Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo

Monte Carlo, by William Le
Queux

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Title: Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo
Author: William Le Queux
Release Date: November, 2003 [Etext #4694] [Yes, we are more than
one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on March 3,
2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
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MADEMOISELLE OF MONTE CARLO
BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
1921

MADEMOISELLE OF MONTE CARLO

FIRST CHAPTER
THE SUICIDE'S CHAIR
"Yes! I'm not mistaken at all! /It's the same woman!/" whispered the
tall, good-looking young Englishman in a well-cut navy suit as he stood
with his friend, a man some ten years older than himself, at one of the
roulette tables at Monte Carlo, the first on the right on entering the
room--that one known to habitual gamblers as "The Suicide's Table."
"Are you quite certain?" asked his friend.
"Positive. I should know her again anywhere."
"She's very handsome. And look, too, by Jove!--how she is winning!"
"Yes. But let's get away. She might recognize me," exclaimed the
younger man anxiously. "Ah! If I could only induce her to disclose
what she knows about my poor father's mysterious end then we might
clear up the mystery."
"I'm afraid, if all we hear is true about her, Mademoiselle of Monte
Carlo will never do that," was the other's reply as they moved away
together down the long saloon towards the trente-et-quarante room.

"/Messieurs! Faites vos jeux/," the croupiers were crying in their
strident, monotonous voices, inviting players to stake their counters of
cent-sous, their louis, or their hundred or five hundred franc notes upon
the spin of the red and black wheel. It was the month of March, the
height of the Riviera season, the fetes of Mi-Careme were in full swing.
That afternoon the rooms were overcrowded, and the tense atmosphere
of gambling was laden with the combined odours of perspiration and
perfume.
Around each table were crowds four or five deep behind those fortunate
enough to obtain seats, all eager and anxious to try their fortune upon
the rouge or noir, or upon one of the thirty-six numbers, the columns,
or the transversales. There was but little chatter. The hundreds of
well-dressed idlers escaping the winter were too intent upon the game.
But above the click of the plaques, blue and red of different sizes, as
they were raked into the bank by the croupiers, and the clatter of
counters as the lucky players were paid with deft hands, there rose ever
and anon:
"/Messieurs! Faites vos jeux!/"
Here English duchesses rubbed shoulders with the most notorious
women in Europe, and men who at home in England were good
churchmen and exemplary fathers of families, laughed merrily with the
most gorgeously attired cocottes from Paris, or the