The Chink in the Armour | Page 4

good-looking, walked past the
sitting groups of neighbours--men, women, and children would stop
talking and stare intently at them, as is also a Parisian way.
At first Sylvia had disliked the manner in which she was stared at in
Paris, and she had been much embarrassed as well as a little amused by
the very frank remarks called forth in omnibuses as well as in the street
by the brilliancy of her complexion and the bright beauty of her fair
hair. But now she was almost used to this odd form of homage, which
came quite as often from women as from men.
"The Rue Jolie?" answered a cheerful-looking man in answer to a
question. "Why, it's ever so much further up!" and he vaguely pointed
skywards.
And it was much further up, close to the very top of the great hill! In
fact, it took the two ladies a long time to find it, for the Rue Jolie was
the funniest, tiniest little street, perched high up on what might almost
have been a mountain side.
As for No. 5, Rue Jolie, it was a queer miniature house more like a
Swiss châlet than anything else, and surrounded by a gay, untidy little
garden full of flowers, the kind of half-wild, shy, and yet hardy flowers
that come up, year after year, without being tended or watered.
"Surely a fortune-teller can't live here?" exclaimed Sylvia Bailey,
remembering the stately, awe-inspiring rooms in which "Pharaoh"
received his clients in Bond Street.
"Oh, yes, this is evidently the place!"
Anna Wolsky smiled good-humouredly; she had become extremely
fond of the young Englishwoman; she delighted in Sylvia's radiant
prettiness, her kindly good-temper, and her eager pleasure in
everything.
A large iron gate gave access to the courtyard which was so much

larger than the house built round it. But the gate was locked, and a pull
at the rusty bell-wire produced no result.
They waited a while. "She must have gone out," said Sylvia, rather
disappointed.
But Madame Wolsky, without speaking, again pulled at the rusty wire,
and then one of the châlet windows was suddenly flung open from
above, and a woman--a dark, middle-aged Frenchwoman--leant out.
"Qui est là?" and then before either of them could answer, the woman
had drawn back: a moment later they heard her heavy progress down
the creaky stairs of her dwelling.
At last she came out into the courtyard, unlocked the iron gate, and
curtly motioned to the two ladies to follow her.
"We have come to see Madame Cagliostra," said Sylvia timidly. She
took this stout, untidily-dressed woman for the fortune-teller's servant.
"Madame Cagliostra, at your service!" The woman turned round, her
face breaking into a broad smile. She evidently liked the sound of her
peculiar name.
They followed her up a dark staircase into a curious little sitting-room.
It was scrupulously clean, but about it hung the faint odour which the
French eloquently describe as "shut in," and even on this beautiful hot
day the windows were tightly closed.
On the red walls hung various drawings of hands, of hearts, and of
heads, and over the plain mantelpiece was a really fine pastel portrait of
a man, in eighteenth century dress and powdered hair.
"My ancestor, Count Cagliostro, ladies!" exclaimed the fat little woman
proudly. "As you will soon see, if you have, as I venture to suppose,
come to consult me, I have inherited the great gifts which made Count
Cagliostro famous." She waited a moment. "What is it you desire of me?
Do you wish for the Grand Jeu? Or do you prefer the Crystal?"

Madame Cagliostra gave a shrewd, measuring glance at the two young
women standing before her. She was wondering how much they were
good for.
"No doubt you have been told," she said suddenly, "that my fee is five
francs. But if you require the Grand Jeu it will be ten francs. Come,
ladies, make up your minds; I will give you both the Grand Jeu for
fifteen francs!"
Sylvia Bailey's lip quivered; she felt a wild wish to burst out laughing.
It was all so absurd; this funny queer house; this odd, stuffy,
empty-looking room; and this vulgar, common-looking woman
asserting that she was descended from the famous Count Cagliostro!
And then, to crown everything, the naïve, rather pathetic, attempt to get
an extra five francs out of them.
But Sylvia was a very kindly, happy-natured creature, and she would
not have hurt the feelings of even a Madame Cagliostra for the world.
She looked at her friend questioningly. Would it not be better just to
give the woman five francs and go away? They surely could not expect
to hear anything of any value from such a person. She was evidently a
fraud!
But Anna Wolsky was