...the Man That (never) Broke The Bank At Monte Carlo

The man who is popularly supposed to have inspired this old music hall favorite never actually broke the casino at Monte Carlo, but he certainly bent it—not once but several times. And he wasn't the only one to "break the bank," though he was the most famous. A notorious swindler with many aliases, some French, some English, his real name probably was Charles Deville Wells.

In 1887 Wells arrived one day with �400 and left three days later with 40,000. It was not such a spectacular feat as it sounds. Contrary to the popular supposition, breaking the bank did not mean breaking the casino, but merely exhausting the funds of a single table. In those days this amounted only to �3,500. The table was then closed down, temporarily, and draped with black crepe. Nowadays the casino does not bother to close down a table. When the supply of chips approaches depletion, a fresh batch is hustled up from the vaults, and play continues until the player is satiated—or broke.

Wells won most of his money at roulette, using a doubling system. But on the third day, on his way out, he paused at a trente et quarante table, won �6,000 in half an hour and hung the crepe on that one, too.

Casino officials shrugged when Wells departed. The motto of all gambling houses everywhere—"They always come back"—is very dependable. Wells returned in a few months, picked up another �10,000 in another three days and hurried away. He was back two months later, this time with a yacht and a mistress. And this time he was a heavy loser. He had little luck for the rest of his life, some of which was spent in prison. He died penniless in France.

The modern generation of casino officials scarcely remembers this tale. It is only one of thousands that have accumulated about the Casino de Monte-Carlo, which not only is the world's most romantic business enterprise but at the same time one of the most conservative and reliable. In almost a century of operation it never has had a losing year.

The business is less profitable now than it was, say, 50 years ago, partly because the world has changed, partly because competition for gamblers' money has sprung up all along the rest of the Riviera, where newer casinos now flourish at Cannes, Antibes, Nice and lesser resorts. The idle rich are scarce in these times. The income tax has cut deep into the ability of sporting gentlemen to buck the baccarat table. And there has been a shrinkage in the world supply of royalty, once a steady customer.

No longer do Russian grand dukes arrive at Monaco with trunks full of golden louis to be used as chips. The louis itself has disappeared, and long gone with it and the dukes are games like whist, piquet, boston and �cart�. Now there are craps and slot machines. The royal punter is seen less. The movie producer is seen more.

But the casino's old glamour still wafts an enticement to the world. Las Vegas is bigger, more exciting, noisier, more crowded. Even so, the fading but well-kept appointments of Monte Carlo, the polite murmur of the bettors, the modulated chant of the croupiers, the magnificent setting of amethyst sea shining at the edges of the Maritime Alps, the memory of old ways that cannot return—these create a gentle mood in which it is a pleasure to lose a little.

Part of the charm of the old place lies in its legends, most of which are apocryphal. It is not true that the Monaco suicide rate is excessive. It is not true that the casino's profits are so huge that Monegasque residents need pay no income tax. They do not pay income tax, but these days the casino represents only 10%, if that, of the little principality's economy. It is true that a wise government does not let Monegasque citizens, except employees, even enter the casino, let alone gamble there. (They gamble at Nice, only 20 miles away, or at Menton, even nearer.)

It is not true that the casino will sympathetically stake a bankrupt to his fare home, that the number of the first hymn sung at the English Chapel will be a sure winner at Sunday roulette or that a little band of modest system players regularly takes away small sums from the casino after daily sessions against the wheel.