“Your name, Madame?” asked the sorceress abruptly.

“Mademoiselle, if it please you,” the visitor corrected, “Mademoiselle Lucie Marie Villefranche.”

André was listening now with all his ears. Where before had he heard that crisp, alluring voice?

“Bien, Madame.”

“Mademoiselle--” persisted the visitor, nettled.

“Then why does Mademoiselle wear a wedding-ring?”

The visitor made an impatient movement, bit her lip, and petulantly drew off her glove. On the hand she triumphantly held out there was no sign of a wedding-ring.

“It is in Madame’s pocket,” the sorceress said calmly. “But it is of as little importance as is Madame’s husband to her.”

The visitor checked an indignant reply and simply glared through her veil. Excellent fun, thought André, when you set one woman against another--and such women!

“Give me your hand,” the sorceress proceeded, and she inspected it with the greatest care, the owner watching her with ill-concealed anxiety. 

“I see a crown in the palm which I cannot understand,” she said slowly, “a crown reversed. A beautiful hand,” she murmured, “beautiful and strong. The hand of a morceau de roi.”

Madame Villefranche uttered a sharp cry, almost of triumph. “Morceau de roi,” she repeated. “Morceau de roi. That is strange. You have heard perhaps that long ago another soothsayer also said the same.”

“I must consult the orb,” the other replied as if she did not hear, and she gazed long and silently at the crystal circle which she produced from its resting-place beside the diamond cross. “Yes, it is quite clear now.”

“What do you see?” was the eager question.

“A great gallery--it is I think the Salon d’Hercule at Versailles--there are many men and women in it, finely dressed--I see a lady in a rose-coloured satin in their centre--it is her favourite colour--they pay court to her----”

“Ah!” Madame Villefranche had stood up. Her hand went involuntarily to her heart.

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