The gamblers

The narrative is, to say the least, a strange one; so strange, indeed, that had I not been one of the actual persons concerned in it I would never have believed such things were possible.

Yet these chapters of an eventful personal history, remarkable though they may appear, nevertheless form an unusual story--a combination of circumstances which will be found startling and curious, idyllic and tragic.

Reader, I would confess all, if I dared, but each of us has a skeleton in the cupboard, both you and I, for alas! I am no exception to the general rule prevailing among women.

If compelled by a natural instinct to suppress one single fact, I may add that it has little or nothing to do with the circumstances here related. It concerns only myself, and no woman cares to supply food for gossips at her own expense.

To be brief, it is my intention to narrate plainly and straightforwardly what occurred, while hoping that all who read may approach my story with a perfectly open mind, and afterwards judge me fairly, impartially, and without the prejudice likely to be entertained against one whose shortcomings are many, and whose actions have perhaps not always been tempered by wisdom.

My name is Carmela Rosselli. I am English, of Italian extraction, five-and-twenty years of age, and for many years--yes, I confess it freely--I have been utterly world-weary. I am an only child. My mother, one of the Yorkshire Burnetts, married Romolo Annibale, Marchese Rosselli, an impecunious member of the Florentine aristocracy, and after a childhood passed in Venice I was sent to the Convent of San Paolo della Croce, in the Val d'Ema, near Florence, to obtain my education. My mother's money enabled the Marchese to live in the reckless style customary to a gentleman of the Tuscan nobility; but, unfortunately for me, both my parents died when I was fifteen, and left me in the care of a second cousin, a woman but a few years older than myself--kind-hearted, everything that was most English and womanly, and in all respects truly devoted to me.

Thus it was that at the age of eighteen I received the maternal kiss of the grave-eyed Mother Superior, Suor Maria, and of all the good sisters in turn, and then travelled to London, accompanied by my guardian, Ulrica Yorke.

Like myself, Ulrica was wealthy; and because she was very smart and good-looking she did not want for admirers. We lived together at Queen's Gate for several years, amid that society which circles around Kensington Church, until one rather dull afternoon in autumn Ulrica made a most welcome suggestion.

"Carmela, I am ruined, morally and physically. I feel that I want a complete change."

I suggested Biarritz or Davos for the winter,

"No," she answered. "I feel that I must build up my constitution as well as my spirits. The gayer Continent is the only place--say Paris for a month, Monte Carlo for January, then Rome till after Easter."

"To Monte Carlo!" I gasped.

"Why not?" she inquired. "You have money, and we may just as well go abroad for a year to enjoy ourselves as vegetate here."

"You are tired of Guy?" I observed.

She shrugged her well-formed shoulders, pursed her lips, and contemplated her rings.

"He has become a little too serious," she said simply.

"And you want to escape him?" I remarked. "Do you know, Ulrica, I believe he really loves you."

"Well, and if he does?"