Orlando did not place any bets for twenty minutes. He watched the play. Pirate had lit a foul-smelling cigar, the smoke rising in planes towards the ceiling. He opened his sketchbook and did a rapid drawing of Grandad’s Little Friend. She turned into a Degas ballerina, very scantily clad. Orlando stared in astonishment at the ceiling. He hadn’t looked closely at it before. Up there, gazing happily at the gamblers below were three naked women, who might have been the Three Graces. All were smoking cigars.
Bank Manager had been placing a series of small bets, mostly on the odd numbers. His pile of chips was diminishing rapidly. At seven minutes to twelve Orlando made his first move. He placed his largest chip, a bright pink one, on red. He was betting two and a half thousand pounds. Grandma and Pirate followed suit. The croupier spun the wheel and flipped the ball around the bowl. Rien ne va plus, no more bets. The wheel slowed down, the ball hovered agonizingly between the black 33 and the red 16. Orlando held his breath. Pirate, he noticed, had closed his one good eye. Grandma was clutching at a crucifix round her neck.
‘Seize,’ said the croupier impassively. ‘Rouge.’
Orlando now had a fortune of just over twenty thousand pounds, the minimum he thought necessary to marry his Imogen. Damn it, they might become poor after a while. He resolved to press on.
‘Merde!’ said the manager in his hidden box. ‘Merde!’
‘Do not upset yourself,’ said the Professor. ‘The night is yet young.’
From outside came the faint rumble of the last train to Nice. The moon had gone in and the sea front was dark, some rich men’s yachts bobbing rhythmically up and down in the harbour.
Orlando was unruffled. He backed red for the next four spins of the wheel. Each time it was black. Grandma looked at him sadly as if she thought his magic powers had deserted him. Pirate had pulled out after three losses. A crowd had gathered round the table to watch the handsome young Englishman lose a fortune.
‘I believe he has ten thousand pounds left,’ said the manager to the Professor. ‘What will he do?’
‘Continue,’ said the Professor, who had grown rather fond of Orlando. ‘I am eighty-five per cent certain he will continue. I fear he may go on even when he has lost all his money.’
The great clock in the main hall of the casino struck one. Three times in succession the noir triumphed over the rouge. Orlando was down to his last two and a half thousand pounds. He couldn’t work out what had happened. The tendency to red seemed to have been replaced by a tendency to a malignant black.
He placed his last chip on the red. ‘Faites vos jeux,’ said the croupier, preparing to spin the wheel. Grandma suddenly decided to re-enter the fray. But this time she was betting against Orlando. She put her money on black. ‘Rien ne va plus, no more bets,’ said the croupier, as the ball slowed down. It settled noisily in its compartment.
‘Vingt-quatre. Noir,’ said the voice of doom.
‘Congratulations, Professor,’ said the manager, clapping him on the back. ‘Some champagne for you, perhaps? A cognac?’
‘No, thank you,’ said the Professor. ‘Are you going to give the young man any credit at the caisse? I do hope not.’
‘We have to live, Professor,’ said the manager cheerfully. ‘I told them to let him have another ten thousand English pounds. No more.’
Orlando waited. He took out his sketchbook and turned Pirate into an El Greco face, the eyepatch replaced. He did another Degas impersonation of Little Friend. He walked slowly through the crowd to the cashier’s. The crowd dissolved before him as if Moses was repeating the parting of the Red Sea in the casino at Monte Carlo. He is the young milord, they whispered to one another. He has lost everything. He is a professional gambler. He has come from America to break the bank. He will win again. Never have I seen such skill at the table. Such nerve.
The cashier advanced him ten thousand pounds without a question. The manager’s compliments, monsieur. Bonne chance, monsieur.
The croupier was sweating slightly as Orlando returned. He wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. The smoke was very thick. The crowd around the table had increased. From the ceiling the Three Graces with their cigars looked down. Their faces said they had seen it all before. The manager and the Professor leant forward in their seats. The smoke was obscuring the view.
Rouge, said Orlando. Noir, said the croupier. Rouge, said Orlando. Noir, said the croupier. Five thousand pounds down. This incredible run of blacks could not continue. It was mathematically impossible.
Rouge, said Orlando.
Noir, said the croupier as the ball came to rest.
Seven and a half thousand pounds down. One last throw would begin the revival of his fortunes. Rouge, said Orlando. The ball clattered round the bowl. Pirate was staring intently at the wheel. ‘Courage,’ murmured his French friend behind him. The little old lady made the sign of the cross. She had placed her last chips on the red along with Orlando.
The ball was slowing now. ‘Which colour, Professor?’ whispered the manager. The Professor looked at pages and pages of equations beside him. ‘Black,’ he said sorrowfully.
There was a murmur in the crowd as the ball hovered over the wheel. The Englishman is broken. He is finished. Can he pay? It seemed to be a choice between a black 2 and a red 25. Orlando looked at his last chip, sitting on the table. Grandad’s Little Friend had her two hands on the old man’s shoulders, straining for a better view.
The last rattle. The ball settled into its compartment.
‘Deux,’ said the croupier. ‘Noir.’
Orlando waited for half an hour at the table. He noticed bitterly that the next four rotations all ended in reds. He wondered about Imogen, their dreams of happiness lost in the spin of a wheel. He wondered what he was going to say to the cashier. He wondered if he would be sent to prison, left to rot like the Count of Monte Cristo in a miserable cell deep inside the Chateau d’If. He wondered how he could tell Imogen. He knew she wouldn’t be angry, only sad that their plan had failed.
At a quarter past two he left the table. His French friend followed him. The little old lady embraced him. ‘My poor boy, ’ she said, ‘my poor boy.’ The Pirate saluted him. ‘What courage,’ he said. ‘What bravery.’ The croupier shook his hand. ‘Au revolt, monsieur. I hope we shall have the pleasure of seeing you again.’
Orlando’s friend led him to a quiet alcove off the main reception. Three Greek philosophers seemed to be having an argument on the walls behind them.
‘Mr Blane,’ said the Frenchman, ‘my name is Arnaud, Raymond Arnaud. Before we come to the business, let me ask you one question. Can you paint as well as you can draw?’
Orlando stared at the man. Paint? Paint? What on earth was he talking about? ‘Of course I can paint,’ he said, ‘I paint better than I can draw. I was trained at the Royal Academy and in Rome. But what of it? It does not matter now. I owe this casino ten thousand pounds. I do not have ten thousand pounds.’
Raymond Arnaud put his arm across his shoulders. ‘Mr Blane, my friends and I, we have been looking for a man like you. We will pay your debt. It does not go well with those who do not pay here. In France they are more lenient. But in Monte Carlo the authorities feel they have to make examples of those who gamble and cannot pay. Otherwise their casino would sink under a mountain of unpaid debts.’
Orlando could hardly believe his ears. Escape was being offered by this improbable Frenchman. ‘What do I have to do in return?’ he said.