“Whereupon the Almighty leaves His seat, dear Herr von Wenk, saying, ‘My creation has surpassed Me; I take My leave!’ ”
The conversation continued in this tone for awhile, and an hour later Wenk took his leave. He felt depressed as he drove home, but he had hardly sat down to dinner when a note was brought him, and he read:
Dear Herr von Wenk,
I am sorry that our meeting today fell out differently from the one we had planned. That is not why I am writing to you, however, for we can continue our conversation in another place and at another time. But you may have left our house under the impression that my husband was “nothing but a fool,” and in his wife’s eyes too, and that would have been my fault, so I want to entreat you not to allow yourself to take up a depreciatory attitude. It is true that the Count buys Futurist pictures, but that must be understood more or less symbolically. I have always found that the more “foolish” a man appeared at one’s first encounter with him, the more approachable he became when one met him in his more serious moments.
Au revoir … but when, and where?
“So Lucy is her name? And indeed she is rightly called Light. If she were my light of life! … Oh, what a fool I am,” said he, as he felt an unaccustomed warmth steal over him—a warmth for which he always yearned. … Then he stood up, shaking off these delicious tremors, and saying sternly to himself, “This is a pretty way to reach a criminal … through falling in love with a beautiful woman.”
The telephone rang: “Hull speaking!”
Hull told him that a new gaming-house had been opened, and he really must visit it. The saloon was not only arranged to accommodate a large number of people, at least a hundred, but it had certain mechanical contrivances which could turn it into a music-hall if the police were to appear. He did not know how it was done, but Cara had written to him about it and she was always au courant of any new sensation of this kind. They were going there, and taking Karstens with them, but Hull did not know the address of this place, and they would trust to Cara’s guidance. Of course, she knew nothing about his writing to Wenk.
A rendezvous was arranged, and at ten o’clock Wenk drove to the Café Bastin, whence they were to set out.
VII
The house they entered lay on the border of the inner city, in one of the mean, sordid streets leading to Schwabing. Its outward appearance, like its neighbours’, showed an unimposing façade. It was one of those shops having lodgings above, and the sliding shutters over the shop were drawn to the ground. It was too dark to read the name, but Wenk noticed the number, that of his birth-year—’76.
They entered a dirty stairway in which hung a dusty globe, which gave an indifferent light to the changing population who inhabited such houses as these, and then ascended two flights of stairs. A heavy door opened before them, and in a corridor at the side a light shone out over the miserable staircase. The corridor ran alongside the staircase; it was completely empty: a cheap and shabby black and white drugget ran throughout its length, and its walls were covered with faded paper-hangings.
“This is lively,” said Cara, “but just wait a moment!”
Then a small door opened from the corridor and a light streamed forth into the gloomy darkness. They looked upon a swelter of luxury. There was a little foyer with cushions and curtains, cloakroom accommodation, little restaurant tables, etc. There was the odour of prepared foods and the popping of champagne corks. People they did not know were sitting there. The visitors laid aside hats and coats and went through into the restaurant.
Yes, there things looked different. On entry, the place recalled the promenade of a well-known Théâtre de Variétés in Paris. Through little peepholes or from the boxes one could see a smooth surface gleaming with light. This was the gaming-table, and it was of immense size. In the middle there was a circular opening in which was placed a large revolving chair. It was the seat for the croupier. Around the table the places for the players were arranged like boxes. Every box—there were some single ones, some for two and some for four persons—lay shut off from the rest and in darkness, and all were furnished with comfortable seats. People could be entirely separated from each other by a curtain, and a grating, like those of the Parisian theatres, could be drawn at will. The players might gamble there as securely as if masked, and, without being recognized or even seen, could indulge their passion for the tables.
Two miniature rails led from each seat to the croupier, and upon these stood a little truck. This was to carry the stakes down and later bring the winnings back. The sum was made known by sliding numbers displayed on a board. The pressure of a button sent each vehicle to its destined spot.
On the dome above the table, in the circle formed by the boxes, were the petits chevaux in varied colours. The little brass horses had been carved by a Cubist, and painted in their various colours with highly glazed enamel. They were set in motion by a crank turned by the croupier. In the middle, beneath the horses, there hung a little searchlight which, lighted from below, reflected light upon the dome, and in this light they ran with the dome as a background. This was painted in the colours of the spectrum arranged alternately, so that there was always a dark horse against a light colour and a
