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.

On the left, heavy doors are constantly swinging. You can hear, if you listen, as they swing, the faint, enticing clink of the five-franc pieces within.

“Oh, my friends,” murmured Brentin, as we moved towards them, “support me!”

He presented his pink card with a low bow to the two men guarding the entrance; we followed, and the next minute were palpitating in the stifling atmosphere of the last of the European public infernos.