The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume II

CHAPTER XIX. THE CURSAAL

The attempt to accommodate a company to which the house was unsuited would have been a source of painful annoyance to most men. To Peter Dalton it was unqualified pleasure. The subversion of all previous arrangements, the total change in the whole order of domesticity, were his delight The changing of rooms, the being sent to sleep in strange and inconvenient corners, the hurry-scurry endeavors to find a substitute for this or a representative for that, the ingenious devices to conceal a want or to supply a deficiency, afforded him the most lively amusement; and he went about rubbing his hands, and muttering that it did his heart good. It was “so like Mount Dalton when he was a boy.”

All Mrs. Ricketts’s softest blandishments were so many charms clean thrown away. His thoughts were centred on himself and his own amiable qualities, and he revelled in the notion that the world did not contain another as truly generous and hospitable as Peter Dalton. In accordance with the singular contradictions of which his character was made up, he was willing to incur every sacrifice of personal inconvenience, if it only served to astonish some one, or excite a sensation of surprise at his good-nature; and while all Nelly’s efforts were to conceal the inconveniences these hospitalities inflicted, Peter was never satisfied except when the display could reflect honor on himself, and exact a tribute of flattery from his guests. Nor was he all this time in ignorance of Mrs. Ricketts’s character. With native shrewdness be had at once detected her as an “old soldier.” He saw the practised readiness of her compliance with everything; he saw the spirit of accommodation in which she met every plan or project. He knew the precise value of her softest look or her sweetest smile; and yet he was quite content with possessing the knowledge, without any desire to profit by it. Like one who sits down to play with sharpers, and resolves that either the stake shall be a trifle or the roguery be very limited, he surrendered himself to the fair Zoe’s seductions with this sort of a reservation to guide him.

If Mrs. Ricketts did not cheat him by her goodness, she took her revenge by the claims of her grandeur. Her intimacy with great people – the very greatest – exalted her to the highest place in Dalton’s esteem. Honest Peter knew nothing of the years of toil and pain, the subtle arts, the deep devices, the slights, the affronts, the stern rebuffs here, the insolent denials there, by which these acquisitions, precarious as they were, had been won. He did not know how much of the royalty was left-handed, nor how much of the nobility was factitious. All he could see was the gracious salutes wafted to her from coroneted carriages, the soft smiles wafted from high places, the recognitions bestowed on her in the promenade, and the gracious nods that met her in the Cursaal.

Mrs. Ricketts was perfect in all the skill of this peculiar game, and knew how, by the most ostentatious display of respect in public, not only to exalt the illustrious person – age who deigned to acknowledge her, but also to attach notice to herself as the individual so highly favored. What reverential courtesies would she drop before the presence of some small German “Hochheit,” with a gambling-house for a palace, and a roulette-table for an exchequer! What devotional observances would she perform in front of the chair of some snuffy old Dowager “Herzogin,” of an unknown or forgotten principality! How pertinaciously would she remain standing till some “Durchlaut” was “out of the horizon;” or how studiously would she retire before the advancing step of some puny potentate, – a monarch of three huesars and thirty chamberlains! Poor Peter was but a sorry pupil in this “School of Design.” He found it difficult to associate rank with unwashed faces and unbrushed clothes; and although he did bow, and flourish his hat, and perform all the other semblances of respect, he always gave one the idea of an irreverential Acolyte at the back of a profoundly impressed and dignified high-priest.

Dalton was far more at his ease when he paraded the rooms with Mrs. Ricketts on one arm, and Martha on the other, enjoying heartily all the notice they elicited, and accepting, as honest admiration, the staring wonderment and surprise their appearance was sure to excite. Mrs. Ricketts, who had always something geographical about her taste in dress, had this year leaned towards the Oriental, and accordingly presented herself before the admiring world of Baden in a richly spangled muslin turban, and the very shortest of petticoats, beneath which appeared a pair of ample trousers, whose deep lace frills covered the feet, and even swept the floor. A paper-knife of silver gilt, made to resemble a yataghan, and a smelling-bottle, in the counterfeit of a pistol, glittered at her girdle, which, with the aid of a very well arched pair of painted eyebrows, made up as presentable a Sultana as one usually sees in a second-rate theatre. If Dalton’s blue coat and tight nankeen pantaloons – his favorite full-dress costume – did somewhat destroy the “Bosphorean illusion,” as Zoe herself called it, still more did Martha’s plain black silk and straw bonnet, – both types of the strictly useful, without the slightest taint of extraneous ornament.

