The Chink in the Armour Read online

  CHAPTER II

  With easy, leisurely steps, constantly stopping to look into the windowsof the quaint shops they passed on the way, Sylvia Bailey and Anna Wolskywalked up the steep, the almost mountainous byways and narrow streetswhich lead to the top of Montmartre.

  The whole population seemed to have poured itself out in the open air onthis sunny day; even the shopkeepers had brought chairs out of theirshops and sat on the pavement, gaily laughing and gossiping together inthe eager way Parisians have. As the two foreign ladies, both young, bothin their very different fashion good-looking, walked past the sittinggroups of neighbours--men, women, and children would stop talking andstare intently at them, as is also a Parisian way.

  At first Sylvia had disliked the manner in which she was stared at inParis, and she had been much embarrassed as well as a little amused bythe very frank remarks called forth in omnibuses as well as in the streetby the brilliancy of her complexion and the bright beauty of her fairhair. But now she was almost used to this odd form of homage, which camequite 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! Infact, it took the two ladies a long time to find it, for the Rue Joliewas the funniest, tiniest little street, perched high up on what mightalmost have been a mountain side.

  As for No. 5, Rue Jolie, it was a queer miniature house more like a Swisschalet than anything else, and surrounded by a gay, untidy little gardenfull of flowers, the kind of half-wild, shy, and yet hardy flowers thatcome 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" receivedhis clients in Bond Street.

  "Oh, yes, this is evidently the place!"

  Anna Wolsky smiled good-humouredly; she had become extremely fond of theyoung Englishwoman; she delighted in Sylvia's radiant prettiness, herkindly good-temper, and her eager pleasure in everything.

  A large iron gate gave access to the courtyard which was so much largerthan the house built round it. But the gate was locked, and a pull at therusty bell-wire produced no result.

  They waited a while. "She must have gone out," said Sylvia, ratherdisappointed.

  But Madame Wolsky, without speaking, again pulled at the rusty wire, andthen one of the chalet windows was suddenly flung open from above, and awoman--a dark, middle-aged Frenchwoman--leant out.

  "_Qui est la?_" and then before either of them could answer, the womanhad drawn back: a moment later they heard her heavy progress down thecreaky stairs of her dwelling.

  At last she came out into the courtyard, unlocked the iron gate, andcurtly motioned to the two ladies to follow her.

  "We have come to see Madame Cagliostra," said Sylvia timidly. She tookthis stout, untidily-dressed woman for the fortune-teller's servant.

  "Madame Cagliostra, at your service!" The woman turned round, her facebreaking into a broad smile. She evidently liked the sound of herpeculiar 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 theFrench eloquently describe as "shut in," and even on this beautiful hotday 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 aman, in eighteenth century dress and powdered hair.

  "My ancestor, Count Cagliostro, ladies!" exclaimed the fat little womanproudly. "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 CountCagliostro 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 womenstanding before her. She was wondering how much they were good for.

  "No doubt you have been told," she said suddenly, "that my fee is fivefrancs. 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 forfifteen francs!"

  Sylvia Bailey's lip quivered; she felt a wild wish to burst outlaughing. It was all so absurd; this funny queer house; this odd, stuffy,empty-looking room; and this vulgar, common-looking woman asserting thatshe was descended from the famous Count Cagliostro! And then, to crowneverything, the naive, rather pathetic, attempt to get an extra fivefrancs out of them.

  But Sylvia was a very kindly, happy-natured creature, and she would nothave hurt the feelings of even a Madame Cagliostra for the world.

  She looked at her friend questioningly. Would it not be better just togive the woman five francs and go away? They surely could not expect tohear anything of any value from such a person. She was evidently a fraud!

  But Anna Wolsky was staring at Madame Cagliostra with a serious look.

  "Very well," she exclaimed, in her rather indifferent French. "Very well!We will both take the Grand Jeu at fifteen francs the two."

  She turned and smiled at Sylvia. "It will be," she said, quaintly, and inEnglish, "my 'treat,' dear friend." And then, as Sylvia shook her headdecidedly--there were often these little contests of generosity betweenthe two women--she added rather sharply,

  "Yes, yes! It shall be so. I insist! I see you do not believe in ourhostess's gift. There are, however, one or two questions I must ask, andto which I fancy she can give me an answer. I am anxious, too, to hearwhat she will say about _you_."

  Sylvia smiled, and gave way.

  Like most prosperous people who have not made the money they are able tospend, Mrs. Bailey did not attach any undue importance to wealth. But sheknew that her friend was not as well off as herself, and therefore shewas always trying to pay a little more of her share than was fair. Thanksto Madame Wolsky's stronger will, she very seldom succeeded in doing so.

