The Temptress

“Of course I do. And I repeat that, in consideration of your preserving silence regarding my past I am ready to do what I have told you. If not, there is but one alternative, as I have already explained – imprisonment and ruin. It is for you to decide.”

This suggestion, the desperate device of a crafty woman, presented matters in a different light. It appeared to him that, after all, if she married Hugh she might reform and become an honest woman, while he himself would, by accepting her terms, render his own position secure. The proposal, he reflected, was one that required careful consideration, for he could not dispute the fact that he really feared her. He knew she could wreck his life.

“What is your answer?” she asked, watching his thoughtful face narrowly, and noticing with satisfaction his perplexity.

“I cannot give one now. I must think,” he replied.

“Very well. Think well over the matter and its consequences before acting rashly. I fancy you will come to the same conclusion as myself – that a policy of silence is wisest.” Turning to the young man beside her, she said, “Come, Pierre, we will return and leave him to his solitary reflection.”

Rouillier laughed at the other’s discomfiture, and turned upon his heel.

“Bon jour, monsieur,” she said, addressing the artist, making a stiff curtsey, which he acknowledged with an impatient gesture.

Then she joined her companion, and they retraced their steps through the fir plantation towards the drowsy little town.

“Your nerve and ingenuity are really marvellous, Valérie,” exclaimed Pierre enthusiastically, when they were out of hearing. “I should never have thought of such a scheme. We have got out of an ugly situation very neatly indeed.”

“Yes,” replied she confidently. “Qu’il fasse ce qu’il lui plaira. He’s afraid to utter a word to Hugh.”

And they both laughed gaily.

Chapter Eighteen

Lips Forsworn

The great ballroom of the Casino at Spa was filled with a cosmopolitan well-dressed crowd, who glided over its polished floor to the strain of a seductive waltz. The huge salon, with its white and gold decorations, its glittering chandeliers, its carved pilasters, and its enormous mirrors, was brightly lit, and presented a gay, dazzling appearance, the showy dresses of the women lending additional colour and animation to the scene of gay revelry.

Amid the ever-shifting crowd Valérie and Hugh, both excellent dancers, whirled lightly around, the smiling faces of both denoting perfect happiness.

Her evening gown, of pale pink filmy gauze, that bore the unmistakable stamp of the Rue de la Paix, suited her admirably, trimmed as it was in daring contrast, that upon a less handsome woman would have been voted hideous. Her diamond necklet sparkled and flashed under the glare of electricity, and this – although really only paste – was regarded with envious eyes by more than one woman in the room. As she leaned lightly upon the arm of the wealthy young Englishman, he thought he had never seen her beauty shown to greater advantage, and could not refrain from expressing his admiration in terms of flattery.

Although one of the most engaging little corners of Europe is assuredly the well-wooded, umbrageous dell in which nestles pleasantly the antique and old-fashioned watering-place, yet it cannot be denied that Spa itself has lost much of the gaiety and flaring splendour which characterised it in the wild gaming days of the past. In the Salle Levoz, where the gilding is faded and the hangings ragged, lords, dukes, and seigneurs of Louis XIV’s time, junketed, gave their fêtes, and danced minuets; while in the disused Vauxhall the older glories of balls, ridottos, and gambling went on night after night during the last century. But nowadays Monte Carlo attracts the knight of industry and the systematic gambler. Nevertheless, Spa remains pleasant and pastoral, notwithstanding the existence of survivals that speak mutely of its departed grandeur.

It is essentially picturesque, with its miniature Place, its imposing Pouhon, or “pump room,” its gay Casino, its luxurious Etablissement, its glaring Hôtel de Flandre, its “Orange,” and other pleasant houses of entertainment. Close by are the charming promenades under thickly planted rows of trees, quaintly termed the “Seven-o’clock” and “Four-o’clock” walks. Here crowds of visitors languidly wander, sit under the trees, or halt in groups listening to the music from the bands in the kiosks.

Spa is still popular with all classes of visitors, from the English nobility to the shopkeeping element of Louvain, Brussels, and other contiguous towns; and the administration of the Casino appear untiring in their efforts to provide them with amusement in the form of fêtes, dramatic performances, concerts, balls, and other means of enjoyment and dissipation.

It was at one of the latter entertainments that Valérie and Hugh were amusing themselves, she having introduced him to Adolphe Chavoix.

When the dance concluded they strolled together through the wide corridor hung with pictures, crossed the reading-room, and walked out upon the balcony overlooking the Place Pierre-le-Grand, where they found the pseudo-Comte Chaulin-Servinière leaning upon the balustrade, smoking.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, as they advanced, “you, too, are tired of that close atmosphere. Faugh! I found it stifling.”

“You don’t dance, M’sieur le Comte, and therefore can’t enjoy it,” replied Valérie mischievously.

“Well, well, perhaps that’s so,” he replied. “But, by the way,” he continued, turning to Hugh, “why don’t you try your luck at the tables?”

“Oh yes, Hugh,” said Valérie, as if suddenly struck by the excellence of the suggestion; “let’s have a few games. It would be a pleasant change. Shall we?”

