# The Lonely House (Lowndes)/Chapter 15

pp. 147–156

#### CHAPTER XV

THE moment Lily found herself alone with M. Popeau, forming part of the crowd of walkers who were all on their way to the Casino, she exclaimed, a little nervously. “Wasn't it an extraordinary coincidence that Beppo Polda should have exactly the same gold snuff-box as that which poor Mr. Ponting bought from an old woman gambler?”
“Extraordinary indeed,” answered the Frenchman drily. “I wish you'd ask him the exact date of his purchase of it, Mademoiselle.”
“I will,” said Lily. Then something prompted her to add, “I hope you like Beppo Polda? I can't quite make him out, yet he seems so very much nicer than I expected him to be.”
M. Popeau evaded her question. “I agree with you,” he said; “he is very much nicer than one would expect the son of either his father or his mother to be. Also, Mademoiselle, he is extremely, quite exceptionally, handsome.”
He looked down at her thoughtfully. “No man can ever tell,” he said; “not even the extremely foolish man who prides himself on his knowledge of the feminine heart, how far good looks influence—or don't influence—a woman when she is considering a member of my sex!”
Lily laughed, and blushed. The problem had never been put to her before.
“I suppose one can't help being rather affected by a human being's outward appearance,” she answered; then added, with a little smile on her pretty face: “At any rate, men are very much influenced by appearance, aren't they, M. Popeau?”
“I'm afraid that can't be denied! But tell me—if you don't think the question indiscreet—does a young lady ever look at a good-looking man, and long to know him? That, I need hardly tell you, is what many a man—nay, almost every man—does do at times with regard to a beautiful woman!”
“I can't imagine any nice girl feeling like that about an entire stranger,” began Lily hesitatingly.
“What a wonderful word is that English word 'nice'!” said M. Popeau reflectively. “It may mean such a very great deal, or nothing at all. It is—it is——”
“I know exactly what you mean,” exclaimed Lily. “The word 'nice' is certainly a camouflage word!”
“That's it!” cried M. Popeau, delighted. “You've put it exactly, Mademoiselle! But supposing I were to tell you—to return to what we were talking about—that there are very, very few nice girls in the world?”
“I shouldn't believe you!” cried Lily stoutly.
“Supposing I were also to tell you,” went on M. Popeau gravely, “that a great many women you would probably describe as nice do not only pick out a handsome man and feel that they would like to know him, but that they go further—that sometimes they actually make the first advances, and do strike up some kind of acquaintance with him? Supposing I were to prove that to you?”
Lily looked and felt uncomfortable. She did not quite know what to say.
“Take your cousin, Count Beppo Polda,” went on M. Popeau meditatively. “I should think that ever since he reached man's estate he has been—shall we say pursued?—by pretty ladies desiring his friendship. Any girl who marries Beppo Polda must make up her mind to endure the torments of jealousy. I suspect,” said M. Popeau, looking down into Lily's open, flushed, ingenuous, and, yes, exceedingly pretty face, “that you, Mademoiselle, are among the few happy human beings in Monte Carlo who really do not know what jealousy is?”
Lily hesitated. “It's quite true,” she said slowly; “I don't remember ever feeling jealous—not really jealous!”
M. Popeau drew a long breath. “That shows you have never been in love,” he said quietly. “But to return to Count Beppo. I happen to know that he is acquainted with one lady who very often does him the honour of being jealous of him.”
“Poor Beppo!” said Lily. “How horrid for him!” Then—for this little bit of gossip interested her very much—“Is Beppo in love, M. Popeau?”
“He has been in love for a very long time,” answered her companion gravely.
Lily felt thrilled, and yes, just a trifle disappointed.
“Do you mean,” she said, “that Beppo is engaged? If so, I'm sure his parents don't know it.”
“Engaged? Oh no”; the Frenchman looked curiously surprised. “When I said that Count Beppo Polda is in love, I mean the phrase in a general sense. He is in love with love——”
“Oh! Is that all?” Lily felt relieved.
M. Popeau went on: “The Count, for the moment, is what you call in England fancy free. Still, he is now absorbed in a very important quest—that of finding for himself a rich wife. Meanwhile he, of course, amuses himself——” he said the words in a very significant tone, and Lily blushed a deep, unbecoming blush. She felt a little indignant. She realised that M. Popeau thought that Beppo would flirt with her, and that she, Lily, would not be able to help falling in love with him!
They walked on in silence.
Hercules Popeau was a shrewd student of human nature, but this simple English girl was to him a real enigma. Was she aware, for instance, that Angus Stuart was deeply in love with her? And if the answer to this was “yes,” how did she, on her side, regard the young soldier?
He had made it his business during the last few days to find out whatever there was to be found out about Count Beppo Polda. Among his best secret agents during the war had been a Frenchwoman living in Rome. He had got in touch with her yesterday afternoon, and she had at once told him the little there was to tell about the young man. Hercules Popeau had been almost disappointed to find that, as reputations go, in that curious cosmopolitan world which has its social centre in Rome, Count Beppo Polda had by no means a bad reputation. In fact, he was popular both with men—for he was a good sportsman—and with women.