Purvis and the General, as they brought up the rear, came also in for their meed of surprise, – the one lost under a mass of cloaks, shawls, scarfs, and carpets, and the other moving listlessly along through the crowded rooms, heedless of the mob and the music, and seeming to follow his leader with a kind of fatuous instinct utterly destitute of volition or even of thought A group so singularly costumed, seen every day dining at the most costly table, ordering whatever was most expensive; the patrons of the band, and the numerous flower-girls, whose bouquets were actually strewed beneath their feet, were sure to attract the notice of the company, – a tribute, it must be owned, which invariably contains a strong alloy of all that is ill-natured, sarcastic, and depreciating. Zoe was a European celebrity, known and recognized by every one. The only difficulty was to learn who the new “victim” was, whence he came, and what means he possessed. There are few places where inventive genius more predominates than at Baden, and Dalton was alternately a successful speculator in railroads, a South American adventurer, a slaver, and a Carlist agent, – characters for which honest Peter had about as many requisites as he possessed for Hamlet or Cardinal Wolsey. He seemed to have abundance of money, however, and played high, – two qualities of no small request in this favored region. Dalton’s gambling tastes were all originally associated with the turf and its followers. A race in his eyes was the legitimate subject of a bet; and if anything else could rival it in interest, it was some piece of personal prowess or skill, some manly game of strength or activity. To men of this stamp the wager is merely a pledge to record the sentiments they entertain upon a particular event. It is not, as gamesters understand it, the whole sum and substance of the interest. Personal pride, the vainglory of’ success, is the triumph in one case; in the other there is no question of anything save gain. To this difference may be traced the wide disparity of feeling exhibited by both in moments of failing fortune. To one loss comes with all the harassing sensations of defeat; wounded self-esteem and baffled hope giving poignancy to the failure. To the other it is a pure question of a moneyed forfeiture, unaccompanied with a single thought that can hurt the pride of the player. Hence the wild transports of passion in the one case, and the calm, cold self-possession in the other.

We need scarcely say to which class Dalton belonged; indeed, so far as the public play at Baden was concerned, it was the notoriety that pleased him most. The invariable falling back to make way for him as he came up; the murmur of his name as he passed on; the comments on what he would probably do; and, not least of all, the buzz of admiring astonishment that was sure to arise as he plumped down before him the great canvas bag full of gold, which the banker’s porter had just handed him!

All the little courtesies of the croupiers, those little official flatteries which mean so much and so little, were especially reserved for him; and the unlucky player who watched his solitary Napoleon “raked in” by a yawning, listless croupier, became suddenly aware, by the increased alacrity of look around him, that a higher interest was awakened as Peter drew nigh.

The “Count’s” chair was ostentatiously placed next the banker’s; a store of cards to mark the chances laid before him. The grave croupier – he looked like an archdeacon – passed his gold snuff-box across the table; the smartly wigged and waistcoated one at his side presented the cards to cut, with some whispered remark that was sure to make Dalton laugh heartily. The sensation of this entrée was certain to last some minutes; and even the impatience of the players to resume the game was a tribute that Dalton accepted as complimentary to the bustle of his approach.

In accordance with the popular superstition of the play-table, Dalton’s luck was an overmatch for all the skill of more accomplished gamblers; knowing nothing whatever of the game, only aware when he had won or lost, by seeing that his stake had doubled or disappeared, he was an immense winner. Night after night the same fortune attended him, and so unerringly seemed all his calculations made, that the very caprices of his play looked like well-studied and deep combinations. If many of the bystanders were disposed to this opinion, the “bankers” thought otherwise; they knew that, – in the end, the hour of retribution must come, and, through all their losses, not only observed every mark of courteous deference towards him, but by many a bland smile and many a polite gesture seemed to intimate the pleasure they felt in his good fortune. This was all that was wanting to fill up the measure of Dalton’s delight.

