"Perhaps I am a magician too," said I, laughing. "But this Egyptian of whom you tell us—he is a juggler, I presume?"
"Jouer—joueuse de gobelets, you mean? Oh, no. In a little water or ink, poured into the hollow of your hand, he will show you the face of any friend you most desire to see. It is miraculous."
"Diable!" exclaimed Victor Baudeuf, a well-decorated captain of a French line regiment; "then he shall show me Mogador."
The name of this well-known French dancer elicited a burst of laughter; but Jolicoeur said—
"Monsieur, you should call her Madame la Comtesse de Chabrillan!"
"And where the devil is monsieur le Comte?" asked Baudeuf, with a grimace.
"At the gold-fields, having spent his fortune twice on the girl."
"Well, to a wife in Paris a husband at the gold-fields is just as valuable as no husband at all. Très bon! I shall see pretty Mogador, if your magician has any skill."
"And where does your magician hang out?" asked Studhome.
"Hang—hang—il mérite la corde, you mean, monsieur?" asked the puzzled Frenchman.