Terence O'Rourke/Part 1/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II
HE IS "CHEZ PAZ"
The house of Paz fronts upon the Boulevard Rochechouart—which is not the worst street in Paris, morally, though near it—and wears the dismayed, ingenuous expression of a perfectly innocent house which suddenly finds itself rooted in a neighborhood which is—well, not perfectly innocent. In other words, the house managed by Monsieur Paz is something of a hypocrite among houses; in sober reality it is no better than it ought to be, or even not so good.
A high, pale yellow façade is broken by orderly rows of windows that are always blank and sleepy-looking; never is a light visible from within, and for a very good reason: they are fitted with an ingenious device which allows for ventilation, but does not permit a single ray of light to escape to the street.
It was somewhat after eight o'clock in the evening that O'Rourke approached, having traversed the width of Paris in order to reach the place.
In previous, more prosperous days he had known the house of Paz rather intimately—too well, at times, for the good of his own interests. But of late, in his lowly estate, he had neither cared nor dared to pass its portals; which are not for the impecunious.
At present, however, he had a use for it, and was relying both upon his former acquaintance therein and his generally affluent appearance to procure for him admittance to its charmed precincts—something none too easy to a stranger without credentials.
He neared it, I say, and with some trepidation, becoming to a man of emotions who is going to stake his all on a single throw,—which was what O'Rourke proposed to do,—eying the exterior aspect of the place with a wonder as to what changes might have occurred within, in the few years that he had been a stranger to its walls.
While yet some distance away he observed the door opening with circumspection. For a single second the figure of a departing patron was outlined in the light; then the doors swung to, swiftly and noiselessly.
O'Rourke remarked, without great interest, that it was a young man who was leaving so early in the night; a man who stood hesitant at the foot of the steps, glancing up and down the street irresolutely, as one who knows not whither to go.
In a moment, however, he seemed to have made up his mind, and started off toward O'Rourke, walking briskly, but without any spring in his step, holding his head high, his shoulders back. There was a suggestion of the military in his bearing.
As he passed, O'Rourke noted the tightly compressed lips, the hopeless, lack-luster eyes of the man.
"Cleaned out—poor chap!" he sympathized.
Simultaneously the doors open again, briefly; a second man emerged, ran hastily down the steps, and started up the street as though in pursuit of the first.
This man was of an uncommon and distinguished appearance; large and heavily built, yet lithe and active; with a fat-cheeked face, bearded sparsely; thick lips showing red through the dark hair; a thin, chiseled nose, set between eyes pouched, yet bright and kindly, the whole surmounted by a forehead high and well modeled—a type of Gallic intellectuality, in short.
He swung past the Irishman hurriedly, intent upon his chase, but favored him with a searching scrutiny—which O'Rourke returned with composure, if not with impudent interest.
But the evening was yet young, and there was nothing in the encounter to particularly engage his fancy; he dismissed it from his mind, and turned into the house of Paz.
He knocked peculiarly: the familiar signal of old. A minute passed, and then a panel in the door slid back, exposing a small grating, behind which was the withered face of the concierge, with a background of dim, religious light.
"O'Rourke," announced the Irishman, languidly, turning his face to the window for identification.
That was scarcely needed. His name was a magic one; the concierge knew, and had a welcome for one who had been so liberal in the matter of gratuities in days gone by. The doors swung wide.
"M'sieur le Colonel O'Rourke!" murmured the concierge, bowing respectfully.
O'Rourke returned the greeting and passed in, with the guilty feeling of a trespasser. He disposed of his inverness and hat, and ascended the stairway directly to the second floor.
Here was one huge room, in floor space the width and depth of the building, infinitely gorgeous in decoration, shimmering with light reflected from gold leaf, from polished wood and marble.
Around the walls were chairs and small refreshment tables; the floor was covered with rugs of heavy pile, well-nigh invaluable, the walls with paintings of note and distinction. Beyond reasonable doubt Monsieur Paz was prosperous, who could provide such a salle for the entertainment of his patrons.
But in the center of the room was the main attraction—that lodestone which drew the interest of the initiated with a fascination as irresistible as the magnetic pole holds for the needle: an enormous table topped with green cloth whereon was limned a diagram of many numbered spaces and colors.
And in the center of the table, under the electric chandelier, was a sunken basin of ebony, at whose bottom was a wheel of thirty-seven sections, alternately red and black, each numbered from o to 36: the roulette wheel.
O'Rourke slid unostentatiously into a vacant seat at the extreme end of the table. A man at his elbow looked up with passing curiosity, but immediately averted his gaze;, otherwise the Irishman attracted no attention. For a few minutes he sat idle, watching the play, the players, the croupier presiding over the wheel—a figure that fascinated his; imagination: a man vulture-like with his frigid impassivity, mathematically marvelous in the swiftness, the unerring, accuracy of his mental computations as he paid out the winnings or raked in the losings.
He stood, imperturbable, watching the board with vigilant, tired eyes, his bald head shining like glass under the sagging electric sunburst. From time to time he opened his wicked old mouth, and croaked dismally the winning number and color, whether odd or even. Followed the ring of coin and the monotonous injunction:
"Messieurs, faites vos jeux!"
The salle was very still, save for the sound of the spinning ivory ball, the click of the wheel, the cries of the croupier. To O'Rourke, new from the freshness of the spring air, the atmosphere was stifling and depressing—hot, fetid, lifeless though charged with the hopes and fears of those absorbed men who clustered around the board, sowing its painted face with coin and bills, hanging breathlessly on the words of the croupier, as he relentlessly garnered the harvest of lost illusions.
