John Trowbridge - "The Drummer Boy"

James Branch Cabell et al - "The Cords of Vanity"

Charles Raymond Barrett - "Short Story Writing"

Jules Verne - "Five Weeks in a Balloon"

Editorial
This article explores Rohinton Mistry's novel A Fine Balance (1996), alongside his short story "Lend Me Your Light" (1987), focussing on the tensions between the politically-distanced cosmopolitan migrant and the socially-committed local activist. My readings draw on Radhakrishnan's notion of diasporic "double duty" — of accountability to, rather than irresponsible detachment from, the homeland. Mistry's representations of migrants, I contend, are centrally concerned not only with the necessity, but also the difficulty, of performing such "double duty" through a sustained engagement with India's history and politics. In this light, I argue that Mistry offers representations of migrants whose attempts to distance themselves from local and national politics are revealed as impossible and irresponsible. Moreover, I suggest that Mistry's representations reveal an anxiety over his position as a migrant writer, and his work seems to mobilize writing as a means of avoiding a problematically apolitical detachment from India. Thus, Mistry establishes a tension between his representation of the migrant within his fiction and his negotiation of his own migrant position through his fiction.

Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo

E >> E. Phillips Oppenheim >> Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo



MR. GREX OF MONTE CARLO

BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

AUTHOR OF "THE VANISHED MESSENGER," "A PEOPLE'S MAN," "THE MISCHIEF
MAKER"




WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
WILL GREFE

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1915

THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.




[Illustration: She leaned across and with trembling fingers backed
number fourteen _en plein_.]




CONTENTS


I. An Unexpected Meeting

II. By Accident or Design

III. A Warning

IV. Enter the American

V. "Who is Mr. Grex?"

VI. Cakes and Counsels

VII. The Effrontery of Richard

VIII. Up the Mountain

IX. In the Mists

X. Signs of Trouble

XI. Hints to Hunterleys

XII. "I Cannot Go!"

XIII. Miss Grex at Home

XIV. Dinner for Two

XV. International Politics

XVI. A Bargain with Jean Coulois

XVII. Duty Interferes Again

XVIII. A Midnight Conference

XIX. "Take Me Away!"

XX. Wily Mr. Draconmeyer

XXI. Assassination!

XXII. The Wrong Man

XXIII. Trouble Brewing

XXIV. Hunterleys Scents Murder

XXV. Draconmeyer is Desperate

XXVI. Extraordinary Love-Making

XXVII. Playing for High Stakes

XXVIII. To the Villa Mimosa

XXIX. For His Country

XXX. "Supposing I Take This Money"

XXXI. Nearing a Crisis

XXXII. An Interesting Meeting

XXXIII. The Fates Are Kind

XXXIV. Coffee for One Only

XXXV. A New Map of the Earth

XXXVI. Checkmate!

XXXVII. An Amazing Elopement

XXXVIII. Honeymooning




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


She leaned across and with trembling fingers backed number fourteen _en
plein_

"For the last time, then--to Monte Carlo!"

"Come on, you fellows!" he shouted

"What we ask of France is that she looks the other way"

"That two hundred shall be five hundred, but it must be a cemetery to
which they take him!"

Mr. Grex, with his daughter and Lady Hunterleys on one side and Monsieur
Douaille on the other, were in the van.




MR. GREX OF MONTE CARLO




CHAPTER I

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING


The eyes of the man who had looked in upon a scene inordinately,
fantastically brilliant, underwent, after those first few moments of
comparative indifference, a curious transformation. He was contemplating
one of the sights of the world. Crowded around the two roulette tables,
promenading or lounging on the heavily cushioned divans against the
wall, he took note of a conglomeration of people representing, perhaps,
every grade of society, every nationality of importance, yet with a
curious common likeness by reason of their tribute paid to fashion. He
glanced unmoved at a beautiful Englishwoman who was a duchess but looked
otherwise; at an equally beautiful Frenchwoman, who looked like a
duchess but was--otherwise. On every side of him were women gowned by
the great artists of the day, women like flowers, all perfume and
softness and colour. His eyes passed them over almost carelessly. A
little tired with many weeks' travel in countries where the luxuries of
life were few, his senses were dulled to the magnificence of the scene,
his pulses as yet had not responded to its charm and wonder. And then
the change came. He saw a woman standing almost exactly opposite to him
at the nearest roulette table, and he gave a noticeable start. For a
moment his pale, expressionless face was transformed, his secret was at
any one's mercy. That, however, was the affair of an instant only. He
was used to shocks and he survived this one. He moved a little on one
side from his prominent place in the centre of the wide-flung doorway.
He stood by one of the divans and watched.

