Chapter Twenty One. Red and Black

The fugitive was already out of sight when his pursuer gained the road. In the crooked streets of Monaco, with their dark arches, narrow passages and steep inclines, it is easy to evade pursuit, and Zertho, to whom the place was well-known, was fully aware that if he could gain the foot of the rock he could get clean away. He crushed his hat on his head and ran swiftly as a deer.

Max knew the road the accused man must take, and dashed after him, hatless, as fast as his legs would carry him. Suddenly, however, he entered a crooked lane, only to find himself in a cul-de-sac. He quickly retraced his steps and gained the square in front of the Palace, but by this time the man he was pursuing was already at the foot of the rock. Rushing up to the wall of the fortifications he peered over, and saw far below the fugitive spring into a open cab and drive rapidly towards La Condamine. To overtake him now was impossible. The police must take up the chase.

He ran back to the Villa Fortunée to tell Mariette and the others of his failure and obtain her sanction to invoke the aid of police, while the other sat bolt upright in the cab, staring straight before him, not daring to glance behind. Yet all seemed peaceful in that calm sunset hour. Along the boulevard around the bay he drove at a spanking pace, but in front the road to Monte Carlo rose steeply, and soon they were only travelling at walking pace.

“Quicker!” he cried, impatiently to the driver; and with an oath added: “Whip your horses! Quicker!”

“Impossible, m’sieur,” the man answered without turning towards him.

The moments that went by during that slow ascent seemed hours. Each instant he expected to hear loud cries and demands as the police bore down upon him. He knew that his face must betray the deadly terror that held him paralysed. Like a fox going to cover he had headed instinctively for Monte Carlo, but knew not how he was about to act, or whither he was going. He knew that he must fly to save his liberty and life, and had a vague idea that if he crossed into Italy the pursuit would thereby be delayed.

“Where to, m’sieur?” inquired the driver, when at last they gained the brow of the hill.

“The Casino! Quick!” he answered, after an instant’s reflection. Then to himself, he muttered behind his set teeth: “One throw. My last chance. Life or death!”

He sprang from the cab, tossed the man a ten-franc piece, and ran up the red-carpeted steps to the atrium, showed his white ticket to the two doorkeepers, and entered the hot, garish gaming-rooms.

The atmosphere was troubled, faint with the thousand perfumes exhaled from the tightly-laced corsets of the women. Charming and pretty as many of the latter are, they are, nevertheless, designedly or unconsciously, the most active and dangerous companions at the tables. Their influence upon their fellow-players is always on the side of the bank.

Queen Roulette is the most absorbing and most imperious of all mistresses. The most determined, young or old, audacious or timid, find themselves powerless to resist her, for when the fatal fascination creeps upon them she engages their brain, saps their spirit, holds captive their senses, breaks asunder their resolutions, and lures them to their ruin. She is indeed an enchantress infernal.

The jingle and chatter jarred upon his unstrung nerves. For a moment he stood nauseated, half-dazed by the thousand memories, hideous spectres of a guilty past, that crowded upon him.

But again he walked forward blindly, on past several of the tables encircled by their hot, eager crowds, until he came to the Moorish room. As he was passing a man rose wearily from the roulette-table with a roll of notes in his hand, and instantly he took his chair. He cast a furtive glance around the circle of faces, pale beneath the green-shaded oil lamps suspended from the long brass chains. The emotions of hope, disgust, anxiety, or greed were displayed on each of the perspiring countenances ranged around that table. Next him was a beautiful woman well-known in Riviera society, winning, and therefore a little excited, her cheeks burning with two bright spots, her eyes shining like lamps; and she looked like a girl as she now and then heaved a deep sigh. Next her a blotchy-faced man, smelling strongly of rank cigars, was playing and losing heavily, his countenance betraying nothing more than a half-hearted smile, while opposite a staid matron made room for her daughter, and handed her money to put on, believing, as so many believe, that innocence is a kind of “mascot.”

He lowered his gaze. The deathly pallor of his own cheeks had attracted notice. It seemed as though these people, many of them personally known to him, held him in suspicion.

He paused in hesitation, holding his breath the while, trying to calm the wild tumultuous throbbing of his heart.

“Messieurs, faites vos jeux!”

The red and black disc in the centre of the table was revolving, the money was already placed within the squares, and the little ivory ball had already been launched when, with sudden resolve, he drew from his pocket a louis and tossed it carelessly upon the scarlet diamond.

“Gain, I fly!” he murmured to himself. “Lose, I remain.”

In flinging the coin his hand had lost its deftness, for instead of falling flat, it fell upon its edge and rolled from the “red” over the line into the “impair.”

At that instant sounded the monotonous wearying cry,—

“Rien ne va plus!”

Then there was a moment’s hush, the ball fell with a click into its socket, and the croupier’s rake came swiftly before his fevered eyes and swept away the coin he had staked.

He had lost, and would remain.

Glancing round, his lips curled in a bitter smile; at the same moment, however, he placed his trembling hand to his mouth, as if to stifle an imprecation.

Glaring, rigid and desperate he sat, his dark eyes, the eyes that had been so admired by the women, fixed upon the ever-revolving disc of black and red now holding him in fascination. Suddenly, as another game was being played, a spasm of excruciating pain caused him to clap both hands to his brow and utter a low groan. It was the gasp of a dying man, but amid the terrible excitement of play it passed unnoticed, and none dreamed the truth until a moment or two later when, with a wild, despairing shriek which rang through the hot gilded rooms and caused an instant’s hush, he half-rose from his chair and fell forward upon the table lifeless, scattering the gold, silver and notes staked by the players, and causing a terrible scene of alarm and confusion.

His heart had always been weak, and the sudden excitement of play had caused a rupture which had proved fatal.

Such was the official account of the affair given in the papers, for the administration of the Casino were careful not to let the public know that in the dead man’s pocket was found a tiny bottle labelled “Quinine,” containing several white tabloids which, on analysis, were found to be of strychnine.

Nevertheless, it is not surprising that the public remained in ignorance of this last-mentioned fact, when it is remembered that the Administration of the Cercle des Etrangers spends some hundreds of thousands of francs annually among the journals and journalists in order to conceal the many suicides which take place in their world-famous combination of paradise and hell.