“There isn’t a bit of envy or bad feeling about them chaps,” he would often say; “whether I carry away forty Naps, or four hundred of a night, they ‘re just as civil. Faix! he knew many a born gentleman might take a lesson from them.”

So long as he continued to win, Dalton felt comparatively little interest in play, beyond the notice his presence and his large stakes were sure to excite. As a game it possessed no hold upon him; and when he had changed his heaps of glittering gold for notes, he arose to leave the table, and to forget all that had occurred there as matters of no possible interest to remember.

Such was no longer the case when fortune turned. Then, and for the first time, the gambler’s passion awoke in his heart, and the sting of defeat sent its pangs through him. The prying, searching looks of the by-standers, too, were a dreadful ordeal; for all were curious to see how he bore his losses, and Dalton was no accomplished gamester who could lose with all the impassive gravity of seeming indifference. Still less was he gifted with that philosophy of the play-table that teaches a timely retreat before adverse fortune. He knew nothing of those sage maxims by which the regular gambler controls his temper and regulates his conduct; nor had he learned the art by which good and sterling qualities, the gifts of noble natures, can be brought into the service of a low and degrading vice! Dalton, it must be owned, was what is called “a bad loser,” – that is, he lost his temper with his money; and the more steadily luck seemed against him the more determinedly did he “back his fortune.” Now doubling, now trebling his stake, he lost considerable sums; till at last, as the hand of the clock stood within a few minutes of the closing hour, he emptied the remainder of his bag upon the table, and, without counting, set it all upon a card.

“Rouge perd et couleur!” cried the banker, and raked in the glittering heap; and, amid a murmur of half-compassionate astonishment, Peter arose from the table. Mrs. Ricketts and her suite were all in the ball-room, but Dalton only remembered them when he had gained the open air. The terrible shock of his reverse had overwhelmed all his faculties, and almost stunned him to unconsciousness. At last he bethought him of his guests; but it was some time before he could summon sufficient composure of look to go in search of them. He had been so accustomed – to use his own phrase – “to ride the winner,” that he did n’t know how to face the company as a beaten man. He thought of all the glances of impertinent pity his presence would call forth, and imagined the buzz of remark and comment every line of his features would give rise to. Poor Peter! – little knew he that such signs of sympathy are never given to the very saddest of misfortunes, and that, in such a society, no one wastes a thought upon his neighbor’s reverses, except when they serve as a guide to himself.

He did, indeed, overhear from time to time little broken sentences like these: “The old fellow with the white moustache has had a squeeze ‘to-night.’” “He caught it heavy and thick.” “Must have lost close on a thousand Naps.” “Bank walked into him;” and so on, – comments as free from any tone of sympathy as the proudest heart could possibly have asked for. But even these were easier to bear than the little playful cajoleries of Mrs. Ricketts on his supposed successes.

Knowing him to be a frequent winner, and hearing from Scroope the large sums he occasionally carried away, she invariably accosted him with some little jesting rebuke on his “dreadful luck” – that “wicked good fortune” – that would follow him in everything and everywhere.

Purvis had been a close spectator of all that went on this unlucky evening, and was actually occupied with his pencil in calculating the losses when Peter entered the room.

“He had above eighteen or twenty bank-notes of a th-thousand francs,” cried he, “when he be-be-began the evening. They are all gone now. He played at least a dozen ‘rouleaux’ of fifty Naps.; and as to the bag, I can m-make no guess how m-m-much it held.”

“I ‘ll tell you then, sir,” said Peter, good-humoredly, as he just overheard the last remark. “The bag held three hundred and eighty Napoleons; and as you ‘re pretty correct in the other items, you ‘ll not be far from the mark by adding about fifty or sixty Naps, for little bets here and there.”

