ded her frontiers to the
Riviera. This little corner of the Mediterranean escaped the Juggernaut
of developing political unity that crushed the life out of a dozen other
feudal robber states. And when the logical moment for disappearance
arrived, Monte Carlo saved Monaco. Another means of preying upon others
was happily discovered. The Monegasques abandoned pistols and cutlasses
for little rakes. The descendants of those who stood on the poops of
ships now sit at the ends of green tables. The gold still pours in,
however, and no law reaches those who take it.

There is this difference: you no longer empty your pockets to the
Monegasques under compulsion, and the battlements of old Monaco play no
part in your losses. The proverb dearest to American hearts says that a
sucker is born every minute. It is incomplete, that proverb. It should
be rounded out with the axiom that at some minute every person born is a
sucker.

So I look over to the great white building which is the salvation of the
Monegasques--their symbol of freedom from taxes and military service--and
know that the strength of Monaco is the weakness of the world. I return
to the Place du Palais. The Artist is reluctantly strapping up his
tools. We glance for a brief moment at the best sunset view on the
Riviera. Ships sail by unmolested. No more have they fear of the Tete
du Chien and of the huge stone _boulet_ that Fort Antoine used to lance
if a merchantman dared to be deaf to the call of the galley darting forth
from the Port of Hercules. But we?

The Artist's fingers are nimble with the buckle after a day with the
pencil. Pipe is filled from pouch with an inimitably deft movement of
one hand. Reluctant is generally the right word to use when I speak of
the Artist leaving his work. I am not so sure now. As I hope, he does
not suggest a west-bound tram at the foot of the Palais or the 6:40
train; he says,

"If we alternate eighteen and thirty-six this evening, putting by half
each time we win--"

"Like that English old maid we saw last week," I interrupted, "who
doubled just once instead of splitting. I can see the drop of the jaw
now. Even without the false teeth, it would have been hideous."

"On the red then as long as we last," conceded the Artist, who knew my
horror of complicated figure systems, "and there's the sign."

He pointed to the red fringe that lit up fading Cap Martin.

"If we do not get over soon," I answered, "b