“I’ve no objection,” Trethowen answered.

“I should scarcely think you had, considering how lucky you were when you played with me at the Cercle du Hainaut,” remarked Victor, laughing.

“Fortune always favours the novice,” Hugh declared.

“Then let’s hope it will favour you again to-night. Come along,” urged Valérie.

When the trio entered the salle de jeu a few minutes later, they found the tables crowded with players indulging in some innocent games of chance. Play is never high at Spa nowadays.

The room was neither large nor luxurious. A few busts stood upon pedestals around the mirrored walls, the card-tables were ranged down the side, and at the further end was a chemin de fer, which proved the chief source of attraction to the less venturesome. The incessant tick-tack of the tiny train and the jingling of money, mingled with the hum of voices, peals of exultant laughter, and staccato curses, produced an almost deafening din.

After wandering about the room for a few minutes, and watching the chemin de fer, they found a baccarat table in the opposite corner. Hugh seated himself upon the right hand of the banker, while Victor sat upon the left. Valérie “punting” right and left indifferently.

For about half an hour they played, staking small sums, which the bank almost invariably annexed, tirage à cinq cropped up, and discussions ensued upon it. This question always divides baccarat players into two camps. There are some who, when holding five as the total of pips on the cards in their hands, will ask for a third card, while others will not. This dispute, which is of constant occurrence, has exercised the mind of almost every one who has tempted fortune on the tapis vert. Yet, after all, it is a curious one, for if one considers the matter it will be seen that the chances of improving or reducing one’s total by taking a third card are extremely doubtful. Gamblers, however, who believe in their good fortune, usually draw at five because they believe that one of the good chances will come in their way.

This was the course adopted by Hugh in one of the rounds. Up to that time he had been unlucky, and lost about two hundred francs; but, seeing that the count, who was an inveterate gambler, called for a third card, he did the same, with the result that he won back the sum he had lost, together with an additional hundred francs.

In several succeeding hands he adopted the same course, and although he was not successful every time, nevertheless he found he was not losing. As for his fair companion, she was apparently very unfortunate. Once or twice she won, but in the majority of cases she was compelled to pay. Victor played mechanically. He also lost, and the bank frequently raked in increasing piles of gold and limp, crumpled notes.

After they had played for an hour Valérie declared her inability to continue, owing to want of funds. Hugh offered to lend her a few louis, which she firmly declined to accept, and rose. He also got up, and, leaving Victor at the table, they descended to the large hall, where they seated themselves at one of the little tables, and ordered some wine. To Hugh the result of the play had not been unsatisfactory, inasmuch as he found on counting his winnings that they amounted to nearly two hundred francs.

“I’m passionately fond of baccarat,” Valérie remarked, as they sat opposite one another, chatting and laughing. “It’s so long since I played that I had almost forgotten the game. Had I had any more money in my purse to-night, I should most probably have staked it. Gambling, unfortunately, is one of my weaknesses.”

“Why not accept some from me, and return? You might perhaps break the bank,” he suggested, smiling.

“Ah no,” she replied; “I don’t care to play publicly. It is the same here as at Monte Carlo – the tables are patronised by déclassé women and half-tipsy men. Women who play in a place like this earn a bad name. I would rather play at the hotel. Adolphe will return presently, – he’s an awfully nice fellow, the son of a silk manufacturer in Lyons, – and we could form a nice little quartette among ourselves. What do you say?”

“I’m quite agreeable,” he replied. “You know, I alway obey your wishes.”

She looked into his eyes affectionately, and uttered a few endearing words in a low tone that could not be overheard.

Presently they got up, went arm-in-arm up the grand staircase, and re-entered the salle de jeu. The count was no longer there, but they soon discovered him standing in his former position on the balcony, indulging in a smoke under the stars. He had lost, he said; his luck had forsaken him after Valérie had left the table.

Then they told him of the suggestion to play at the hotel – a proposition to which he immediately acquiesced.

Hugh Trethowen, truth to tell, cared very little about games of chance, but for the amusement of his idol he was prepared to make any sacrifice.

An hour before midnight the four assembled in a private sitting-room at the Hôtel de l’Europe. Pierre Rouillier – or Adolphe Chavoix, as he was now called by his fellow-adventurers – had procured a piece of billiard chalk, and marked the table at which they were to play. The heavy curtains of the windows overlooking the street were drawn, and over the gas lamp was a lace shade which caused a soft, subdued light to fall upon the table, while opposite the windows was a large mirror reaching from the wainscot to the ceiling.

“Who’ll be banker?” asked Adolphe, as they seated themselves.

“Why, Hugh, of course,” replied the count. “He’s had all the luck to-night. Come, m’sieur, sit over there, and start the bank with your winnings,” he added, addressing Hugh.

“Ah, my dear Count, I expect my luck will change,” laughed Trethowen good-humouredly.

And, placing a chair for Valérie by his side, he took the seat indicated. He was not a practised card-player, neither did any apprehension of dishonest dealing cross his mind.

The game, he thought, was one of mere chance, and his opponents were just as liable to lose as himself. So he commenced by making a bank, and shuffling and dealing the cards.