The Sack of Monte Carlo 14

The Sack of Monte Carlo 14

CHAPTER XII

 

MONTE CARLO—MR. VAN GINKEL’S YACHT _SARATOGA_—WE PROSPECT—

FORTUNATE DISCOVERY OF THE POINT OF ATTACK—FIRST VISIT TO THE

ROOMS

 

 

IT was a brilliant January day, mild and sunny, when Mr. Brentin,

Parsons, and I were standing in the old bastion on the point of Monaco,

straining our gaze for a glimpse of the _Amaranth_. In front stretched

the flickering, shifting pavement of the Mediterranean, of a deep,

smooth sapphire, ruffled here and there, as the nap of a hat brushed the

wrong way. Nothing to be seen on it but the one loose white sail of a

yacht drifting out of harbor past the point.

 

We had strolled up the long ramp from the Condamine and through the

gateway leading to the old bastions, chiefly to see whether they were

provided with guns; we were relieved to find they were not—mere

peaceable flower-walks, in fact, and already blossoming with geranium.

 

From the unfinished cathedral behind us in the old town, crushed and

huddled together like a Yorkshire fishing village, came the rolling

throb of the heavy mid-day bell; up from the harbor far below, the smart

bugle-call of a French corvette. Little figures in white ran about the

deck, and the tricolor fluttered from the peak. Close alongside her lay

an American yacht, the _Saratoga_, belonging to Mr. Van Ginkel, a former

friend of Mr. Brentin’s. Both the vessels caused us a considerable

amount of uneasiness; the corvette carried guns, the _Saratoga_ was

noted for her speed. It was quite uncertain how long they might continue

to grace the harbor. One could easily blow us out of the water; the

other could just as easily give us an hour’s start, take fifty men on

board, pursue, overhaul, and bring us back, flushed though in other

respects we might be with victory.

 

We had already been three days in Monte Carlo, and so far there had been

no sign of their departure. “If the worst comes,” said Mr. Brentin, “we

must take Van Ginkel into our confidence and indooce him to take a trip

over to San Remo on the night of our attempt. The mischief is, I am so

little of his acquaintance now I hesitate to ask so great a favor.”

 

“What sort of man is he?” I asked.

 

“Well, sir, we were classmates at Harvard in ’60. Since then, though

full of good-will, we have scarcely met. I understand, however, he has

some stomach trouble, and is ay considerable invalid.”

 

“Married?”

 

“Di-vorced. Mrs. Van Ginkel is now the Princess Danleno, of Rome, a

widow of large wealth. She owns the Villa Camellia at Cannes, and is

over here constantly, in the season, they tell me. She plays heavily on

a highly ingenious and complicated system of her own, which costs her

about as much as the _Saratoga_ costs her former husband.”

 

We had taken up our abode at the “Hôtel Monopôle”—a hotel recommended

to us by Mr. Bailey Thompson, by-the-way, for purposes of his own. It is

a quiet little house, up the hill, and not far from the “Victoria”;

there we had safely arrived three days before—Parsons, Brentin, Bob

Hines, and I. Forsyth, Masters, my sister Mrs. Rivers, and Miss Rybot

had embarked in the _Amaranth_ from Portsmouth a few days before we left

London, and were now about due at Monte Carlo. My brother-in-law, the

publisher, had made no difficulty to my sister’s joining the expedition,

as to the true object of which he of course knew nothing; in fact, he

was delighted she could get a holiday on the Riviera so cheaply. It was

understood she was not to play, and not to spend more than £10 _en

route_. I heard afterwards that Paternoster Row simply ran with his

brag. “I’m a bachelor just at present. My wife’s yachting in the

Mediterranean with some rich Americans. Very hospitable people; they

wanted me to come, but really, just now—” etc., etc.

 

We had spent our first three days, not unprofitably, in prospecting the

place. We reached Monte Carlo in the afternoon, and at once drove up to

the hotel. Almost the first thing we saw was a large board over a little

house on the hillside, close by the Crédit Lyonnais, with “_Avances sur

bijoux_” on it.

 

Brentin chuckled. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “we sha’n’t play the game

quite so low down as that, eh? It will be either neck or nothing with

us.”

 

It was five o’clock before we started to go down to the Casino. We set

out in solemn silence, down the steep and glaring white road, past the

“Victoria” and the chemist’s. At the head of the gaudy, painted gardens,

that look like the supreme effort of a _modiste_, we came in full view

of the rooms. There we paused, choked, the most sensitive of us, by our

emotions.

 

In front there was a long strip of gay flower-beds and white pebble

paths, flanked by rows of California palms. To my excited fancy they

were the planted feather brooms of _valets-de-place_—moral

_valets-de-place_ who had set out to sweep the place clean but had never

had the courage to go further. To the right of us were the hotels—the

“St. James’s” and the “De Paris”; to the left, the Casino gardens again,

and the shallow pools where the frogs croak so dolorously at nightfall.

They are, I believe (for I am a Pythagorean), the souls of ruined

gamblers, still croaking out their _quatre premier_, their _dix-quinze_,

their _douze dernier_.

