I first heard about M. Chapuyt in Paris, from a friend who had recently returned from the Riviera. “This Chapuyt,” I was informed, “has the most incredible luck. Night after night he wins at the Casino, and how they absorb their losses must be a story as interesting as his gambling genius.”
Under this double-edged impulsion, I very soon found myself writing to the only man I knew in the south of France, one Emil Gautier who, over a bridge game during the Atlantic crossing, had offered to accompany me to the famous Casino when I traveled his way. Now I imposed upon this brief acquaintance to inform him that I would accept his invitation.
A Frenchman who has decided to be courteous does the thing extremely well. When I reached my Riviera hotel, a note from Gautier greeted me effusively and stated that he would call that night at 9 — which he did — and in another five minutes we were walking through the formal gardens which illuminated the pink marble palace of chance. Gautier knew that I was a writer, but when I told him that I was intrigued by one Monsieur Chapuyt, Gautier did not acknowledge the name as within his acquaintance. He seemed genuinely glad to see me, and by the time we reached the Casino, we entered as good friends.
I knew nothing about Gautier. He was a fashion plate, one of those Continentals who always looks as though his barber has just turned him out after a shave, haircut, facial massage, manicure, and shoeshine. His easy urbanity suggested traditional good breeding except that his black eyes were unemotional and never relaxed. Evidently he was well known at the Casino, for the concessionaire in the cloakroom bowed and mentioned his name. We toured the two salles de joie on the main floor purely as sightseers. When Gautier asked if I wished to try my luck, I parried him at once. “Solitaire is my game,” I said lightly.
Monsieur Gautier raised one perfectly trimmed eyebrow, as though I had prompted him, and said, “Well, I don’t know whether there is play in solitaire tonight. It’s upstairs, you know. Let’s go up. But don’t expect too much. Chapuyt is definitely the exception.”
So he did know Chapuyt after all. I ignored the reference, however, as we entered an octagonal paneled room sumptuous enough to have been the sitting-room of Madame de Maintenon.
Two roulette tables, each placed under a crystal chandelier, were populated by modish women, who sipped coffee during their play and occasionally laughed over their shoulders at their escorts — who unanimously found nothing to be amused at. This was high-stake gaming and the chips on the tables were all of the 25,000-and 250,000-franc denominations — or roughly equivalent to $100 and $1,000.
Presently a man who had been outside the circle, casually appraising the tables in the company of a turbaned Moslem, bowed awkwardly to his companion and took a seat at the table adorned by the handsomest women in the room.
“Now you will see something,” said my escort. “That is your Monsieur Chapuyt.”
I am afraid that I stared at the celebrity rudely; but he, fortunately intent on his play, did not observe my scrutiny. He was a little man, not over five feet three, and was inching along in years. Only a few fine lines of gray hair bisected his shiny pate; deep seams above his weathered nose brought his eyes down into a squint; loose skin hung about his jowls and throat. But his eyes, pinprick sharp, missed nothing, either on the wheel, on the table, or revealed by the décolletage about him. His hands were those of a common laborer, but they were relaxed as though this man might lose all night without anguish. He held a great roll of the most expensive chips lightly. Five of these he now placed upon the felt in one neat stack, and in a moment acknowledged with a slight nod the bonanza which came back to him. Two of the ladies gasped, and the woman on his right paid him some deferential compliment which I could not hear, for all my straining. Monsieur Chapuyt’s teeth — very bad ones, incidentally, uneven and unkempt — showed for a moment in a bon vivant smile. He was vastly enjoying himself.
“Now watch closely,” said Gautier.
Chapuyt took one fourth of his winnings — a princely sum — and dropped the chips into the croupier’s tip box through a slot provided for the purpose. The croupier bent low in gratitude. At the same time a majordomo who had been standing near the table exchanged a quick glance with Gautier, accompanied by a subtle distention of the fingers, as though he had expected Chapuyt’s generosity but emphatically disapproved it.
We watched the play for fifteen minutes. Chapuyt was a heavy investor, and though he sometimes lost substantially, he appeared to my inept eye to win often enough to be accumulating a profit, except that each time he won, he tipped magnanimously.
“Is he crazy?” I whispered finally to Gautier.
“He is the sanest man in the room,” my host responded. “But I cannot speak of him here. How about some supper? The bouillabaisse is one of the rare experiences of life, and I recommend it, even at this hour.”
We walked across the park to the restaurant, and settled in an inconspicuous corner.
“We must not be overheard,” Gautier said. “The subject of Monsieur Chapuyt is not mentioned. And I must have your word that if I tell you the story, you will not use it without making both him and the Casino unidentifiable.”
I gave my promise.
“Chapuyt first came to the Casino about a year ago,” Gautier said. “As you can see, he does not look like much. The management assayed him as another seedy tourist, and sold him a visitor’s card to the public rooms. Their analysis stood up on his first night. He risked a few thousand francs — taxi-money, you might say — at the roulette table just inside the door, where a thousand-franc loss is tragedy to the inveterate players who long since have gone bankrupt but who return night after night with their pencil and card to note each turn of the wheel and, when their system indicates an auspicious moment, to stake — and lose — a pittance. The singular thing about Chapuyt, however, was that he had a way with the wheel. He took no seat, but three times leaned over the table to place a few chips on a low-odds situation which gave him more than one chance to win. Each time, he was successful.
“He spent not a penny on refreshment, buying not even an aperitif or a demitasse. But he watched — how he watched everything! — and when he departed, before 11 o’clock, he had perhaps fifty thousand francs or, as you would calculate it, $200.
“The next night he was back, and this time the beldames at the first table noted his arrival. Anyone who wins sensationally at roulette, even for a single evening, becomes a celebrity overnight. These habitues — did you see their faces? Hopeful, then desperate, then bitter, yet convinced that soon fortune must turn, or the perfect system be found. The condition is pathological. It gets into the blood like a virus, inducing fever for play, until finally it becomes a mania. You can see what a winning player would do to such people. They watched Chapuyt avidly. When he leaned over their shoulders to make a wager, they pounced down their little bets at the same place... I see you like the bouillabaisse.”