The visitor checked an indignant reply and simply glared through her veil.
Excellent fun, thought André, when you set one woman against another—and such women!
“Give me your hand,” the sorceress proceeded, and she inspected it with the greatest care, the owner watching her with ill-concealed anxiety. “I see a crown in the palm which I cannot understand,” she said slowly, “a crown reversed. A beautiful hand,” she murmured, “beautiful and strong. The hand of a morceau de roi.”
Madame Villefranche uttered a sharp cry, almost of triumph. “Morceau de roi,” she repeated. “Morceau de roi. That is strange. You have heard perhaps that long ago another soothsayer also said the same.”
“I must consult the orb,” the other replied as if she did not hear, and she gazed long and silently at the crystal circle which she produced from its resting-place beside the diamond cross. “Yes, it is quite clear now.”
“What do you see?” was the eager question.
“A great gallery—it is I think the Salon d’Hercule at Versailles—there are many men and women in it, finely dressed—I see a lady in a rose-coloured satin in their centre—it is her favourite colour—they pay court to her——”
“Ah!” Madame Villefranche had stood up. Her hand went involuntarily to her heart.
“One enters with his hat on”—the sorceress jerked out slowly—“he keeps it on—he advances as they bow—he takes his hat off—it is the King—he kisses the hand of the woman in rose-coloured satin—she salutes——”
“Mon Dieu!” Madame Villefranche suddenly kneeled beside her. André, as excited as she was, crawled forward so as not to lose a word.