She was tall and fair and slight. She wore a high-necked gown of
shimmering grey, a black hat, under which her many coils of hair shone
like gold, and a necklace of pearls around her throat, pearls on which
his eyes had rested with a curious expression. She played, unlike many
of her neighbours, with restraint, yet with interest, almost enthusiasm.
There was none of the strain of the gambler about her smooth, beautiful
face. Her delicately curved lips were free from the grim lines of
concentrated acquisitiveness. She was thirty-two years old but she
looked much younger as she stood there, her lips a little parted in a
pleased smile of anticipation. She was leaning a little over the table
and her eyes were fixed with humorous intentness upon the spinning
wheel. Even amongst that crowd of beautiful women she possessed a
certain individual distinction. She not only looked what she was--an
Englishwoman of good birth--but there was a certain delicate aloofness
about her expression and bearing which gave an added charm to a
personality which seemed to combine the two extremes of provocativeness
and reserve. One would have hesitated to address to her even the chance
remarks which pass so easily between strangers around the tables.

"Violet here!" the man murmured under his breath. "Violet!"

There was tragedy in the whisper, a gleam of something like tragedy,
too, in the look which passed between the man and the woman a few
moments later. With her hands full of plaques which she had just won,
she raised her eyes at last from the board. The smile upon her lips was
the delighted smile of a girl. And then, as she was in the act of
sweeping her winnings into her gold bag, she saw the man opposite. The
smile seemed to die from her lips; it appeared, indeed, to pass with all
else of expression from her face. The plaques dropped one by one through
her fingers, into the satchel. Her eyes remained fixed upon him as
though she were looking upon a ghost. The seconds seemed drawn out into
a grim hiatus of time. The croupier's voice, the muttered imprecation of
a loser by her side, the necessity of making some slight movement in
order to allow the passage of an arm from some one in search of
change--some such trifle at last brought her back from the shadows. Her
expression became at once more normal. She did not remove her eyes but
she very slightly inclined her head towards the man. He, in return,
bowed very gravely and without a smile.

The table in front of her was cleared now. People were beginning to
consider their next coup. The voice of the croupier, with his
parrot-like cry, travelled down the board.

_"Faites vos jeux, mesdames et messieurs."_

The woman made no effort to stake. After a moment's hesitation she
yielded up her place, and moving backwards, seated herself upon an empty
divan. Rapidly the thoughts began to form themselves in her mind. Her
delicate eyebrows drew closer together in a distinct frown. After that
first shock, that queer turmoil of feeling, beyond analysis, yet having
within it some entirely unexpected constituent, she found herself
disposed to be angry. The sensation had not subsided when a moment or
two later she was conscious that the man whose coming had proved so
disturbing was standing before her.

"Good afternoon," he said, a little stiffly.

She raised her eyes. The frown was still upon her forehead, although to
a certain extent it was contradicted by a slight tremulousness of the
lips.

"Good afternoon, Henry!"

For some reason or other, further speech seemed to him a difficult
matter. He moved towards the vacant place.

"If you have no objection," he observed, as he seated himself.

She unfurled her fan--an ancient but wonderful weapon of defence. It
gave her a brief respite. Then she looked at him calmly.

"Of all places in the world," she murmured, "to meet you here!"

"Is it so extraordinary?"

"I find it so," she admitted. "You don't at all fit in, you know. A
scene like this," she added, glancing around, "would scarcely ever be
likely to attract you for its own sake, would it?"

"It doesn't particularly," he admitted.

"Then why have you come?"

He remained silent. The frown upon her forehead deepened.

"Perhaps," she went on coldly, "I can help you with your reply. You have
come because you are not satisfied with the reports of the private
detective whom you have engaged to watch me. You have come to supplement
them by your own investigation."

His frown matched hers. The coldness of his tone was rendered even more
bitter by its note of anger.

"I am surprised that you should have thought me capable of such an
action," he declared. "All I can say is that it is thoroughly in keeping
with your other suspicions of me, and that I find it absolutely
unworthy."

She laughed a little incredulously, not altogether naturally.

"My dear Henry," she protested, "I cannot flatter myself that there is
any other person in the world sufficiently interested in my movements to
have me watched."

"Are you really under the impression that that is the case?" he enquired
grimly.

"It isn't a matter of impression at all," she retorted. "It is the
truth. I was followed from London, I was watched at Cannes, I am watched
here day by day--by a little man in a brown suit and a Homburg hat, and
with a habit of lounging. He lounges under my windows, he is probably
lounging across the way now. He has lounged within fifty yards of me for
the last three weeks, and to tell you the truth I am tired of him.
Couldn't I have a week's holiday? I'll keep a diary and tell you all
that you want to know."