But there was a certain mystery as to how he lived. He had been brought up as an entirely idle man of pleasure. At times he spent money recklessly, and then would come an obvious period of penury, when he more or less lived with, and on, his bosom friends the Marchese and Marchesa Pescobaldi.
More than once he had been associated in some big business enterprise, but real, regular work bored him. It was now well known in Roman society that he was looking out for a rich wife. M. Popeau's informant had added that had the Count been indifferent to the appearance of the lady, he could have made more than one very wealthy marriage. But he was fastidious and over-particular. Not long ago he had very nearly become engaged to a great American-Irish heiress. But the young lady, unlike most Irish girls, had been unattractive, and at the last moment Count Beppo had drawn back.
This had been the more foolish of him because money was to Count Beppo like the air which we human beings breathe—it was a thing which he could not do without.
M. Popeau, who naturally regarded Lily as being only the niece of a fairly well-to-do British ex-civil servant, felt very uneasy.
He was seriously afraid that the good-looking Italian, taken as he obviously was with the girl's innocent charm and beauty, would make violent love to her and then ride away—as men of his type are doing every day all the world over.
To a Frenchman there could be no comparison between Angus Stuart and Beppo Polda. Polda was a fascinating man knowing all the turns of the great game of love, Stuart simply an honest, straightforward, fine-natured young soldier. He longed to warn the girl more explicitly of the danger she was running. He told himself that perhaps it would be wiser to do so a little later on.
“I understand,” he said, “that Count Beppo is staying in Monte Carlo for some time?”
“That is what the Countess hoped,” answered Lily, a little coldly. “But he spoke last night as if he could only stay a few days.”
She still felt very ruffled. Fond though she was of M. Popeau, she did not intend to allow him to give her hints as to how to behave herself with a young man.
“I'm glad to hear that,” exclaimed the Frenchman, and there was indeed a tone of hearty relief and surprise in his voice.
“As for me, I'm sorry he's going so soon! Lily exclaimed. “I like Beppo! I think he and I are going to be great friends.”
They were now close to the steps of the Casino. Angus Stuart came up to them, an eager look on his face:
“May I join you?” he asked, with the touch of old-fashioned courtesy which M. Popeau found so pleasant in the young man.
“Of course, of course, dear friend! You shall come and assist me in initiating Mademoiselle in the joys of play!” He turned to Lily. “How much money have you got with you?”
Lily opened her bag and counted. “Forty francs,” she said.
“Well, that is exactly right. It will not ruin you to offer up that tribute to the Goddess of Chance. On the other hand, it will be pleasant if the forty francs become a hundred or two hundred francs!”
“That would be very nice indeed,” confessed the girl, smiling.
She was astonished to find how intensely conscious she was of Angus Stuart's quiet presence by her side. She longed—which was not very grateful of her—for M. Popeau to move away, and leave them alone together. They hadn't met for two whole days, and she suddenly felt what a long time it had seemed.
The pillared hall or atrium of the Casino was full of a motley crowd of people, and Lily began to take eager notice of the amusing scene before her. Beppo had been quite right—all colours and all types of humanity were represented in the moving mass of men and women now gathered together in this, the splendid palace of the Goddess of Chance.
“I will see to your admission card. Have you anything you desire to leave in the way of a cloak or a parasol?”
She hesitated. “Yes, I think I will leave my parasol,” she said.
Angus Stuart accompanied her to the counter, where a gorgeous-looking flunkey took her parasol and gave her a voucher.
“I feel so excited!” she exclaimed, looking up at her companion.
He said in a low tone, “Have you had——” and then checked himself sharply, for M. Popeau had come up to them.
“Come along!” cried the Frenchman. “This is a great moment in your life!”
He spoke half-seriously, half with a touch of good-natured banter in his voice.
Drawing a deep breath of excited anticipation, the girl passed through into the historic rooms which have seen so many dramas silently enacted—for not once in a thousand days is there anything in the shape of a “scene” in the still, golden-haze atmosphere of the Temple of Chance.
Though it was early, there was a crowd round each of the roulette tables, and for a moment Lily only noticed the curious-looking people composing the crowd. Then, gradually, she began to see the table, the more so that her two companions were quietly shepherding her to a good place, close behind one of the croupiers.
At first the girl felt as if she would never understand the complicated game; and then gradually she began to see the relation between the plan or tableau, divided off with yellow lines into squares, and the complicated giant yet toy-like wheel which was sunk in the centre of the long, comparatively narrow table.
“And now,” said 'M. Popeau, “would you like to stake what is equivalent to a five-franc piece on a number? What number will you choose?”
“If I were you,” said Angus Stuart, “I should back twelve numbers. If you put your money on only one number you've thirty-five chances against you.”
Lily hesitated. “Yes, do as he advises,” said M. Popeau good-naturedly.
And so Lily, guided by the Frenchman, put her small coloured counters on the middle dozen; thus she covered the numbers 13 to 24.
