Hearts and Masks

Finally I squared the pack, took a long-breath, and cut. I turned up

the card. It was the ten-spot of hearts. I considered this most

propitious; hearts being my long suit in everything but love,--love

having not yet crossed my path. I put the card in my wallet, and was

about to toss the rest of the pack under the table, when, a woman's

voice stayed my hand.

"Don't throw them away. Tell my fortune first."

I looked up, not a little surprised. It was the beautiful young girl

who had spoken. She was leaning on her elbows, her chin propped in her

palms, and the light in her grey chatoyant eyes was wholly innocent

and mischievous. In Monsieur Mouquin's cellar people are rather

Bohemian, not to say friendly; for it is the rendezvous of artists,

literary men and journalists,--a clan that holds formality in contempt.

"Tell your fortune?" I repeated parrot-like.

"Yes."

"Your mirror can tell you that more accurately than I can," I replied

with a frank glance of admiration.

She drew her shoulders together and dropped them. "I spoke to you,

sir, because I believed you wouldn't say anything so commonplace as

that. When one sees a man soberly shuffling a pack of cards in a place

like this, one naturally expects originality."

"Well, perhaps you caught me off my guard,"--humbly.

"I am original. Did you ever before witness this performance in a

public restaurant?"--making the cards purr.

"I can not say I have,"--amused.

"Well, no more have I!"

"Why, then, do you do it?"--with renewed interest.

"Shall I tell your fortune?"

"Not now. I had much rather you would tell me the meaning of this

play."

I leaned toward her and whispered mysteriously: "The truth is, I belong

to a secret society, and I was cutting the cards to see whether or not

I should blow up the post-office to-night or the police-station. You

mustn't tell anybody."

"Oh!" She started back from the table. "You do not look it," she

added suddenly.

"I know it; appearances are so deceptive," said I sadly.

Then the old man laughed, and the girl laughed, and I laughed; and I

wasn't quite sure that the grave waiter did not crack the ghost of a

smile--in relief.

"And what, may I ask, was the fatal card?" inquired the old man,

folding his paper.

"The ace of spades; we always choose that gloomy card in secret

societies. There is something deadly and suggestive about it," I

answered morbidly.