  "We might at least ask her to open the window," she said ratherplaintively. It really was dreadfully stuffy!

  Madame Cagliostra had gone to a sideboard from which she was taking twopacks of exceedingly dirty, queer-looking cards. They were the famousTaro cards, but Sylvia did not know that.

  When the fortune-teller was asked to open the window, she shook her headdecidedly.

  "No, no!" she said. "It would dissipate the influences. I cannot do that!On the contrary, the curtains should be drawn close, and if the ladieswill permit of it I will light my lamp."

  Even as she spoke she was jerking the thick curtains closely together;she even pinned them across so that no ray of the bright sunlight outsidecould penetrate into the room.

  For a few moments they were in complete darkness, and Sylvia felt aqueer, eerie sensation of fear, but this soon passed away as thelamp--the "_Suspension_," as Madame Cagliostra proudly called it--waslit.

  When her lamp was well alight, the soothsayer drew three chairs up to theround table, and motioned the two strangers to sit down.

  "You will take my friend first," said Anna Wolsky, imperiously; and then,to Sylvia, she said, in English, "Would you rather I went away, dear? Icould wait on the staircase till you were ready for me to come back. Itis not very pleasant to have one's fortune told when one is as young andas pretty as you are, before other people."

  "Of course I don't mind your being here!" cried Sylvia Bailey,laughing--then, looking doubtfully at Madame Cagliostra, though it wasobvious the Frenchwoman did not understand English, "The truth is that Ishould feel rather frightened if you were to leave me here all by myself.So please stay."

  Madame Cagliostra began dealing out the cards on the table. First slowly,then quickly, she laid them out in a queer pattern; and as she did so shemuttered and murmured to herself. Then a frown came over her face; shebegan to look disturbed, anxious, almost angry.

  Sylvia, in spite of herself, grew interested and excited. She
was sorryshe had not taken off her wedding-ring. In England the wise woman alwaystakes off her wedding-ring on going to see a fortune-teller. She wasalso rather glad that she had left her pearls in the safe custody ofM. Girard. This little house in the Rue Jolie was a strange, lonelyplace.

  Suddenly Madame Cagliostra began to speak in a quick, clear, monotonousvoice.

  Keeping her eyes fixed on the cards, which now and again she touched witha fat finger, and without looking at Sylvia, she said:

  "Madame has led a very placid, quiet life. Her existence has been a boatthat has always lain in harbour--" She suddenly looked up: "I spent mychildhood at Dieppe, and that often suggests images to me," she observedcomplacently, and then she went on in quite another tone of voice:--

  "To return to Madame and her fate! The boat has always been in harbour,but now it is about to put out to sea. It will meet there another craft.This other craft is, to Madame, a foreign craft, and I grieve to say it,rather battered. But its timbers are sound, and that is well, for itlooks to me as if the sails of Madame's boat would mingle, at any ratefor a time with this battered craft."

  "I don't understand what she means," said Sylvia, in a whisper. "Do askher to explain, Anna!"

  "My friend asks you to drop metaphor," said the older woman, drily.

  The soothsayer fixed her bright, beady little eyes on Sylvia's flushedface.

  "Well," she said deliberately, "I see you falling in love, and I also seethat falling in love is quite a new experience. It burns, it scorchesyou, does love, Madame. And for awhile you do not know what it means, forlove has never yet touched you with his red-hot finger."

  "How absurd!" thought Sylvia to herself. "She actually takes me for ayoung girl! What ridiculous mistakes fortune-tellers do make, to besure!"

  "--But you cannot escape love," went on Madame Cagliostra, eagerly. "Yourfate is a fair man, which is strange considering that you also are a fairwoman; and I see that there is already a dark man in your life."

  Sylvia blushed. Bill Chester, just now the only man in her life, was avery dark man.

  "But this fair man knows all the arts of love." Madame Cagliostra sighed,her voice softened, it became strangely low and sweet. "He will love youtenderly as well as passionately. And as for you, Madame--but no, for meto tell you what you will feel _and what you will do_ would not bedelicate on my part!"

  Sylvia grew redder and redder. She tried to laugh, but failed. She feltangry, and not a little disgusted.

  "You are a foreigner," went on Madame Cagliostra. Her voice had grownhard and expressionless again.

  Sylvia smiled a little satiric smile.

  "But though you are a foreigner," cried the fortune-teller with suddenenergy, "it is quite possible that you will never go back to your owncountry! Stop--or, perhaps, I shall say too much! Still if you ever do goback, it will be as a stranger. That I say with certainty. And I add thatI hope with all my heart that you will live to go back to your owncountry, Madame!"

