Mme. Cibot stared stupidly at the sorceress, and could not answer.
“Ah! you would have the grand jeu; I have treated you as an old acquaintance. I only want a hundred francs—”
“Cibot,—going to die?” gasped the portress.
“So I have been telling you very dreadful things, have I?” asked Mme. Fontaine, with an extremely ingenuous air.
“Why, yes!” said La Cibot, taking a hundred francs from her pocket and laying them down on the edge of the table. “Going to be murdered, think of it—”
“Ah! there it is! You would have the grand jeu; but don’t take on so, all the folk that are murdered on the cards don’t die.”
“But is it possible, Ma’am Fontaine?”
“Oh, I know nothing about it, my pretty dear! You would rap at the door of the future; I pull the cord, and it came.”
“It, what?” asked Mme. Cibot.
“Well, then, the Spirit!” cried the sorceress impatiently.