The Irishman was not yet ready to bet, having counted on the room being more crowded, forgetful of the early hour. He had but one play to make, the lowest the house permitted—five francs,—and it was so insignificant a sum that the man felt some embarrassment about offering it, fearing that it might attract sneering comment. In a crowd it might have passed, especially if he lost—as, in all likelihood, he would.
He summoned an attendant and ordered a cigar—"on the house"—to make time; and while he was waiting, eyed the man opposite him, at the farther end of the table.
The latter was young, weary and worried, if his facial expression went for aught; he played feverishly, scattering gold pieces over the cloth—as often as not, probably, betting against himself. His face was flushed, for he had been drinking more than could have been good for his judgment; and O'Rourke fancied he recognized in him the youthful lieutenant of a cavalry troop then quartered near Paris.
Abruptly a man flung into the room, as if in anger; at the door he paused to collect himself, scanning each player narrowly, and finally chose a seat near the lieutenant.
"Hello!" thought O'Rourke. "So you're back so soon! I wonder—well, none of me business, I suppose."
It was the man with the beard whom he had noticed leaving the gambling house in such apparent haste, and not so very long since.
The attendant returning with the cigar, the Irishman lit it leisurely, and sat puffing with an enjoyment heightened by the fact that he had been deprived of the luxury of cigars for some weeks.
Presently he turned his attention to the board, and acted a little farce for his own self-satisfaction.
With the air of a man of means, who merely desires to while away an idle hour—win or lose—O'Rourke thrust his hand into his breast pocket and produced a small wallet, tolerably plump and opulent-looking—a result due to ingenious stuffing with paper of no value.
He weighed it in his palm, seeming to debate with himself, then deliberately returned it to the pocket. His manner spoke plainly to the observer—were there one: "No; I'll risk but a trifle of change."
Abstractedly he thrust his fingers into his waistcoat pocket and brought out the said change; to his utter surprise it turned out to be no more than five silver francs!
But finally he made up his mind to play that utterly insignificant sum.
At that moment the ball rattled, was silent. There was an instant's strained silence. The wheel stopped.
"Vingt-quatre," remarked the dispassionate croupier; "noir, pair et passe!"
He poised his rake, overlooking the great board.
The young lieutenant arose suddenly, knocking over his chair; he stood swaying for a moment, his fingers beating a nervous tattoo upon the edge of the board; he was pale, his face hollow-seeming and hopeless in the strong illumination. Others looked at him incuriously. He put his hand to his lips, almost apologetically, essayed what might have been intended for a defiant smile, turned, and moved uncertainly toward the staircase as one who gropes his way in darkness—a ruined man.
"Messieurs, jaites vos jeux!"
O'Rourke hardly heard the words; he was wondering at the bearded man, who was prompt in following the defeated gamester.
"Like to know what's your game," muttered O'Rourke. Simultaneously, without actually thinking what he was doing, he placed his five francs on the cloth. "When he looked he saw that they stood upon the nearest space, the 36. He puckered his lips together, thinking what a pitiful little pile they made.
"'Tis the fool I am!" he admitted, wishing that he might withdraw. But the ball merely mocked him, as the wheel slackened speed, with its "whrr-rup-tup-tup!"
"A fool—" he began again.
But it seemed that he had won!
"'Tis not true!" he cried exultantly, yet almost incredulous. But he accepted the one hundred and eighty francs without a murmur, cast them recklessly upon the black, and multiplied the sum by two, and by blind luck. Then, with his heart in his mouth—it was all or nothing with him now—he allowed his winnings to remain upon the black; which again came up, making seven hundred and twenty francs to his credit.
"'Tis outrageous," he insisted gaily. "Will I be making it, now?"
Fifteen hundred francs was the mark he had set himself to attain; that much he needed to carry him to Panama; it was to be that or nothing at all. He divided his winnings, reserving half, scattering the remainder about the numbers, hope high in his heart.
He lost. He played and won again. And again. He reached the mark, passed it, asked himself if he should not stop, now, when the gods were favoring him. …
He need not have asked; by no means could he have stopped; for the gambling fever was as fire in his veins. He played on, and on, and on. He won fabulously, with few reverses; lived for a time in a heaven of wealth, upborne by the fluttering, golden wings of chance—and, at length, awoke as from a dream, to find himself staring at an empty spot on the board before him—the place where temporarily his riches had rested ere they took unto themselves wings and vanished.
Not a single franc remained to him. He had lost.
"Gone?" he muttered blankly. "Faith, I didn't think—" He became aware that he was being watched, though indifferently; in particular the man with the beard was observing him with interest, having now for a third time returned.
O'Rourke yawned nonchalantly, suddenly on his mettle; he was not willing to let them see that he cared.
"Five francs," he thought, arising; "small price for a night's entertainment. Sure, I got the worth of me money, in excitement."
He looked at the clock; to his amazement the hands in-indicated two in the morning. Now the room was half deserted, the attendants gaping discreetly behind their hands. A few earnest devotees still clustered about the table, winning or losing in a blaze of febrile haste.
The ball clattered hollowly; the tones of the croupier only were the same:
"Onze! Noir, impair et manque!" and "Messieurs, faites vos jeux!"—as though it were an epitaph,—as it too often is.
And when he left the room, O'Rourke marked that the bearded man was pushing back his chair and arising.