“No, Monsieur, I am not afraid. Oh, yes; she may read my palm, it is all a jest, of course.”
The Egyptian held the man’s hand at which she had not yet glanced. She took the hand of the Marquise.
“Pardon, Madame, it is no jest, it is a science,” she said briefly, and holding their hands, glanced from one to the other.
“Firm hands, strong hands, both,” she said, and then bent over that of the Marquise; as she did so the expression of casual interest faded from her face; she slowly lifted her head and met the gaze of the owner.
“Well, well? Am I to commit murders?” she asked; but her smile was an uneasy one; the gaze of the Egyptian made her shrink.
“Not with your own hand,” said the woman, slowly studying the well-marked palm; “but you will live for awhile surrounded by death and danger. You will hate, and suffer for 71 the hate you feel. You will love, and die for the love you will not take––you––”
But the Marquise drew her hand away petulantly.
“Oh! I am to die of love, then?––I!” and her light laugh was disdainful. “That is quite enough of the fates for one evening;” she regarded the pink palm doubtfully. “See, Monsieur, it does not look so terrible; yet it contains all those horrors.”
“Naturally it would not contain them,” said the Egyptian. “You will force yourself to meet what you call the horrors. You will sacrifice yourself. You will meet the worst as the women of ’93 ascended the guillotine––laughing.”
“Ah, what pictures! Monsieur, I wish you a better fortune.”