in proportion to my own losses, my friends have always won.”

“What of this?” the other asked brusquely.

“The fortunes which control winning or losing are strange ones,” the sandy-haired man continued. “There are many who contend that they are influenced by the good or evil will of a bystander. I admired your courage, monsieur. I willed you to win. I have lost as much at the tables as you have won. Will you grant me the loan of a meal?”

“Go to hell!” was the brutal reply. “I have nothing to do with cadgers.”

The man staggered as though he had received a shock. He was used to rebuffs, but not such rebuffs as this.

“Monsieur!” he stammered.--“Perhaps five hundred or even two hundred francs----”

“Not a sou, and be off. Do you want me to complain to the manager?”

The sandy-haired man went back to his stool, a little dazed. He held out his hand as though for a drink, which the bartender forgot to serve. A young man dressed in the height of fashion rose from his place at the other side of the room, and came over to talk to the two girls for a few moments. Then he turned to the Russian, addressing him courteously and with an air of respect.

“I congratulate you, monsieur,” he said, “upon your splendid gambling. I watched you for an hour this afternoon. It is not often that one sees the bank broken four times.”

The Russian looked at the newcomer with his bushy eyebrows drawn together. His champagne had been served and he had drunk a couple of glasses of the wine. His expression, however, seemed colder and more menacing than ever.

“My gambling is my own affair, sir,” he said. “I do not discuss it with strangers.”

The young man smiled. He was not in the least offended.

“There is a freemasonry here,” he explained, “which sometimes dispenses with introductions. All of us visitors who measure our wits and our pockets against those of Monsieur Blanc are in a sense allies. When one triumphs, it is permitted to the others to congratulate him.”

“My experience is,” the Russian declared, unmoved, “that, after the congratulations are over, a little request usually follows. I do not acknowledge the alliance you speak of. I play for myself, my own pleasure and my own profit.”

“It is your right,” the young man acknowledged, his tone still good-tempered, although there was a malicious twist at the corners of his lips. “Since my congratulations offend you, I withdraw them. May you lose back again your two millions, and may some of it flow into our pockets.”

The Russian laughed mirthlessly.

“Whatever of my two millions flows into your pockets,” he replied, “will come via Monsieur Blanc--I can promise you that! I am a stranger here, and I desire no acquaintance. Your table, I think, is on the other side of the room.”

The young man edged away. The smile remained upon his lips but his expression was curiously malevolent. Gerald smiled as he saw him cross the floor.

“Horribly bad character, that,” he remarked to Christopher. “I missed him here last season and asked where he was. They told me that he was in prison for stabbing his mistress.--I suppose I shall get it in the neck, Chris, but I’ve got to talk to the old brute. I can’t afford to miss an opportunity of speaking to some one who knows Pauline.”

“I shouldn’t, if I were you,” Christopher advised. “You see he isn’t in the humour to talk to anybody, and if there really is any mystery about the De Ponières, he won’t care about being asked questions about them.”

Gerald was, for him, however, determined.

“Those others were all wrong ’uns, and he probably knew it. The fellow’s manner is brutal, but I believe he’s a personage. I shall try my luck in a moment or so.”

Mademoiselle returned to the attack. She leaned once more towards her neighbour.

“Monsieur’s wine appears to be excellent,” she ventured.

The Russian, who had begun to eat seriously, summoned a waiter without raising his head.

“Serve two bottles of wine,” he directed, “to mademoiselle and her friend, and bring me another.”

“Monsieur is a prince,” the girl murmured.

The big man flashed a sudden look at her. Then he went on with his dinner.

“You are welcome to the wine,” he said. “It does not please me, for the moment, to converse. Besides, I am hungry.”

Mademoiselle murmured another word of thanks and turned back to her companion. She knew her world and she was content.

“Monsieur must not be interfered with,” she declared. “He has been playing since the Rooms opened, and he is weary. The fortune of some people is marvelous,” she went on, watching the coming of the wine. “If I were to win a mille, I should be crazy with delight.”

Gerald waited for several minutes, until his neighbour had entered upon another course. Then he leaned a little towards him.

“A trifle communistic, the ideas of the world about here,” he remarked.

The Russian looked at him and shrugged his shoulders.

“I come from a country where I have learnt to hate that word,” he said. “Be so good as not to repeat it in my hearing.”

“You are a Russian?” Gerald ventured.

“It is entirely my business of what nationality I am,” was the cold reply.

“Naturally,” Gerald agreed. “At the same time, we are all human. The man who wins a couple of millions here is a public character. You will probably find old ladies rubbing their five-franc pieces against your coat sleeves, as you enter the Rooms.”

“So long as they do not attempt to talk to me, I shall be content,” was the curt retort.

“You are not exactly looking for acquaintances, I perceive,” Gerald remarked.

“I have none here, nor do I desire any.”

Gerald smiled. He had reached the point at which he had been aiming.

“That,” he observed, “is not strictly true. You have just dispatched a note to some ladies of my acquaintance.”

Monsieur Zubin had so far met Gerald’s tentative overtures with the cold rudeness of one who recognises an equal. At his last words, however, a look almost of fury flashed into his face. He struck the table with his fist.

“I ought to have remembered the sort of people by whom I was likely to be surrounded here,” he declared. “One comes to beg for alms, another to tout for a loan or to pave the way for a robbery, and you, who look as though you ought to know better, cast sneaking glances over my shoulder to read the superscription of a private letter. What a riffraff!”

Gerald bit his lip. He kept his temper perfectly.

“I saw the address, I assure you, entirely by accident,” he said. “I happen to be acquainted with one of the ladies or the name would not have attracted my notice. Madame and mademoiselle occupy the next villa to my father’s.”

“Acquainted? That is a lie!” the Russian exclaimed. “The ladies of whom you have spoken have no acquaintances in Monte Carlo.”

Gerald shrugged his shoulders.

“At least,” he said, “I will agree with you so far as to admit that this is no place in which to discuss them.”

Monsieur Zubin rose deliberately to his feet. One realised then his extraordinary height. He must have been at least six feet, four inches, and broad in proportion. Gerald, although he himself was considerably over average height, seemed like a child by his side.

“If you mention their names again,” he threatened, “I shall throw you out of the place.”

Gerald looked him over for a moment, unmoved but intensely curious. The mystery of Madame and Mademoiselle de Ponière had only been increased by this chance meeting.

“Pray sit down,” he begged. “You are making every one uneasy. I have no wish to quarrel with you. I simply took you for an ordinary human being.”

The Russian resumed his seat. Mademoiselle raised her glass and laughed into his eyes. Gerald called for his bill.