"Momselle Aurore," suddenly said Palmyre, "you want me to work a spell for something else."
Aurora started, looked up for an instant in a frightened way, and then dropped her eyes and let her head droop, murmuring:
"No, I do not."
Palmyre fixed a long look upon her former mistress. She saw that though Aurora might be distressed about the rent, there was something else,--a deeper feeling,--impelling her upon a course the very thought of which drove the color from her lips and made her tremble.
"You are wearing red," said the philosophe.
Aurora's hand went nervously to the red ribbon about her neck.
"It is an accident; I had nothing else convenient."
"Miché Agoussou loves red," persisted Palmyre. (Monsieur Agoussou is the demon upon whom the voudous call in matters of love.)
The color that came into Aurora's cheek ought to have suited Monsieur precisely.
"It is an accident," she feebly insisted.