"So-so," said the gentleman.
"Monsieur has been unfortunate in his duels."
"Mon Dieu! Yes; I always kill people."
"Monsieur has one remorse."
"Sapristi! Thou art clever, and I lucky to have but one. Go on; 't is vastly amusing. Shall I live to be old? My people do."
"Monsieur will have troubles, but he will live to be old—very old."
"Will he, indeed? I hardly like that. If I were you, I would tell more agreeable fortunes. To outlive the joys of life, to be left a stranded wreck, while the world goes by gay and busy—pshaw! I like not that. You do it well. Let me read your own palm. I have a taste for this art."
François was at once interested. The gentleman's strong left hand took that of the thief, and with a wandering forefinger he ran over the lines of the palm. He let it fall, and looked downward at his own hand. "It is strange that we shall meet again, and in an hour of danger. You will be fortunate, and I shall not. You will have—"
"Tenez, monsieur—stop!" cried François; "I will hear no more"; and he drew his hands within the tent-folds.
"Dame! and you are really a believer in it all, my good thief? Belief is out of fashion. I hope you did tell that cursed Jacobin he would go to a place he doesn't believe in, but which is a little like France to-day. Come and see me if ever you are in trouble and this trade comes to an end. I like men who can laugh. 'T is a pretty talent, and rather gone out just now. I am the Marquis de Ste. Luce—or was. Come and laugh for me, and tell me your story." He let fall a gold louis in Toto's basket, and elbowed his way through the crowd, with "Pardon, monsieur," to white cockades, and scant courtesy to the Jacobins and the demi-constitutionnels, who were readily known by their costumes.