 

“Peace, batrachians!” I cried to them one evening, in the exalted mood

that now became common to me. “Be still, hoarse souls! push no more

shadowy stakes upon a board of shadows with your webbed fingers. We are

here to avenge ye!”

 

Then we went on down to the front of the rooms. There, unable to find a

seat, we leaned against a lamp-post and gloated on the fantastic

building that held our future possessions. On our left was the Café de

Paris, overflowing with _consommateurs_ at little tables under the

awning; from the swirling whirlpool of noise made by the Hungarian band

issued a maimed but recognizable English comic air. The sun was just

setting in a matchless sky of Eton blue; the breeze had dropped, and the

dingy Monaco flag over the Casino hung inert.

 

“Soldiers!” whispered Teddy, giving me a frightened nudge.

 

They were, apparently, a couple of officers of the prince’s army,

strolling round, smoking cheap cigars; they carried no side arms, and

were of no particular physique. “Besides,” I said, “they are not allowed

to enter the rooms. Don’t be so nervous, Teddy.”

 

“Let us go down on to the terrace,” murmured Brentin, “and view the

place from the back. We must see how close we can get the yacht up!”

 

So we went to the right, past the jingling omnibus crawling up from the

Condamine, down the steps, and on to the terrace facing the sea. We

passed the firemen Bailey Thompson told us we should find there, five or

six of them; one at every twenty paces, in uniform, with an odd sort of

gymnastic belt on. They were stationed at the back, too, and clearly

formed a complete protection against any possible bomb-throwing.

 

“There are too many of those men,” observed Brentin, irritably. “We

shall have to do something to draw them off on our great night or

they’ll get in the way.”

 

Then we went and looked over the balustrade of the terrace. Below us ran

the railway from Monaco; on the other side of the line, connected by an

iron bridge with the Casino terrace, was the pigeon-shooting club-house

and grounds. They formed a sort of bastion, jutting out into the sea;

the pale, wintry grass was still marked with the traps of last year.

 

“_That_ won’t do!” Brentin said, decisively, after a few moments’

survey. “The run’s too far over that bridge and down across the grass.

Besides, we should want rope ladders before we could get down the wall.

Come, gentlemen, let us try this way.”

 

We went to the extreme right of the terrace, and there, miraculously

enough, we found at once the very thing we wanted. Mr. Brentin merely

pointed at it in silence, keeping his attitude till we had all grasped

the situation. It was a rickety gate at the head of an evidently unused

flight of steps, leading down on to the railway line below. Beside it

stood a weather-worn board with “_Défense d’entrée au public_” on it. It

looked singularly out of place amid all that smart newness; but there it

was, the very thing we were in search of.

 

The railway below ran six or eight feet above the sea, without any

protecting parapet to speak of. Just at the angle where the

pigeon-shooting ground jutted out there was a sort of broken space,

where, for some reason (perhaps to allow the employés to descend), rocks

were piled up from the shore. A boat could be there in waiting; the

yacht could lie thirty yards off; if we had designed the place

ourselves, we couldn’t have done it better.

 

Mr. Brentin slowly pointed a fateful finger down the steps, across the

line, to the corner where the shore lay so close and handy.

 

“Do you observe it, gentlemen?” he whispered, awe-struck—“do you take

it all in? There is no tide in the Mediterranean; the edge of the sea

will always be there. Even if the night turns out as black as velvet we

could find the boat there blindfold.”

 

It was a solemn moment, broken only by the jingle of omnibus bells. I

felt like Wolfe when he first spied the broken path that led up the

cliff face from the St. Lawrence to the Heights of Abraham.

 

By accident or design, Brentin gave Teddy Parsons’s white Homburg hat a

tilt with his elbow; it tumbled off down the face of the terrace and

fell out of sight on to the line.

 

“There’s your chance, Teddy,” I said. “Run down the steps and fetch your

hat. You can see if there’s another gate at the bottom where that bunch

of cactus is.”

 

Teddy came back breathless. “There’s no sort of obstruction,” he gasped.

“It’s a clear run all the way. Only we shall have to be careful, if the

night’s dark; some of the steps are broken.” Poor Teddy, how prophetic!

 

We entered the rooms for the first time after dinner.

 

Readers who have been to Monte Carlo will remember that, before going

into the hall, there is a room on the left, where half a dozen men sit

writing cards of admission and drawing up lists of visitors. They make

no trouble about it, they simply ask you your hotel and

nationality—_Anglish, hein?_—and hand you over a pink card, good only

for one day. Then you go to the right and leave your stick. Neither

stick nor umbrella are allowed in the rooms. “Another point in our

favor,” as I whispered to Brentin.

 

Facing is the large hall; up and down stroll gamblers, come out for a

breath of air or the whiff of a cigarette. Any one may use it, or the

concert-room on the right, or the reading-rooms above, without a ticket;

the ticket is needed only for the gambling. You can even cash a check or

discount a bill there; for clerks are in attendance from the different

banking-houses, within and without the principality, who will attend to your wants as a loser or take charge of your winnings.