“Pardi!” replied the other—”spiders! I see ’em every day at home!”
“No matter, they bring luck; I’m going to put a crown on 9, 30 and 51; I’m sure they won’t all draw blanks.”
And the poor creature, who wore no stockings and whose skirt was full of holes, took a crown from her pocket to put on her spider. To those who believe firmly in dreams, numbers cease to be numbers, and become the objects they have seen in their dreams, all of which are represented by particular numbers, as set forth in the books of dreams, the Petit Cagliostro, the Aveugle du Bonheur, and a thousand nice little works of about the same value, which the ticket buyers know by heart. The keeper of the office, who knew her trade, and, when the customer was worth the trouble, could make calculations on the mists of the Seine, told them what numbers to take, when they described their dreams to her.
“Monsieur, give me my oxen,” said an oyster woman, presenting her thirty-sou piece.
“Monsieur, put twenty-four sous on a white cat for me.”
“My aunt’s dressing jacket, monsieur.”
“My little woman, some anchovies, in the first drawing.”
“Give me a terne on artichokes.”
“My child, I saw horses trotting round my room all night, just as if it was a stable.”
“What color were they?” inquired the agent, with the most comical gravity.