The Chink in the Armour | Page 9

confusedly. "There is such a thing as a premonition."
She waited a moment, and then, in a business-like tone, added, "And now I leave the question of the fee to the generosity of these ladies!"
Madame Wolsky smiled a little grimly, and pulled out a twenty-franc piece.
The woman bowed, and murmured her thanks.
When they were out again into the roughly paved little street, Anna suddenly began to laugh.
"Now, isn't that a typical Frenchwoman? She really did feel ill, she really saw nothing in my cards, and, being an honest woman, she did not feel that she could ask us to pay! Then, when we had gone away, leaving only five francs, her thrift got the better of her honesty; she felt she had thrown away ten good francs! She therefore called us back, and gave us what she took to be very excellent advice. You see, I had told her that I am a gambler. She knows, as we all know, that to play for money is a foolish thing to do. She is aware that in Paris it is not very easy for a stranger to obtain admittance--especially if that stranger be a respectable woman--to a gambling club. She therefore said to herself, 'I will give this lady far more than ten francs' worth of advice. I will tell her not to go away! As long as she remains in Paris she cannot lose her money. If she goes to Dieppe, Trouville, any place where there is a Casino, she will lose her money. Therefore I am giving her invaluable advice--worth far more than the ten francs which she ought to be made to give me, and which she shall be made to give me!'"
"I suppose you are right," said Sylvia thoughtfully. "And yet--and yet--she certainly spoke very seriously, did she not, Anna? She seemed quite honestly--in fact, terribly afraid that we should go away together."
"But there is no idea of our going away together," said Madame Wolsky, rather crossly. "I only wish there were! You are going on to Switzerland to join your friends, and as for me, in spite of Madame Cagliostra's mysterious predictions, I shall, of course, go to some place--I think it will be Dieppe (I like the Dieppe Casino the best)--where I can play. And the memory of you, my dear little English friend, will be my mascot. You heard her say that I should be fortunate--that I should have an extraordinary run of good fortune?"
"Yes," said Sylvia, "but do not forget"--she spoke with a certain gravity; death was a very real thing to her, for she had seen in the last two years two deathbeds, that of her father, that of her husband--"do not forget, Anna, that she told you you would not live long if you went away."
"She was quite safe in saying that to me," replied the other hastily. "People who play--those who get the gambling fever into their system when they are still young--do not, as a rule, live very long. Their emotions are too strong, too often excited! Play should be reserved for the old--the old get so quickly deadened, they do not go through the terrible moments younger people do!"
CHAPTER III
On the morning after her visit to Madame Cagliostra, Sylvia Bailey woke later than usual. She had had a disturbed night, and it was pleasant to feel that she could spend a long restful day doing nothing, or only taking part in one of the gay little expeditions which make Paris to a stranger the most delightful of European capitals.
She opened wide both the windows of her room, and from outside there floated in a busy, happy murmur, for Paris is an early city, and nine o'clock there is equivalent to eleven o'clock in London.
She heard the picturesque street cries of the flower-sellers in the Avenue de l'Opéra--"Beflower yourselves, gentlemen and ladies, beflower yourselves!"
The gay, shrill sounds floated in to her, and, in spite of her bad night and ugly dreams, she felt extraordinarily well and happy.
Cities are like people. In some cities one feels at home at once; others remain, however well acquainted we become with them, always strangers.
Sylvia Bailey, born, bred, married, widowed in an English provincial town, had always felt strange in London. But with Paris,--dear, delightful, sunny Paris,--she had become on the closest, the most affectionately intimate terms from the first day. She had only been here a month, and yet she already knew with familiar knowledge the quarter in which was situated her quiet little hotel, that wonderful square mile--it is not more--which has as its centre the Paris Opera House, and which includes the Rue de la Paix and the beginning of each of the great arteries of modern Paris.
And that was not all. Sylvia Bailey knew something of the France of the past.