  Sylvia felt a vague, uneasy feeling of oppression, almost of fear, stealover her. It seemed to her that Madame Cagliostra was looking at her withpuzzled, pitying eyes.

  The soothsayer again put a fat and not too clean finger down on theupturned face of a card.

  "There is something here I do not understand; something which I miss whenI look at you as I am now looking at you. It is something you alwayswear--"

  She gazed searchingly at Sylvia, and her eyes travelled over Mrs.Bailey's neck and bosom.

  "I see them and yet they are not there! They appear like little balls oflight. Surely it is a necklace?"

  Sylvia looked extremely surprised. Now, at last, Madame Cagliostra wasjustifying her claim to a supernatural gift!

  "These balls of light are also your Fate!" exclaimed the womanimpetuously. "If you had them here--I care not what they be--I shouldentreat you to give them to me to throw away."

  Madame Wolsky began to laugh. "I don't think you would do that," sheobserved drily.

  But Madame Cagliostra did not seem to hear the interruption.

  "Have you heard of a mascot?" she said abruptly. "Of a mascot whichbrings good fortune to its wearer?"

  Sylvia bent her head. Of course she had heard of mascots.

  "Well, if so, you have, of course, heard of objects which bringmisfortune to their wearers--which are, so to speak, unlucky mascots?"

  And this time it was Anna Wolsky who, leaning forward, nodded gravely.She attributed a run of bad luck she had had the year before to atrifling gift, twin cherries made of enamel, which a friend had givenher, in her old home, on her birthday. Till she had thrown that littlebrooch into the sea, she had been persistently unlucky at play.

  "Your friend," murmured Madame Cagliostra, now addressing herself toAnna and not to Sylvia, "should dispossess herself as quickly as possibleof her necklace, of these round balls. They have already brought herill-fortune in the past, they have lowered her in the estimation of anestimable person--in fact, if she is not very careful, indeed, even ifshe be very careful--it looks to me, Madame, as if they would end bystrangling her!"

  Sylvia became very uncomfortable. "Of course she means my pearls," shewhispered. "But how absurd to say they could ever do me harm."

  "Look here," said Anna Wolsky earnestly, "you are quite right, Madame;my friend has a necklace which has already played a certain part in herlife. But is it not just because of this fact that you feel the influenceof this necklace so strongly? I entreat you to speak frankly. You arereally distressing me very much!"

  Madame Cagliostra looked very seriously at the speaker.

  "Well, perhaps it is so," she said at last. "Of course, we are sometimeswrong in our premonitions. And I confess that I feel puzzled--exceedinglypuzzled--to-day. I do not know that I have ever had so strange a caseas that of this English lady before me! I see so many roads stretchingbefore her--I also see her going along more than one road. As a rule, onedoes not see this in the cards."

  She looked really harassed, really distressed, and was still conning hercards anxiously.

  "And yet after all," she cried suddenly, "I may be wrong! Perhaps thenecklace has less to do with it than I thought! I do not know whether thenecklace would make any real difference! If she takes one of the roadsopen to her, then I see no danger at all attaching to the preservation ofthis necklace. But the other road leads straight to the House of Peril."

  "The House of Peril?" echoed Sylvia Bailey.

  "Yes, Madame. Do you not know that all men and women have their House ofPeril--the house whose threshold they should never cross--behind whosedoor lies misery, sometimes dishonour?"

  "Yes," said Anna Wolsky, "that is true, quite true! There has been, alas!more than one House of Peril in my life." She added, "But what kind ofplace is my friend's House of Peril?"

  "It is not a large house," said the fortune-teller, staring down atthe shining surface of her table. "It is a gay, delightful littleplace, ladies--quite my idea of a pretty dwelling. But it is filled withhorror unutterable to Madame. Ah! I entreat you"--she stared sadly atSylvia--"to beware of unknown buildings, especially if you persistin keeping and in wearing your necklace."

  "Do tell us, Madame, something more about my friend's necklace. Is it,for instance, of great value, and is it its value that makes it a sourceof danger?"

  Anna Wolsky wondered very much what would be the answer to this question.She had had her doubts as to the genuineness of the pearls her friendwore. Pearls are so exquisitely imitated nowadays, and these pearls, ifgenuine, were of such great value!

  At first she had not believed them to be real, then gradually she hadbecome convinced of Sylvia's good faith. If the pearls were false, Sylviadid not know it.

  But Madame Cagliostra's answer was disappointing--or prudent.