"Is it sufficient," he asked, "for me to assure you, upon my word of
honour, that I know nothing of this?"

She was somewhat startled. She turned and looked at him. His tone was
convincing. He had not the face of a man whose word of honour was a
negligible thing.

"But, Henry," she protested, "I tell you that there is no doubt about
the matter. I am watched day and night--I, an insignificant person whose
doings can be of no possible interest save to you and you only."

The man did not at once reply. His thoughts seemed to have wandered off
for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone had lost its note of
resentment.

"I do not blame you for your suspicion," he said calmly, "although I can
assure you that I have never had any idea of having you watched. It is
not a course which could possibly have suggested itself to me, even in
my most unhappy moments."

She was puzzled--at once puzzled and interested.

"I am so glad to hear this," she said, "and of course I believe you, but
there the fact is. I think that you will agree with me that it is
curious."

"Isn't it possible," he ventured to suggest, "that it is your companions
who are the object of this man's vigilance? You are not, I presume,
alone here?"

She eyed him a little defiantly.

"I am here," she announced, "with Mr. and Mrs. Draconmeyer."

He heard her without any change of expression, but somehow or other it
was easy to see that her news, although more than half expected, had
stung him.

"Mr. and Mrs. Draconmeyer," he repeated, with slight emphasis on the
latter portion of the sentence.

"Certainly! I am sorry," she went on, a moment late, "that my companions
do not meet with your approval. That, however, I could scarcely expect,
considering--"

"Considering what?" he insisted, watching her steadfastly.

"Considering all things," she replied, after a moment's pause.

"Mrs. Draconmeyer is still an invalid?"

"She is still an invalid."

The slightly satirical note in his question seemed to provoke a certain
defiance in her manner as she turned a little sideways towards him. She
moved her fan slowly backwards and forwards, her head was thrown back,
her manner was almost belligerent. He took up the challenge. He asked
her in plain words the question which his eyes had already demanded.

"I find myself constrained to ask you," he said, in a studiously
measured tone, "by what means you became possessed of the pearls you are
wearing? I do not seem to remember them as your property."

Her eyes flashed.

"Don't you think," she returned, "that you are a little outstepping your
privileges?"

"Not in the least," he declared. "You are my wife, and although you have
defied me in a certain matter, you are still subject to my authority. I
see you wearing jewels in public of which you were certainly not
possessed a few months ago, and which neither your fortune nor mine--"

"Let me set your mind at rest," she interrupted icily. "The pearls are
not mine. They belong to Mrs. Draconmeyer."

"Mrs. Draconmeyer!"

"I am wearing them," she continued, "at Linda's special request. She is
too unwell to appear in public and she is very seldom able to wear any
of her wonderful jewelry. It gives her pleasure to see them sometimes
upon other people."

He remained quite silent for several moments. He was, in reality,
passionately angry. Self-restraint, however, had become such a habit of
his that there were no indications of his condition save in the slight
twitchings of his long fingers and a tightening at the corners of his
lips. She, however, recognised the symptoms without difficulty.

"Since you defy my authority," he said, "may I ask whether my wishes
have any weight with you?"

"That depends," she replied.

"It is my earnest wish," he went on, "that you do not wear another
woman's jewelry, either in public or privately."

She appeared to reflect for a moment. In effect she was struggling
against a conviction that his request was reasonable.

"I am sorry," she said at last. "I see no harm whatever in my doing so
in this particular instance. It gives great pleasure to poor Mrs.
Draconmeyer to see her jewels and admire them, even if she is unable to
wear them herself. It gives me an intense joy which even a normal man
could scarcely be expected to understand; certainly not you. I am sorry
that I cannot humour you."

He leaned towards her.

"Not if I beg you?"

She looked at him fixedly, looked at him as though she searched for
something in his face, or was pondering over something in his tone. It
was a moment which might have meant much. If she could have seen into
his heart and understood the fierce jealousy which prompted his words,
it might have meant a very great deal. As it was, her contemplation
appeared to be unsatisfactory.

"I am sorry that you should lay so much stress upon so small a thing,"
she said. "You were always unreasonable. Your present request is another
instance of it. I was enjoying myself very much indeed until you came,
and now you wish to deprive me of one of my chief pleasures. I cannot
humour you."

He turned away. Even then chance might have intervened. The moment her
words had been spoken she realised a certain injustice in them, realised
a little, perhaps, the point of view of this man who was still her
husband. She watched him almost eagerly, hoping to find some sign in his
face that it was not only his stubborn pride which spoke. She failed,
however. He was one of those men who know too well how to wear the mask.

