The Lighted Match

When Louis presented Jusseret to the Countess Astaride there flashed

between the woman of audacious imagination and the master of intrigue a

message of kinship. The Frenchman bent low over her hand.

"That hand, Madame," he had whispered, "was made to wield a scepter."

The Countess had laughed with the melodious zylophone note that caressed

the ear, and had flashed on Jusseret her smile which was a magic thing

of ivory and flesh and sudden sunshine. She had held up the slender

fingers of the hand he had flattered, possibly a trace pleased with the

effect of the Duke's latest gift, a huge emerald set about with small

but remarkably pure brilliants. She had contemplated it, critically, and

after a brief silence had let her eyes wander from its jewels to the

Frenchman's face.

"Wielding a scepter, Monsieur," she had suggested smilingly, "is less

difficult than seizing a scepter. I fear I should need a stronger hand."

"Ah, but Madame," the Frenchman had hastened to protest, "these are the

days of the deft finger and the deft brain. Even crowns to-day are not

won in tug-of-war."

The woman had looked at him half-seriously, half-challengingly.

"I am told, Monsieur Jusseret," she said, "that no government in Europe

has a secret which you do not know. I am told that you have changed a

crown or two from head to head in your career. Let me see your hand."

Instantly he had held it out. The fastidiously manicured fingers were as

tapering and white as her own.

"Madame," he observed gravely, "you flatter me. My hand has done

nothing. But I do not attribute its failure to its lack of brawn."

"Some day," murmured Delgado, from his inert posture in the deep

cushions of a divan, "when the time is ripe, I shall strike a decisive

blow for the Throne of Galavia."

Jusseret's lip had half-curled, then swiftly he had turned and flashed a

look of inquiry upon the woman. Her eyes had been on Louis and she had

not caught the quick glint that came into the Frenchman's pupils, or the

thoughtful regard with which he studied her and the Duke across the edge

of his teacup. Later, when he rose to make his adieux, she noted the

thoughtful expression on his face.

"Sometimes," he had said enigmatically, and had paused to allow his

meaning to sink in, "sometimes a scepter stays where it is, not because

the hand that holds it is strong, but because the outstretched hand is

weak or inept. Your hand is suited."

She had searched his eyes with her own just long enough to make him feel

that in the give-and-take of glances hers did not drop or evade, and he,

trained in the niceties of diplomatic warfare, had caught the message.