  "I cannot tell you that," she said. "I cannot even tell you of what thenecklace is composed. It may be of gold, of silver, of diamonds, ofpearls--it may be, I'm inclined to think it is, composed of Egyptianscarabei. They, as you know, often bri
ng terrible ill-fortune in theirtrain, especially when they have been taken from the bodies of mummies.But the necklace has already caused this lady to quarrel with a very goodand sure friend of hers--of that I am sure. And, as I tell you, I see inthe future that this necklace may cause her very serious trouble--indeed,I see it wound like a serpent round her neck, pressing ever tighter andtighter--"

  She suddenly began shuffling the cards. "And now," she said in a tone ofrelief, "I will deal with you, Madame," and she turned to Anna with asmile.

  Sylvia drew her chair a little away from the table.

  She felt depressed and uncomfortable. What an odd queer kind of fortunehad been told her! And then it had all been so muddled. She couldscarcely remember what it was that _had_ been told her.

  Two things, however, remained very clear in her mind: The one was theabsurd prediction that she might never go back to her own country; thesecond was all that extraordinary talk about her pearls. As to thepromised lover, the memory of the soothsayer's words made her feel veryangry. No doubt Frenchwomen liked that sort of innuendo, but it onlydisgusted her.

  Yet it was really very strange that Madame Cagliostra had known, orrather had divined, that she possessed a necklace by which she laid greatstore. But wasn't there such a thing as telepathy? Isn't it supposed bysome people that fortune-tellers simply see into the minds of those whocome to them, and then arrange what they see there according to theirfancy?

  That, of course, would entirely account for all that the fortune-tellerhad said about her pearls.

  Sylvia always felt a little uncomfortable when her pearls were not lyinground her pretty neck. The first time she had left them in the hotelbureau, at her new friend's request, was when they had been together tosome place of amusement at night, and she had felt quite miserable, quitelost without them. She had even caught herself wondering whether M.Girard was perfectly honest, whether she could trust him not to have herdear pearls changed by some clever jeweller, though, to be sure, she feltshe would have known her string of pearls anywhere!

  * * * * *

  But what was this that was going on between the other two?

  Madame Cagliostra dealt out the pack of cards in a slow, deliberatefashion--and then she uttered a kind of low hoarse cry, and mixed thecards all together, hurriedly.

  Getting up from the table, she exclaimed, "I regret, Madame, that I cantell you nothing--nothing at all! I feel ill--very ill!" and, indeed, shehad turned, even to Sylvia's young and unobservant eyes, terribly pale.

  For some moments the soothsayer stood staring into Anna Wolsky'sastonished face.

  "I know I've disappointed you, Mesdames, but I hope this will not preventyour telling your friends of my powers. Allow me to assure you that it isnot often that I am taken in this way!"

  Her voice had dropped to a whisper. She was now gazing down at the packof cards which lay on the table with a look of horror and oppression onher face.

  "I will only charge five francs," she muttered at last, "for I know thatI have not satisfied you."

  Sylvia sprang to the window. She tore apart the curtains and pulled upthe sash.

  "No wonder the poor woman feels faint," she said quickly. "It's absurd tosit with a window tight shut in this kind of room, which is little morethan a box with three people in it!"

  Madame Cagliostra had sunk down into her chair again.

  "I must beg you to go away, Mesdames," she muttered, faintly. "Fivefrancs is all I ask of you."

  But Anna Wolsky was behaving in what appeared to Sylvia a very strangemanner. She walked round to where the fortune-teller was sitting.

  "You saw something in the cards which you do not wish to tell me?" shesaid imperiously. "I do not mind being told the truth. I am not a child."

  "I swear I saw nothing!" cried the Frenchwoman angrily. "I am too ill tosee anything. The cards were to me perfectly blank!"

  In the bright sunlight now pouring into the little room the soothsayerlooked ghastly, her skin had turned a greenish white.

  "Mesdames, I beg you to excuse me," she said again. "If you do not wishto give me the five francs, I will not exact any fee."

  She pointed with a shaking finger to the door, and Sylvia put afive-franc piece down on the table.

  But before her visitors had quite groped their way to the end of theshort, steep staircase, they heard a cry.

  "Mesdames!" then after a moment's pause, "Mesdames, I implore you to comeback!"

  They looked at one another, and then Anna, putting her finger to herlips, went back up the stairs, alone.

  "Well," she said, briefly, "I knew you had something to tell me. What isit?"

  "No," said Madame Cagliostra dully. "I must have the other lady here,too. You must both be present to hear what I have to say."

