there was another wedding at 4.30.
“Like to go to the Casino?” I asked Cary. “We could spend, say, 1,000 francs now that everything’s arranged.”
“Let’s take a look at the port first and see if he’s come.” We walked down the steps which reminded me of Montmartre except that everything was so creamy and clean and glittering and new, instead of grey and old and historic. Everywhere you were reminded of the Casino—the bookshops sold systems in envelopes, “2,500 francs a week guaranteed”, the toyshops sold small roulette boards, the tobacconists sold ashtrays in the form of a wheel, and even in the women’s shops there were scarves patterned with figures and manque and pair and impair and rouge and noir.
There were a dozen yachts in the harbour, and three carried British flags, but not one of them was Dreuther’s Seagull. “Wouldn’t it be terrible if he’d forgotten?” Cary said.
“Miss Bullen would never let him forget. I expect he’s unloading passengers at Nice. Anyway last night you wanted him to be late.”
“Yes, but this morning it feels scary. Perhaps we oughtn’t to play in the Casino—just in case.”
“We’ll compromise,” I said. “Three hundred francs. We can’t leave Monaco without playing once.”
We hung around the cuisine for quite a while before we played. This was the serious time of day—there were no tourists and the Salle Privee was closed and only the veterans sat there. You had a feeling with all of them that their lunch depended on victory. It was long, hard, dull employment for them—a cup of coffee and then to work till lunch-time—if their system was successful and they could afford the lunch. Once Cary laughed—I forget what at, and an old man and an old woman raised their heads from opposite sides of the table and stonily stared. They were offended by our frivolity: this was no game to them. Even if the system worked, what a toil went into earning the 2,500 francs a week. With their pads and their charts they left nothing to chance, and yet over and over again chance nipped in and shovelled away their tokens.
“Darling, let’s bet.” She put all her three hundred francs on the number of her age, and crossed her fingers for luck. I was more cautious: I put one carre on the same figure, and backed noir and impair with my other two. We both lost on her age, but I won on my others.
“Have you won a fortune, darling? How terribly clever.”
“I’ve won two hundred and lost one hundred.”
“Well, buy a cup of coffee. They always say you ought to leave when you win.”
“We haven’t really won. We are down four bob.”
“You’ve won.”
Over the coffee I said, “Do you know, I think I’ll buy a system just for fun? I’d like to see just how they persuade themselves…”
“If anybody could think up a system, it should be you.”
“I can see the possibility if there were no limit to the stakes, but then you’d have to be a millionaire.”
“Darling, you won’t really think one up, will you? It’s fun pretending to be rich for two days, but it wouldn’t be fun if it were true. Look at the guests in the hotel, they are rich. Those women with lifted faces and dyed hair and awful little dogs.” She said again with one of her flashes of disquieting wisdom, “You seem to get afraid of being old when you’re rich.”
“There may be worse fears when you are poor.”
“They are ones we are used to. Darling, let’s go and look at the harbour again. It’s nearly lunch-time. Perhaps Mr Dreuther’s in sight. This place—I don’t like it terribly.”
We leant over a belvedere and looked down at the harbour—there wasn’t any change there. The sea was very blue and very still and we could hear the voice of a cox out with an eight—it came clearly over the water and up to us. Very far away, beyond the next headland, there was a white boat, smaller than a celluloid toy in a child’s bath.
“Do you think that’s Mr Dreuther?” Cary asked.
“It might be. I expect it is.”
But it wasn’t. When we came back after lunch there was no Seagull in the harbour and the boat we had seen was no longer in sight: it was somewhere on the way to Italy. Of course there was no need for anxiety: even if he failed to turn up before night, we could still get married. I said, “If he’s been held up, he’d have telegraphed.”
“Perhaps he’s simply forgotten,” Cary said.
“That’s impossible,” I said, but my mind told me that nothing was impossible with the Gom.
I said, “I think I’ll tell the hotel we’ll keep on one room—just in case.”
“The small room,” Cary said.
The receptionist was a little crass. “One room, sir?”
“Yes, one room. The small one.”
“The small one? For you and madame, sir?”
“Yes.” I had to explain. “We are being married this afternoon.”
“Congratulations, sir.”
“Mr Dreuther was to have been here.”
“We’ve had no word from Mr Dreuther, sir. He usually lets us know…We were not expecting him.”
Nor was I now, but I did not tell Cary that. This, after all, Gom or no Gom, was our wedding day. I tried to make her return to the Casino and lose a few hundred, but she said she wanted to walk on the terrace and look at the sea. It was an excuse to keep a watch for the Seagull. And of course the Seagull never came. That interview had meant nothing, Dreuther’s kindness had meant nothing, a whim had flown like a wild bird over the snowy waste of his mind, leaving no track at all. We were forgotten. I said, “It’s time to go to the Mairie.”
“We haven’t even a witness,” Cary said.
“They’ll find a couple,” I said with a confidence I did not feel.
I thought it would be gay to arrive in a horse-cab and we climbed romantically into a ramshackle vehicle outside the Casino and sat down under the off-white awning. But we’d chosen badly. The horse was all skin and bone and I had forgotten that the road was uphill. An old gentleman with an ear-appliance was being pushed down to the Casino by a middle-aged woman, and she made far better progress down than we made up. As they passed us I could hear her precise English voice. She must have been finishing a story. She said, “and so they lived unhappily ever after”; the old man chuckled and said, “Tell me that one again.” I looked at Cary and hoped she hadn’t heard but she had. “Darling,” I said, “don’t be superstitious, not today.”
“There’s a lot of sense in superstition. How do you know fate doesn’t send us messages—so that we can be prepared. Like a kind of code. I’m always inventing new ones. For instance”—she thought a moment—“it will be lucky if a confectioner’s comes before a flower shop. Watch your side.”
I did, and of course a flower shop came first. I hoped she hadn’t noticed, but “You can’t cheat fate,” she said mournfully.
The cab went slower and slower: it would have been quicker to walk. I looked at my watch: we had only ten minutes to go. I said, “You ought to have sacrificed a chicken this morning and found what omens there were in the entrails.”
“It’s all very well to laugh.” she said. “Perhaps our horoscopes don’t match.”
“You wouldn’t like to call the whole thing off, would you? Who knows? We’ll be seeing a squinting man next.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s awful.” I said to the cabby. “Please. A little faster. Plus vite”
Cary clutched my arm. “Oh,” she said.
“What’s the matter?”
“Didn’t you see him when he looked round. He’s got a squint.”
“But, Cary, I was only joking.”
“That doesn’t make any difference. Don’t you see? It’s what I said, you invent a code and fate uses it.”
I said angrily, “Well, it doesn’t make any difference. We are going to be too late anyway.”
“Too late?” She grabbed my wrist and looked at my watch. She said, “Darling, we can’t be late. Stop. Arretez. Pay him off.”
“We can’t run uphill,” I said, but she was already out of the cab and signalling wildly to every car that passed. No one took any notice. Fathers of families drove smugly by. Children pressed their noses on the glass and
