Sabine raised her eyebrows. “What does your husband have to say about that?” She nodded toward the front room.
As he had every evening, after returning from the Trinkhalle, Friedrich had gone straight in to see his mother. Since her husband’s death, madam had lost her voice. It made no difference what any of them tried; so far they had been unable to rouse the widow from her cocoon of grief. And while it was very nice of Friedrich to lavish so much care on his mother, Sabine wondered whether his wife didn’t deserve a little attention, too?
“Friedrich . . . hasn’t been much of a help to me at all.” Flora laughed sadly. “When spring is here, the people will be more interested in flowers again, he says.” Her eyelids fluttered as she stared at Sabine. “And what if they aren’t?” She threw her hands over her face, and her body shook with sobs.
Helplessly, Sabine stroked her friend’s back.
“What kind of silly creature am I? Since when did crying make anything any better?” Flora gulped.
Sabine held out an apple for her. “Eat something. When I see how pale and wretched you look, I get truly scared.”
When Flora just shook her head, Sabine picked up a knife and sliced the apple into chunks. Then she fed Flora as she would a small child. After a little while, she saw some color return to Flora’s pallid cheeks.
“I think it’s about time you began to tell your mother-in-law about your concerns. I mean, doesn’t she have a right to know how serious things are?” Time to recover from the shock of her husband’s death was one thing, but couldn’t Flora and Friedrich see that Ernestine was only sinking deeper and deeper into her grief with every passing day?
“When money was tight in the past, madam at least helped me to bring some variety into what I serve. But right now, she doesn’t seem to care how I get by with the little bit of money your husband gives me.” Sabine heaved the pot of potatoes onto the stove.
“Ernestine is grieving so deeply. How can I burden her with anything else? And quite apart from that, how could she, of all people, help me with the shop? As for the housekeeping money, I can give you something. My mother gave me a bit of money when I got married. Friedrich doesn’t know anything about it, and my mother said I should put it away for a rainy day.”
“Well, today is looking rather rainy, I must say!” said Sabine, and laughed. “I hope you really can spare a little.”
A smile crossed Flora’s face, and then she jumped up and returned a short time later with a large leather drawstring purse. When she had given Sabine a few coins to bolster the housekeeping money, the maid returned to the stove in a lighter frame of mind and speculatively stabbed a potato.
“It’s always the same worry: money, money, money! You need a goose that lays golden eggs, or to win a million marks in the casino. Then I’d bake a chicken for you every day, and ham and pies as well. No more turnips and potatoes every day.” With a sigh, she replaced the lid on the pot.
Instead of answering, Flora stared at the purse in her hands.
“The casino . . . it would be worth a try.”
“Are you out of your mind? Good gracious, Flora, I was making a joke! Please tell me you’re not seriously thinking about taking your good money and—” Sabine broke off abruptly when she saw the look in Flora’s eye. She knew that sparkle only too well: it appeared whenever Flora got an idea into her head that nothing could shake out again.
Wearing one of Ernestine’s hats with the brim pulled low over her eyes, and with Ernestine’s black shawl around her shoulders, Flora hurried through the narrow streets in the direction of the casino, her purse held firmly in her hand.
She had only two hours. If she could be back home again for dinner, Friedrich would not even know she had left the house.
She peered along the alley ahead. The weather was bad, and most people were indoors. Only Sabine’s friend, the butcher Semmel, was in sight, carrying a bucket across his courtyard. Two stray dogs were jumping around him. I hope he doesn’t recognize me, thought Flora anxiously.
Just then, he looked over in her direction. He nodded a curt greeting, then turned away to deal with the persistent dogs.
Had he realized who she was?
Two hours. After that, she would either be a well-off woman without a worry in the world, or . . .
Two hours to make her fortune in the casino. It would be enough just to double her money. She would, of course, give part of it to Sabine, and she would use the rest to buy beautiful flowers.
The Conversationshaus came into view, and Flora’s daydreams dissipated in the wintry air.
Two hours. And she had never even seen the inside of the casino.
Summoning all her courage, Flora pushed open the door to the gaming room.
For a while, she simply drifted aimlessly around the cigar-smoke-filled room. There were no more than two-dozen guests present, primarily older men, although there were also several women drinking sparkling wine and waggling fans.
Relieved not to see a familiar face among them, Flora found herself behind one of the roulette tables. The game did not appear particularly complicated. While the players were busy placing their jetons, the croupier set the roulette wheel spinning. Then he flicked a small ball in the opposite direction. “Rien ne va plus!” he called to no one in particular, and the players gathered around the table seemed to hold their breath. The ball rolled and rolled, then hopped and jumped for a few seconds. Only when it finally settled into one of the small compartments did the croupier call the winning number and its color.
After she had watched for a while, she decided to try her luck. Guessing the right number in advance seemed to her a great risk, but she was willing to try her luck with choosing a color.
Red was the color of the most beautiful tulips in G?nningen, and her favorite roses as well. Red was also the color of love.
“Faites vos jeux,” said the croupier, his expression impassive.
With trembling fingers, Flora opened her purse and laid all her jetons on . . .
“Red!” She was so excited that her voice almost broke.
Dear God, please, please . . .
With her hands clasped as if praying, Flora held her breath and stared at the rolling ball.
Dear God, please, please . . .
Black, red, black . . . The ball slowed down, popped into a black, jumped on, clattered its way over several numbers until finally settling on . . . red!
“Numéro trois, rouge!” The croupier pointed his rake at the number three.
Flora could hardly believe her luck. She gaped in disbelief at the jetons that the croupier pushed her way. She could exchange them for cash at the cashier at any time, he said helpfully.
It was as simple as that? A few breathless moments and she had doubled her money.
After all the sadness and all the worry, luck was finally smiling on her. Flora felt it deep inside. She’d be stupid not to try one more time . . .
“Red!”
It worked again. The ball dropped into twenty-three red.
“The girl has a lucky touch,” remarked the man beside Flora, clapping his hands appreciatively.
“Beginner’s luck,” murmured a man across the table.
Flora beamed. So much money all at once! When she told Friedrich . . . but of course she could not do that.
While the other players were busy with their own bets, Flora thought feverishly. So much money, so easily earned. But easy come, easy go, they said . . . Should she really risk it a third time?
“Mesdames et messieurs—faites vos jeux, s’il vous pla?t!” The croupier was already setting the wheel in motion.
Flora took a deep breath. Why not? Red was her lucky color.
“Red!”
Either God was not a gambler or he was not present in Baden-Baden that day.
The ball stopped on black.
Chapter Thirty-Two