“What coolness, what stoical indifference!” whispered Mrs. Ricketts to Martha, but loud enough for Dalton to hear. “That is so perfectly Irish; they can be as impetuous as the Italian, and possess all the self-restraint and impassive bearing of the Indian warrior.”

“But w-w-why did you go on, when luck was a-a-gainst you?”

“Who told me it was against me till I lost all my money?” cried Dalton. “If the first reverse was to make a man feel beat, it would be a very cowardly world, Mr. Purvis.”

“Intensely Irish!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts.

“Well, maybe it is,” broke in Peter, who was not in a mood to accept anything in a complimentary sense. “Irish it may be; and as you remarked a minute ago, we’re little better than savages – ”

“Oh, Mr. Dalton, – dear Mr. Dalton!”

“No matter; I’m not angry, ma’am. The newspapers says as bad, – ay, worse, every day of the week. But what I ‘m observing is, that the man that could teach me how to keep my money could never have taught me how to win it You know the old proverb about the ‘faint heart, ‘Mr. Purvis?”

“Yes; but I – I – I don’t want a f-f-fair lady!”

“Faix! I believe you’re right there, my little chap,” said Peter, laughing heartily, and at once recovering all his wonted good-humor at the sound of his own mellow-toned mirth; and in this pleasant mood he gave an arm to each of his fair companions, and led them into the supper-room. There was an ostentatious desire for display in the order Dalton gave that evening to the waiter. It seemed as if he wished to appear perfectly indifferent about his losses. The table was covered with a costly profusion that attracted general notice. Wines of the rarest and most precious vintages stood on the sideboard. Dalton did the honors with even more than his accustomed gayety. There was a stimulant in that place at the head of the table; there was some magical influence in the duty of host that never failed with him. The sense of sway and power that ambitious minds feel in high and pre-eminent stations were all his, as he sat at the top of his board; and it must be owned that with many faults of manner, and many shortcomings on the score of taste, yet Peter did the honors of his table well and gracefully.

Certain is it Mrs. Ricketts and her friends thought so. Zoe was in perfect ecstasies at the readiness of his repartees and the endless variety of his anecdotes. He reminded her at once of Sheridan and “poor dear Mirabeau,” and various other “beaux esprits” she used to live with. Martha listened to him with sincere pleasure. Purvis grew very tipsy in the process of his admiration, and the old General, suddenly brought back to life and memory under the influence of champagne, thought him so like Jack Trevor, of the Engineers, that he blubbered out, “I think I ‘m listening to Jack. It’s poor Trevor over again.”

Was it any wonder if in such intoxications Peter forgot all his late reverses, nor ever remembered them till he had wished his company good-night, and found himself alone in his own chamber? Pecuniary difficulties were no new thing to Dalton, and it would not have interfered with his pleasant dreams that night had the question been one of those ordinary demands which he well knew how to resist or evade by many a legal sleight and many an illegal artifice; but here was a debt of honor. He had given his name, three or four times during the evening, for large sums, lost on the very instant they were borrowed. These must be repaid on the next day; but how, he knew not. How he “stood” in Abel Kraus’s books he had not the remotest idea. It might be with a balance, or it might be with a deficit All he really knew was that he had latterly drawn largely, and spent freely; and as Abel always smiled and seemed satisfied, Peter concluded that his affairs needed no surer or safer evidences of prosperity. To have examined ledgers and day-books with such palpable proofs of solvency would have been, in his eyes, an act of as great absurdity as that of a man who would not believe in the sunshine till he had first consulted the thermometer.

“I must see Abel early to-morrow. Abel will set it all right,” were the conclusions to which he always came back; and if not very clearly evident how, why, or by what means, still he was quite satisfied that honest Kraus would extricate him from every difficulty. “The devil go with it for black and red,” said he, as he lay down in his bed. “I ‘d have plenty of cash in my pocket for everything this night, if it was n’t for that same table; and an ugly game it is as ever a man played. Shuffle and cut; faites your ‘jeu’; thirty-four – thirty-three; red wins – black loses; there’s the whole of it; sorrow more on ‘t except the sad heart that comes afterwards!” These last words he uttered with a deep sigh, and then turned his face to the pillow.