Into that stifling atmosphere—­for the Administration of the Bains de Mer of Monaco seem as afraid of fresh air as of purity propaganda—­the glorious afternoon sunlight struggled through the curtained windows, while over each table, in addition to the electric light, oil-lamps shaded green with a billiard-table effect cast a dull, ghastly illumination upon the eager countenances of the players.  Most of those who go to Monte Carlo wonder at the antiquated mode of illumination.  It is, however, in consequence of an attempted raid upon the tables one night, when some adventurers cut the electric-light main, and in the darkness grabbed all they could get from the bank.

The two English visitors, both men of refinement and culture, who had watched the tall, very handsome woman in black, to whom the older man had referred as Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo, wandered through the trente-et-quarante rooms where all was silence, and counters, representing gold, were being staked with a twelve-thousand franc maximum.

Those rooms beyond are the haunt of the professional gambler, the man or woman who has been seized by the demon of speculation, just as others have been seized by that of drugs or drink.  Curiously enough women are more prone to gamble than men, and the Administration of the Etablissement will tell you that when a woman of any nationality starts to gamble she will become reckless until her last throw with the devil.

Those who know Monte Carlo, those who have been habitues for twenty years—­as the present writer has been—­know too well, and have seen too often, the deadly influence of the tables upon the lighter side of woman’s nature.  The smart woman from Paris, Vienna, or Rome never loses her head.  She gambles always discreetly.  The fashionable cocottes seldom lose much.  They gamble at the tables discreetly and make eyes at men if they win, or if they lose.  If the latter they generally obtain a “loan” from somebody.  What matter?  When one is at “Monty” one is not in a Wesleyan chapel.  English men and women when they go to the Riviera leave their morals at home with their silk hats and Sunday gowns.  And it is strange to see the perfectly respectable Englishwoman admiring the same daring costumes of the French pseudo-"countesses” at which they have held up their hands in horror when they have seen them pictured in the papers wearing those latest “creations” of the Place Vendome.

Yes.  It is a hypocritical world, and nowhere is canting hypocrisy more apparent than inside the Casino at Monte Carlo.

While the two Englishmen were strolling over the polished parquet of the elegant world-famous salles-de-jeu “Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo” was experiencing quite an extraordinary run of luck.

But “Mademoiselle,” as the croupiers always called her, was usually lucky.  She was an experienced, and therefore a careful player.  When she staked a maximum it was not without very careful calculation upon the chances.  Mademoiselle was well known to the Administration.  Often her winnings were sensational, hence she served as an advertisement to the Casino, for her success always induced the uninitiated and unwary to stake heavily, and usually with disastrous results.