Loser Takes Al

That night I brought my winnings up to fifteen million francs before dinner, and I felt it called for a celebration. I had been neglecting Cary a little—I realized that, so I thought we would have a good dinner and go to the ballet instead of my returning to the tables. I told her that and she seemed pleased. “Tired businessman relaxes,” she said.

“As a matter of fact I am a little tired.” Those who have not played roulette seriously little know how fatiguing it can be. If I had worked less hard during the afternoon I wouldn’t have lost my temper with the waiter in the bar. I had ordered two very dry Martinis and he brought them to us quite drowned in Vermouth—I could tell at once from the colour without tasting. To make matters worse he tried to explain away the colour by saying he had used Booth’s gin. “But you know perfectly well that I only take Gordon’s,” I said, and sent them back. He brought me two more and he had put lemon peel in them. I said, “For God’s sake how long does one have to be a customer in this bar before you begin to learn one’s taste?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I only came yesterday.”

I could see Cary’s mouth tighten. I was in the wrong, of course, but I had spent a very long day at the Casino, and she might have realized that I am not the kind of man who is usually crotchety with servants. She said, “Who would think that a week ago we didn’t even dare to speak to a waiter in case he gave us a bill?”

When we went in to dinner there was a little trouble about our table on the terrace: we were earlier than usual, but as I said to Cary we had been good customers and they could have taken some small trouble to please. However, this time I was careful not to let my irritation show more than very slightly—I was determined that this dinner should be one to remember.

Cary as a rule likes to have her mind made up for her, so I took the menu and began to order. “Caviare,” I said.

“For one,” Cary said.

“What will you have? Smoked salmon?”

“You order yours,” Cary said.

I ordered ‘bresse à l’estragon à la broche’, a little Roquefort, and some wild strawberries. This, I thought, was a moment too for the Gruaud Larose ‘34 (they would have learned their lesson about the temperature). I leant back feeling pleased and contented: my dispute with the waiter was quite forgotten, and I knew that I had behaved politely and with moderation when I found that our table was occupied.

“And Madame?” the waiter asked.

“A roll and butter and a cup of coffee,” Cary said.

“But Madame perhaps would like…” She gave him her sweetest smile as though to show me what I had missed. She said, “Just a roll and butter please. I’m not hungry. To keep Monsieur company.”

I said angrily, “In that case I’ll cancel…” but the waiter had already gone. I said, “How dare you?”

“What’s the matter, darling?”

“You know very well what’s the matter. You let me order…”

“But truly I’m not hungry, darling. I just wanted to be sentimental, that’s all. A roll and butter reminds me of the days when we weren’t rich. Don’t you remember that little café at the foot of the steps?”

“You are laughing at me.”

“But no, darling. Don’t you like thinking of those days at all?”

“Those days, those days—why don’t you talk about last week and how you were afraid to send anything to the laundry and we couldn’t afford the English papers and you couldn’t read the French ones and…”

“Don’t you remember how reckless you were when you gave five francs to a beggar? Oh, that reminds me…”

“What of?”

“I never meet the hungry young man now.”

“I don’t suppose he goes sunbathing.”

My caviare came and my vodka. The waiter said, “Would Madame like her coffee now?”

“No. No. I think I’ll toy with it while Monsieur has his—his…”

“Bresse à l’estragon, Madame.”

I’ve never enjoyed caviare less. She watched every helping I took, her chin in her hand, leaning forward in what I suppose she meant to be a devoted and wifely way. The toast crackled in the silence, but I was determined not to be beaten. I ate the next course grimly to an end and pretended not to notice how she spaced out her roll—she couldn’t have been enjoying her meal much either. She said to the waiter, “I’ll have another cup of coffee to keep my husband company with his strawberries. Wouldn’t you like a half bottle of champagne, darling?”

“No. If I drink any more I might lose my self-control…”

“Darling, what have I said? Don’t you like me to remember the days when we were poor and happy? After all, if I had married you now it might have been for your money. You know you were terribly nice when you gave me five hundred francs to gamble with. You watched the wheel so seriously.”

“Aren’t I serious now?”

“You don’t watch the wheel any longer. You watch your paper and your figures. Darling, we are on holiday.”

“We would have been if Dreuther had come.”

“We can afford to go by ourselves now. Let’s take a plane tomorrow—anywhere.”