The croupier behind whom Lily was standing gave the huge wheel a powerful twist, then he flung a little ball into the revolving disc. It spun round and round, jumping about as if possessed by the spirit of motion. Then, at last, the great disc began to slow down. A croupier called out, “Rien ne va plus!” The ball leapt into one of the red and black pockets (each of which bears a corresponding number to one marked on the plan), and the wheel ceased to revolve. Something was shouted out, and then Lily saw with surprise and joy two other five-franc counters joined to her stake. She looked round at her two companions.
“Pick your money up,” said Angus Stuart quickly, “or someone else will get it!”
Sure enough, as she put out her hand hesitatingly, another hand—a big, rather dirty-looking man's hand—took up her three counters.
“That money belongs to Mademoiselle!” called out M. Popeau angrily.
There came a murmured “I beg your pardon; I made a mistake!” and the counters were dropped.
Lily picked them up, feeling happy, and a little confused.
“You might let her put on an en plein now,” pleaded M. Popeau with Captain Stuart.
“Very well.” The Scotsman's voice was reluctant and hesitating. “Put a five-franc counter on any number you like. You're sure to lose it!”
In spite of his discouraging remark, Lily put her counter on number twenty-one.
“If I were you,” said Captain Stuart suddenly, “I should also put one on zero. That will give you two chances out of thirty-five.”
She obeyed him.
Once more the ball was flung into the middle of the revolving disc, once more it leapt about this way and that. And then, at last, after an extraordinary number of revolutions, it settled down into a pocket, and Lily heard a murmur of sharp disappointment run round the table.
“You've won!” exclaimed Captain Stuart in an excited voice. “Zero has turned up! You've won—let me see—seven pounds, Miss Fairfield! Isn't that splendid?”
Lily felt very much pleased. She had been the only person to put anything on zero; accordingly, envious, congratulatory glances were cast on her from all parts of the table.
“I wouldn't play any more to-day if I were you,” whispered Captain Stuart. And again she obeyed him, stuffing all the money she had won anyhow into her pretty little bag.
And now M. Popeau began to play. The other two watched him—Angus Stuart with amusement, Lily with great curiosity.
“He always plays the same cautious game, for all he's so fond of advising other people to put on full on one number!” whispered the young man in the girl's little ear.
For a while Lily could not imagine what game M. Popeau was playing. He put the equivalent of thirty francs on the space marked passe and that of twenty francs on the first dozen. It looked to Lily as if he won every time—won, that is, something, somewhere. She couldn't make it out!
“How does he do it?” she asked, puzzled. It was to her so strange that everybody didn't play like Papa Popeau if he won every time.
“You see, he covers nearly the whole of the board,” muttered Captain Stuart. “He only loses right out when six numbers turn up out of the thirty-five. Even when zero comes he doesn't lose everything, for the money he has on passe is only 'put into prison,' as they call it. Yes, it's an ingenious system, and I often wonder more people don't play it. Of course, if you go on long eonugh, you're bound to lose—even at Popeau's game.”
By this time the Frenchman was absorbed in his system, and the two young people moved just a little way away from the table. Their friend glanced up to see where they were, and then went on playing.
Lily was looking about her now with great amusement and curiosity. She felt in a happy mood. It was delightful to have won all that money—and so easily! It was very pleasant also to be with Angus Stuart. It seemed a long time since they had parted two days ago, he gripping her hand hard under the smiling eyes of the cab-driver.
“I should so like to come here in the evenings,” she exclaimed.
“The Club's the place to see in the evening,” he answered quickly.
Anyone watching the two would have seen that they were in very different moods. Lily looked radiant. She was certainly the prettiest, as well as the best-dressed, girl in the rooms at that particular moment. As for her companion, a look of doubt, of discomfort, of suspense was on his face. But she was quite unaware of it. She prattled gaily on, excited and interested by all she saw. Even when two stout women pushed so roughly past her as almost to make her lose her balance she only laughed.
At last, as they saw M. Popeau detach himself from the table and began his ambling walk towards them, a satisfied air on his fat, placid face, Angus Stuart suddenly whispered, “I suppose you got my letter all right, Miss Fairfield?”
“Your letter? No! I've had no letter from you since the last one you wrote to me from Milan.”
“I wrote to you the day before yesterday evening!” he exclaimed under his breath. And then, straightening himself, remarked with an air of rather elaborate unconcern, “Well, Popeau, how goes it? Have you broken the bank?”
“I have not broken the bank, but I have made two hundred francs!” replied the Frenchman gaily. “And that, after all, is not bad! At one moment I had made a good deal more, but alas! twice number fifteen turned up and swept away a hundred francs of my winnings. I was very foolish not to leave off—as Mademoiselle so wisely did.”
And then something very untoward happened. Lily suddenly discovered that her charming little bag and its contents had disappeared. The silk cords by which it had hung loosely on her right arm were still there, dangling helplessly.
She looked about her, bewildered and chagrined.
“It must have been taken by one of the women who pushed past you just now,” exclaimed Captain Stuart.
“I'll try and not think any more about it. After all, I've only really lost forty francs,” said Lily vexedly.