THE SINFUL PRINCIPALITY.

Auckland Star, Volume LVIII, Issue 42, 19 February 1927, Page 38

THE SINFUL PRINCIPALITY.

(By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEEU, The World-Famous Novelist.)

WHERE WOMEN LIVE ON LUCK STOBIES OF MONTE CARLO.

At Christmas the gay season in Monte Carlo, the world's most notorious playground is at its height. In the gambling rooms fortunes are being lost and won every hour, and round the tables is gathered a remarkable throng —royalty, emperors of industry and finance, women old and young, adventurers and adventuresses, crooks and innocents. Mr. Oppenheim, who lives near Monte Carlo, tells an amazinc story of its never-ceas-ing drama and sensation. Probably since the existence of Sodom and Gomorrah, whose sinful ways remain, after all, untabulated, no place upon the earth has been more bitterly reviled than Monte Carlo. One meets with people who have never been near the place who are able to work themselves into a perfect fury of indignation at the existence of such a cesspool of iniquity I myself must frankly admit that I am ranged upon the other side. I am practically a resident within a few kilometres of the Principality, and though one must acknowledge the perils which the place presents to the ill-balanced who happen to have a penchant for gambling, yet one finds here a counteracting charm, an atmosphere of joie de vivre. which 1 have never experienced anywhere else in the world. I Monte Carlo in itself is one of the most attractive spots on earth. Its situation and its climate are delightful, its restaurants and hotels are equal to those in any of the great cities, its opera is famous, its night life, with dancing and the best of music, is always gay. But, alas, there is the gambling;! In the "Kitchen." There are three places in which one can pay one's contribution to the authorities. The first and the sorriest o' these is in the main rooms of thf Casino, commonly called the "Kitchen," accessible to anyone in the world who Trover twenty years of age and possesses a passport and a few francs. These rooms are open from ten o'clock in the mominsr until twelve at nipht, and it is under their -oof that the moralist and the denunciator come into their own. As the last stroke of the opening hour sounds, an incongruous, sordid-looking crowd, haggard of visage and with strained expressions, streams through the doors, leaving the wholesome sun lizht outside for these spacious halls of gloom, with their frowsy atmosphere and unnatural illuminations. The habitues are easily recognisable, ! That little man with the ill-brushed clothes who has apparently cut himself t whilst shaving, whose collar has seen better days, and who is gripping a large. ' black account book, looks a meek enough : personage, but he would murder the intruder who took that particular seat i next but one to the croupier at hitfavourite table. He opens the book and pores over it, brings out a relay of pencils, turns over the pages with nervous fingers. Here are figures by the hundreds of thousands — the figures of this particular table for days and weeks and months. Their paintaking recorder was once a bank manager who came into a legacy of a few thousands pounds and took a holi day at Monte Carlo. The legacy has gone, and following it, most of his savings. He is living now, they say, upon the fast diminishing remnants of his own money and a small allowance. He probably hasn't more than a few bun dred francs with him, but he will sit hour by hour watching his opportunity and staking when his foolish figures indicate what his foolish brain believes to be the psychological moment. There is a woman opposite to him. wrinkled and grey, once a famous , beauty, now living practically on ( charity, who is much in the same straits; a trirl on the other side of the croupier, whose set face has lost its , beauty, and from whose eyes the light ot youth has passed—a governess in her ] day, also the victim of an unexpected ( legacy and a holiday visit to Monte ] Carlo. They are all kept alive, these people, by the same fond and idiotic | dream—that some day their numbers ( will come up, will repeat, that their i winnings will multiply that the years of t ill-fortune will be wiped out in one 1 golden hour. And the worst of it is that 3 the thing is possihle. t A Woman's Despair. It is a pretty good rule never to address a stranger in the Rooms. Once 1 did, however, and never regretted it. The very sight of her was harrowing 1 beyond description. She was seated on i the edge of a divan, close to one of the • most crowded of the roulette tables in the "Kitchen," gazing at a strip of J paper with a look of horror in her eves, i Frankly, I glanced over her shoulder. 1 There were just seven numbers written in crayon upon that strip of paper, six = of them crossed through, the seventh, ] which happened to be the number seven, ' remaining. 1 leaned forward. "What disturbs madame?" I inquired. 1 She looked at me for a moment, recog- I nised a possible saviour, and burst into a torrent of speech. Seven numbers she was to back, a louis on each. She ' had lost a louis. The seventh nuui- I ber would go unbacked. Already the | ball was spinning. She may have been i a sordid gambler, but if ever I saw ' agony in anyone's face, it was in hers. I I found the louis. She was at the table like a tornado. "Sept, rouge, impair et manque. . J She came back to me with the counters I in her hand a minute later, and there | was k curious look in her face, unasso- « ciated with the place or with any form of vice whatever. She gripped me by the I arm. " I "Listen, monsieur," she said. "It is I for him —my man—who dies. Each | morning he spins, at home on his bed, ■ seven numbers. I am to back the&. I come here. He wait 9, To-day, if I had I failed, there would have been nothing " Monsieur may rest assured that for what j j he has done he will some day be repaid.'' ■ She hurried off, and I had the mean- | ness to follow her. She entered a small a restaurant and presently emerged. I carrying a flash of wine, a "small brown " bowl from which the steam of a savorv i lunch was issuing, and a long roll of | bread under her arm. She looked neither ■ to the right nor left, climbed with swif! J but graceful haste a long flight of steps, I I and vanished into one of the tenement I _ houses where the few poor of Monte I Carlo have their aboda. I ■

I learned afterwards her history. The man whom she tended was a Russian, one whose name for a few brief months was upon everyone's lips in Europe as the one possible saviour of his countrv. 10-day he had escaped assassination only because his death sentence has alreadv been pronounced. The Real Monte Carlo. At the far end of the "Kitchen" one passes through jealously-guarded portals into the Salles Privees. This is the resort of the moneyed world who can allord a considerable entrance fee, but for some reason or other the play is usually of a subdued and unsensational character. All that is spectacular, dramatic, and sometimes luridly sensational takes place at the Sporting Club j across the way. For it is within these! precincts that the real Monte Carlo exists—the Monte Carlo t>i brilliant women, of princesses and duchesses, of famous men, from Scandinavian royalty to (Julian millionaires, the Monte Carlo of wonderful toilettes and amazing jewels, of the high play and dramatic interludes. Ilere it is that the great gambling of Monte Carlo takes place. A night or two ago I passed a well-known duke, whose popularity in the world of sport and amongst the other sex is proverbial, turning carelessly away from the chemin de fer table with a hundred and thirtv thousand francs in his hand, the result of one successful coup. On his way he paused to talk to an acquaintance. The game proceeded. A banquo was called of forty-eight thousand francs, which no one seemed anxious to take. The croupier caught the Duke's eye, the latter nodded, drew the cards, "lost, dropped four huge red plaques of twelve thousand each upon the table Quished the conversation, and strolled on to see how much he could lose in playing maximums at roulette before the time came for his next bank.