Finally I squared the pack, took a long-breath, and cut. I turned up
the card. It was the ten-spot of hearts. I considered this most
propitious; hearts being my long suit in everything but love,--love
having not yet crossed my path. I put the card in my wallet, and was
about to toss the rest of the pack under the table, when, a woman's
voice stayed my hand.
"Don't throw them away. Tell my fortune first."
I looked up, not a little surprised. It was the beautiful young girl
who had spoken. She was leaning on her elbows, her chin propped in her
palms, and the light in her grey chatoyant eyes was wholly innocent
and mischievous. In Monsieur Mouquin's cellar people are rather
Bohemian, not to say friendly; for it is the rendezvous of artists,
literary men and journalists,--a clan that holds formality in contempt.
"Tell your fortune?" I repeated parrot-like.
"Yes."
"Your mirror can tell you that more accurately than I can," I replied
with a frank glance of admiration.
She drew her shoulders together and dropped them. "I spoke to you,
sir, because I believed you wouldn't say anything so commonplace as
that. When one sees a man soberly shuffling a pack of cards in a place
like this, one naturally expects originality."
"Well, perhaps you caught me off my guard,"--humbly.
"I am original. Did you ever before witness this performance in a
public restaurant?"--making the cards purr.
"I can not say I have,"--amused.
"Well, no more have I!"
"Why, then, do you do it?"--with renewed interest.
"Shall I tell your fortune?"
"Not now. I had much rather you would tell me the meaning of this
play."
I leaned toward her and whispered mysteriously: "The truth is, I belong
to a secret society, and I was cutting the cards to see whether or not
I should blow up the post-office to-night or the police-station. You
mustn't tell anybody."
"Oh!" She started back from the table. "You do not look it," she
added suddenly.
"I know it; appearances are so deceptive," said I sadly.
Then the old man laughed, and the girl laughed, and I laughed; and I
wasn't quite sure that the grave waiter did not crack the ghost of a
smile--in relief.
"And what, may I ask, was the fatal card?" inquired the old man,
folding his paper.
"The ace of spades; we always choose that gloomy card in secret
societies. There is something deadly and suggestive about it," I
answered morbidly.