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 gambleâit was only Lionel who attempted to persuade her: âNot gamble? Shanât you essay
any
alteration in your finances? It is only lighthearted, after all.â 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 Edmundâs 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¦)
âLes jeux sont faits, les jeux sont faits?â
Clatter. Turn of the wheel. Fortuneâs 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
âsuivez la couleur. â
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?
âLe trente ⦠le rouge ⦠quatre fois rouge â¦â
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 ownâso newly hersâshone from her head, her neck, fingers, arms. She knew that it had not gone unremarked.
âRien ne va plus, monsieur. Monsieur, rien ne va plus. â
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:
âWhat an
omnium gatherumâ¦.
That couple thereâno, to the right, he with the magnificent embroidered jacketâthey 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.â
She lifted a hand to her hair. Touched the hard edge of diamonds. Jewels, jewels, jewels.
âI shall not take on any Hungarians. The year before lastâno, â95, there was quite an imbroglio with a Count Andriyadi. You would not credit â¦â
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.
âBut first, my dear, Nice. It will suit Lionel better. Then we can be three weeks in Paris. Your heartâs fill of Paris.â
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, âOf course, I want a sonâ?
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. âWe are not only brothers but friends. And he is, of course, excellent company.â
He had barely noticed her raised eyebrows. Had taken her surprised silence for consent. And
David Almond
K. L. Schwengel
James A. Michener
Jacqueline Druga
Alex Gray
Graham Nash
Jennifer Belle
John Cowper Powys
Lindsay McKenna
Vivi Holt