"You have a remarkable hand, monsieur," she said, without looking up; "the great Fabius Cunctator must have had a hand like yours--yet here are lines which must have been found in the hand of Catiline, though without the restless haste of that conspirator, and here are the lines of Cæsar--no, of Augustus. Sir," she said, "your hand is very remarkable, it is formed slowly and carefully to knot the threads of fate, it is made to build up and to collect, to uphold and to foster, and yet fate often compels it to destroy."
"And whither does the line of life lead?" asked the emperor, in so low a voice that the sound was scarcely heard.
Madame Moreau said slowly and thoughtfully:
"It turns back to whence it came."
Napoleon looked at Piétri.
"Uncertain as the Pythia," he whispered.
Madame Moreau might have heard and understood these words or not. She said:
"The riddle which the line of life does not reveal, will perhaps be read by my cards."
She let go the emperor's hand, and taking from a drawer in her table some large cards, beautifully painted with strange figures and characters, she handed them to the emperor to shuffle.
He did so, still keeping his face in the shadow from the lamp, and gave her back the pack.