  Anna went to the door and called out, "Come up Sylvia! She wants to seeus both together."

  There was a thrill of excitement, of eager expectancy in Madame Wolsky'svoice; and Sylvia, surprised, ran up again into the little room, now fullof light, sun, and air.

  "Stand side by side," ordered the soothsayer shortly. She stared at themfor a moment, and then she said with extreme earnestness:--

  "I dare not let you go away without giving you a warning. Your two fatesare closely intertwined. Do not leave Paris for awhile, especially do notleave Paris together. I see you both running into terrible danger! If youdo go away--and I greatly fear that you will do so--then I advise you,together and separately, to return to Paris as soon as possible."

  "One question I must ask of you," said Anna Wolsky urgently. "How goes myluck? You know what I mean? I play!"

  "It is not your luck that is threatened," replied the fortune-teller,solemnly; "on the contrary, I see wonderful luck; packets of bank-notesand rouleaux of gold! It is not your luck--it is something far, far moreimportant that is in peril. Something which means far more to you eventhan your luck!"

  The Polish woman smiled rather sadly.

  "I wonder what that can be?" she exclaimed.

  "It is your life!"

  "My life?" echoed Anna. "I do not know that I value my life as much asyou think I do."

  "The English have a proverb, Madame, which says: 'A short life and amerry one.'"

  "Can you predict that I shall have, if a short life, then a merry one?"

  "Yes," said Madame Cagliostra, "that I can promise you." But there was nosmile on her pale face. "And more, I can predict--if you will only followmy advice, if you do not leave Paris for, say"--she hesitated a moment,as if making a silent calculation--"twelve weeks, I can predict you, ifnot so happy a life, then a long life and a fairly merry one. Will youtake my advice, Madame?" she went on, almost threateningly. "Believe me,I do not often offer advice to my clients. It is not my business to doso. But I should have been a wicked woman had I not done so this time.That is why I called you back."

  "Is it because of something you have seen in the cards that you tender usthis advice?" asked Anna curiously.

  But Madame Cagliostra again looked strangely frightened.

  "No, no!" she said hastily. "I repeat that the cards told me nothing.The cards were a blank. I could see nothing in them. But, of course, wedo not only tell fortunes by cards"--she spoke very quickly and ratherconfusedly. "There is such a thing as a premonition."

  She waited a moment, and then, in a business-like tone, added, "And nowI leave the question of the fee to the generosity of these ladies!"

  Madame Wolsky smiled a little grimly, and pulled out a twenty-francpiece.

  The woman bowed, and murmured her thanks.

  When they were out again into the roughly paved little street, Annasuddenly began to laugh.

  "Now, isn't that a typical Frenchwoman? She really did feel ill, shereally saw nothing in my cards, and, being an honest woman, she did notfeel that she could ask us to pay! Then, when we had gone away, leavingonly five francs, her thrift got the better of her honesty; she felt shehad thrown away ten good francs! She therefore cal
led us back, and gaveus what she took to be very excellent advice. You see, I had told herthat I am a gambler. She knows, as we all know, that to play for moneyis a foolish thing to do. She is aware that in Paris it is not very easyfor a stranger to obtain admittance--especially if that stranger be arespectable woman--to a gambling club. She therefore said to herself,'I will give this lady far more than ten francs' worth of advice. I willtell her not to go away! As long as she remains in Paris she cannot loseher money. If she goes to Dieppe, Trouville, any place where there is aCasino, she will lose her money. Therefore I am giving her invaluableadvice--worth far more than the ten francs which she ought to be madeto give me, and which she shall be made to give me!'"

  "I suppose you are right," said Sylvia thoughtfully. "And yet--andyet--she certainly spoke very seriously, did she not, Anna? She seemedquite honestly--in fact, terribly afraid that we should go awaytogether."

  "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 Switzerlandto join your friends, and as for me, in spite of Madame Cagliostra'smysterious predictions, I shall, of course, go to some place--I think itwill be Dieppe (I like the Dieppe Casino the best)--where I can play. Andthe memory of you, my dear little English friend, will be my mascot. Youheard her say that I should be fortunate--that I should have anextraordinary run of good fortune?"

  "Yes," said Sylvia, "but do not forget"--she spoke with a certaingravity; death was a very real thing to her, for she had seen in the lasttwo years two deathbeds, that of her father, that of her husband--"do notforget, Anna, that she told you you would not live long if you wentaway."

  "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 whenthey are still young--do not, as a rule, live very long. Their emotionsare too strong, too often excited! Play should be reserved for theold--the old get so quickly deadened, they do not go through the terriblemoments younger people do!"