The Guests Of Hercules. C. N. Williamson

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СКАЧАТЬ her, felt like a spirit released from its body. She was a goddess on a pinnacle. This was life: the wine of life. It was not the money she thought of. All the gold and paper which had suddenly become hers was nothing in itself, but what it represented was victory extending over the forces of nature. This mysterious game, whose next turn none could foretell, seemed to be yielding its secret to her. She had the conviction that Something was telling her what to do, what would happen with the spin of the wheel. It would be madness and a kind of vile ingratitude to stop now, while the Something was there.

      Hearing the applause, which meant a coup of uncommon interest, people came hurrying from every direction, some even running, with a peculiar step which kept them from slipping on the polished floor. Many had learned this from long practice in running in with the early gamblers at the morning opening of the Casino, when it is "first come, first served," at the chairs.

      Those who had been watching the play at other tables, or those who had been losing, joined the rush.

      "What is she going to do now, cette petite sorcière?" was the question. Hearing it, Mary was flattered to a higher pitch of excitement and self-confidence. She must, she must do something to justify everybody's expectation. The Casino was hers, and there was no world outside—nothing but this magic place of golden light and golden coins.

      "What next?" inquired Madame d'Ambre, late mentor, now courtier.

      "I'll do whatever you do," said the brown young man, who was English or American.

      She looked at the disc as a seeress looks at a crystal. The spinner had his hand on the cross-piece of metal which turns the wheel.

      "What does that 0 mean, on the little brown square between the red and black numbers?" she asked her neighbour gravely.

      "That's what they call 'zero.' You can bet on it like any number; but when it comes, if you're not on it, all your stakes go—biff!—except on the simple chances, when you are put in 'prison,' or else you can take back half. Lots of people like zero better than anything, because they think the croupiers try to spin it, for the good of the bank. It's called l'ami de la maison."

      "How nice and friendly," said Mary. "I'll put money on zero. What's the maximum?"

      "The same as on the other numbers en plein: nine louis."

      "Then I'll have that on zero," said Mary.

      Many players followed her lead, and every one was calling out "zero" and pushing or throwing coins to the croupiers to be staked on that chance.

      "Zero!"

      Mary was paid nine times thirty-five louis, six thousand three hundred francs, and the others who, superstitiously following her lead, had risked five-franc pieces and louis on l'ami de la maison, shared her luck in different degrees.

      "Zero once more, please, Madame," said Mary to her companion.

      "But no! impossible! It will be something else."

      "Perhaps. Still—I will try."

      She was right. Zero came again, followed by louder rounds of applause. By this time the whole Casino knew what was going on. A glorified amateur, an English girl, was winning maximums on numbers again and again, in succession, at the table nearest the wall-portrait of the architect, in the Salle Schmidt. Non-players or discouraged losers bore down upon the "architect's table," running even from the distant trente-et-quarante room.

      The story sounded rather like a fairy tale, but the enormous crowd round the centre of interest, and the comparatively slack business being done at other tables, proved its truth. None of the newcomers, even the tallest, could see, but they could hear, and they could feel the thrill from the inner circle.

      "And now, Mademoiselle? What will you do? Remember, your luck can't go on forever," murmured Madame d'Ambre, anxious to divide the spoil, which might yet vanish like fairy gold.

      "I—I will take twenty-four again, and everything round it."

      Many players who had money left, and could reach to put on their stakes, also chose twenty-four. And twenty-four came up. This was historic! No one but the Grand Duke Michael and the few famous punters of the world had such persistent and consecutive luck.

      A chef de table in a high chair stood up and unobtrusively beckoned a footman hovering on the far fringe of the crowd. Three minutes later, with equal unobtrusiveness, more money was brought, lest the supply of the table should run low. Few noticed, or knew that anything unusual had happened, with the exception of the play; but Madame d'Ambre had been hoping for and expecting something of the sort.

      "They are afraid you will break the bank," she said, in a stage-whisper not meant to be wasted. Those near her who understood French glanced up quickly. Croupiers smiled and said nothing. A murmur went round the table, and flowed like the rippling circles from a stone dropped in a pond, to the crowd which ringed it in.

      "What do you mean?" asked Mary.

      "Oh, the bank does not really break! They do not even stop play in these days. But they send for more money lest it be needed. Ah, the colossal compliment!"

      The pride in Mary's heart was like a stab of pain, almost unbearable in its intensity. But suddenly, as if the current of her thought had been broken, her inspiration seemed gone. The Something was no longer there, telling her where to stake. She wished to play again, but felt at sea, without a rudder. Her unconscious vanity rebelled against risking loss at this table of which she had been the queen, the idol.

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