The Diamond Waterfall

The Diamond Waterfall by Pamela Haines Page B

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Authors: Pamela Haines
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Lionel was playing, but Robert not. Later, probably, Lionel would want to play
trente et quarante.
Robert would watch quietly, indulgently. He never suggested she should gamble—it was only Lionel who attempted to persuade her: “Not gamble? Shan’t you essay
any
alteration in your finances? It is only lighthearted, after all.” It did not seem to her always so lighthearted. Just as the size of the winnings amazed her, so did the size of the losses terrify her. Two thousand, three thousand, more, in an evening. She saw it all in terms of Edmund’s settlement: a brief holiday on the Riviera, and such a sum could vanish as if it had never been. (Or, less likely, magically become £20,000, £60,000 …)
    â€œLes jeux sont faits, les jeux sont faits?”
    Clatter. Turn of the wheel. Fortune’s wheel. Everything, but everything, she thought, is a gamble. (Some, though, are more foolish than others. And I?)
    Lionel had lost heavily yesterday evening at Monte Carlo. Robert had only laughed. Tonight, Lionel had said, he would do better. His theory was
“suivez la couleur. “
Red, for him. He explained that for that, patience and courage were needed. Lily could think only of him paying for little girls. She imagined it done with his winnings. Ten pounds a guaranteed virgin. Had that not been the price?
    â€œLe trente … le rouge … quatre fois rouge …”
    Earlier that evening she had been recognized as Lily Greene by some people staying at Cannes, to whom Lionel was slightly known. Invitations had been extended. Although Robert might not know the
beau monde
here, Lionel did. Enough of them to make their days and evenings full of distraction. Jewelry sparkled, all about the
salle.
Her own—so newly hers—shone from her head, her neck, fingers, arms. She knew that it had not gone unremarked.
    â€œRien ne va plus, monsieur. Monsieur, rien ne va plus. “
    Oh how the company glittered. Lionel, winnings amassed, was having a good evening. He would attend the other tables. It was no use her wishing to leave. He said now, looking across the room:
    â€œWhat an
omnium gatherum….
That couple there—no, to the right, he with the magnificent embroidered jacket—they are Hungarians. Quite an
embarras
of Slavs this year. And Romanians. There are
Romanians
rumored, I hear. The Balkans are fearfully represented just now. The Casino quite ablaze with them.”
    She lifted a hand to her hair. Touched the hard edge of diamonds. Jewels, jewels, jewels.
    â€œI shall not take on any Hungarians. The year before last—no, ’95, there was quite an imbroglio with a Count Andriyadi. You would not credit …”
    Lionel, Lionel. On and on. She wondered that she had ever found him amusing. Ten days on the Riviera. She could think only that she would rather be in Paris. Perhaps, in Paris, everything would be better. She had been promised Paris.
    â€œBut first, my dear, Nice. It will suit Lionel better. Then we can be three weeks in Paris. Your heart’s fill of Paris.”
    But why Lionel anyway? My honeymoon.
Why Lionel?
    They had arranged March for the wedding. Her contract for the play ran out then. She had decided anyway to leave the stage. Had not Robert said, “Of course, I want a son”?
    It was not naturally as smart a match as the failed one of the summer, but the reactions were all the same gratifying. She frankly enjoyed the extra publicity, the little notices in the press. The congratulations. The surprise of her family. There was an unexpected sense of achievement, as of a decision sensibly made. She was doing a
wise
thing.
    The conditions. Ah yes, the conditions. She was to honeymoon in Paris. He asked only that Lionel might accompany them on the trip. “We are not only brothers but friends. And he is, of course, excellent company.”
    He had barely noticed her raised eyebrows. Had taken her surprised silence for consent. And

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