es,
and to a certain extent relieved their hard expression. Her ripe, red
lips, which seemed formed for love and kisses, permitted a glimpse of
a row of pearly teeth. Her bright waving hair grew low down upon her
forehead, and such of it as had escaped from the bondage of a cheap
comb, with which it was fastened, hung in wild luxuriance over her
exquisitely shaped neck and shoulders. She had thrown over her ragged
print gown the patched coverlet of the bed, and, crouched upon
the tattered hearthrug before the hearth, upon which a few sticks
smouldered, giving out hardly a particle of heat, she was telling her
fortune with a dirty pack of cards, endeavoring to console herself for
the privations of the day by the promise of future prosperity. She had
spread those arbiters of her destiny in a half circle before her, and
divided them into threes, each of which had a peculiar meaning, and her
breast rose and fell as she turned them up and read upon their faces
good fortune or ill-luck. Absorbed in this task, she paid but little
attention to the icy chilliness of the atmosphere, which made her
fingers stiff, and dyed her white hands purple.

"One, two, three," she murmured in a low voice. "A fair man, that's
sure to be Paul. One, two, three, money to the house. One, two, three,
troubles and vexations. One, two, three, the nine of spades; ah, dear!
more hardships and misery,--always that wretched card turning up with
its sad story!"

Rose seemed utterly downcast at the sight of the little piece of painted
cardboard, as though she had received certain intelligence of a
coming misfortune. She soon, however, recovered herself, and was again
shuffling the pack,--cut it, taking care to do so with her left hand,
spread them out before her, and again commenced counting: one, two,
three. This time the cards appeared to be more propitious, and held out
promises of success for the future.

"I am loved," read she, as she gazed anxiously upon them,--"very much
loved! Here is rejoicing, and a letter from a dark man! See, here he
is,--the knave of clubs. Always the same," she continued; "I cannot
strive against fate."

Then, rising to her feet, she drew from a crack in the wall, which
formed a safe hiding-place for her secrets, a soiled and crumpled
letter, and, unfolding it, she read for perhaps the hundredth time these
words:--

"MADEMOISELLE,--

"To see you is to love you. I give you my word of honor that this is
true. The wretc