"May I ask where you are staying here?" he enquired presently.

"At the Hotel de Paris."

"It is unfortunate," he observed. "I will move my quarters to-morrow."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Monte Carlo is full of hotels," she remarked, "but it seems a pity that
you should move. The place is large enough for both of us."

"It is not long," he retorted, "since you found London itself too small.
I should be very sorry to spoil your holiday."

Her eyes seemed to dwell for a moment upon the Spanish dancer who sat at
the table opposite them, a woman whose name had once been a household
word, dethroned now, yet still insistent for notice and homage;
commanding them, even, with the wreck of her beauty and the splendour of
her clothes.

"It seems a queer place, this," she observed, "for domestic
disagreements. Let us try to avoid disputable subjects. Shall I be too
inquisitive if I ask you once more what in the name of all that is
unsuitable brought you to such a place as Monte Carlo?"

He fenced with her question. Perhaps he resented the slightly ironical
note in her tone. Perhaps there were other reasons.

"Why should I not come to Monte Carlo?" he enquired. "Parliament is not
particularly amusing when one is in opposition, and I do not hunt. The
whole world amuses itself here."

"But not you," she replied quickly. "I know you better than that, my
dear Henry. There is nothing here or in this atmosphere which could
possibly attract you for long. There is no work for you to do--work, the
very breath of your body; work, the one thing you live for and were made
for; work, you man of sawdust and red tape."

"Am I as bad as all that?" he asked quietly.

She fingered her pearls for a moment.

"Perhaps I haven't the right to complain," she acknowledged. "I have
gone my own way always. But if one is permitted to look for a moment
into the past, can you tell me a single hour when work was not the
prominent thought in your brain, the idol before which you worshipped?
Why, even our honeymoon was spent canvassing!"

"The election was an unexpected one," he reminded her.

"It would have been the same thing," she declared. "The only literature
which you really understand is a Blue Book, and the only music you hear
is the chiming of Big Ben."

"You speak," he remarked, "as though you resented these things. Yet you
knew before you married me that I had ambitions, that I did not propose
to lead an idle life."

"Oh, yes, I knew!" she assented drily. "But we are wandering from the
point. I am still wondering what has brought you here. Have you come
direct from England?"

He shook his head.

"I came to-day from Bordighera."

"More and more mysterious," she murmured. "Bordighera, indeed! I thought
you once told me that you hated the Riviera."

"So I do," he agreed.

"And yet you are here?"

"Yet I am here."

"And you have not come to look after me," she went on, "and the mystery
of the little brown man who watches me is still unexplained."

"I know nothing about that person," he asserted, "and I had no idea that
you were here."

"Or you would not have come?" she challenged him.

"Your presence," he retorted, nettled into forgetting himself for a
moment, "would not have altered my plans in the slightest."

"Then you have a reason for coming!" she exclaimed quickly.

He gave no sign of annoyance but his lips were firmly closed. She
watched him steadfastly.

"I wonder at myself no longer," she continued. "I do not think that any
woman in the world could ever live with a man to whom secrecy is as
great a necessity as the very air he breathes. No wonder, my dear Henry,
the politicians speak so well of you, and so confidently of your
brilliant future!"

"I am not aware," he observed calmly, "that I have ever been unduly
secretive so far as you are concerned. During the last few months,
however, of our life together, you must remember that you chose to
receive on terms of friendship a person whom I regard--"

Her eyes suddenly flashed him a warning. He dropped his voice almost to
a whisper. A man was approaching them.

"As an enemy," he concluded, under his breath.




CHAPTER II

BY ACCIDENT OR DESIGN


The newcomer, who had presented himself now before Hunterleys and his
wife, was a man of somewhat unusual appearance. He was tall,
thickly-built, his black beard and closely-cropped hair were streaked
with grey, he wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and he carried his head a
little thrust forward, as though, even with the aid of his glasses, he
was still short-sighted. He had the air of a foreigner, although his
tone, when he spoke, was without accent. He held out his hand a little
tentatively, an action, however, which Hunterleys appeared to ignore.

"My dear Sir Henry!" he exclaimed. "This is a surprise, indeed! Monte
Carlo is absolutely the last place in the world in which I should have
expected to come across you. The Sporting Club, too! Well, well, well!"

Hunterleys, standing easily with his hands behind his back, raised his
eyebrows. The two men were of curiously contrasting types. Hunterleys,
slim and distinguished, had still the frame of an athlete,
notwithstanding his colourless cheeks and the worn lines about his eyes.
He was dressed with extreme simplicity. His deep-set eyes and sensitive
mouth were in marked contrast to the other's coarser mould of features
and rather full lips. Yet there was about both men an air of strength,
strength developed, perhaps, in a different manner, but still an
appreciable quality.

"They say that the whole world is here," Hunterleys remarked. "Why may
not I form a harmless unit of it?"

"Why not, indeed?" Draconmeyer assented heartily. "The most serious of
us must have our frivolous moments. I hope that you will dine with us
to-night? We shall be quite alone."

Hunterleys shook his head.

"Thank you," he said, "I have another engagement pending."

Mr. Draconmeyer was filled with polite regrets, but he did not renew the
invitation.

"When did you arrive?" he asked.

"A few hours ago," Hunterleys replied.

"By the Luxe? How strange! I went down to meet it."

"I came from the other side."

"Ah!"

Mr. Draconmeyer's ejaculation was interrogative, Hunterleys hesitated
for a moment. Then he continued with a little shrug of the shoulders.

"I have been staying at San Remo and Bordighera."

Mr. Draconmeyer was much interested.

"So that is where you have been burying yourself," he remarked. "I saw
from the papers that you had accepted a six months' pair. Surely,
though, you don't find the Italian Riviera very amusing?"

"I am abroad for a rest," Hunterleys replied.

Mr. Draconmeyer smiled curiously.

"A rest?" he repeated. "That rather belies your reputation, you know.
They say that you are tireless, even when you are out of office."

Hunterleys turned from the speaker towards his wife.

"I have not tempted fortune myself yet," he observed. "I think that I
shall have a look into the baccarat room. Do you care to stroll that
way?"

Lady Hunterleys rose at once to her feet. Mr. Draconmeyer, however,
intervened. He laid his fingers upon Hunterleys' arm.

"Sir Henry," he begged, "our meeting has been quite unexpected, but in a
sense it is opportune. Will you be good enough to give me five minutes'
conversation?"

"With pleasure," Hunterleys replied. "My time is quite at your disposal,
if you have anything to say."

Draconmeyer led the way out of the crowded room, along the passage and
into the little bar. They found a quiet corner and two easy-chairs.
Draconmeyer gave an order to a waiter. For a few moments their
conversation was conventional.

"I trust that you think your wife looking better for the change?"
Draconmeyer began. "Her companionship is a source of great pleasure and
relief to my poor wife."

"Does the conversation you wish to have with me refer to Lady
Hunterleys?" her husband asked quietly. "If so, I should like to say a
few preliminary words which would, I hope, place the matter at once
beyond the possibility of any misunderstanding."

Draconmeyer moved a little uneasily in his place.

"I have other things to say," he declared, "yet I would gladly hear what
is in your mind at the present moment. You do not, I fear, approve of
this friendship between my wife and Lady Hunterleys."

Hunterleys was uncompromising, almost curt.

"I do not," he agreed. "It is probably no secret to you that my wife and
I are temporarily estranged," he continued. "The chief reason for that
estrangement is that I forbade her your house or your acquaintance."

Draconmeyer was a little taken back. Such extreme directness of speech
was difficult to deal with.

"My dear Sir Henry," he protested, "you distress me. I do not understand
your attitude in this matter at all."

"There is no necessity for you to understand it," Hunterleys retorted
coolly. "I claim the right to regulate my wife's visiting list. She
denies that right."

"Apart from the question of marital control," Mr. Draconmeyer persisted,
"will you tell me why you consider my wife and myself unfit persons to
find a place amongst Lady Hunterleys' acquaintances?"

"No man is bound to give the reason for his dislikes," Hunterleys
replied. "Of your wife I know nothing. Nobody does. I have every
sympathy with her unfortunate condition, and that is all. You personally
I dislike. I dislike my wife to be seen with you, I dislike having her
name associated with yours in any manner whatsoever. I dislike sitting
with you here myself. I only hope that the five minutes' conversation
which you have asked for will not be exceeded."

Mr. Draconmeyer had the air of a benevolent person who is deeply pained.

"Sir Henry," he sighed, "it is not possible for me to disregard such
plain speaking. Forgive me if I am a little taken aback by it. You are
known to be a very skilful diplomatist and you have many weapons in your
armoury. One scarcely expected, however--one's breath is a little taken
away by such candour."

"I am not aware," Hunterleys said calmly, "that the question of
diplomacy need come in when one's only idea is to regulate the personal
acquaintances of oneself and one's wife."

Mr. Draconmeyer sat quite still for a moment, stroking his black beard.
His eyes were fixed upon the carpet. He seemed to be struggling with a
problem.

"You have taken the ground from beneath my feet," he declared. "Your
opinion of me is such that I hesitate to proceed at all in the matter
which I desired to discuss with you."

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