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.

[Illustration: The handsomest girl I had set eyes upon in a month of
moons.]

"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.

"Indeed."

"Yes. Ah, if only you knew the terrible life we lead, we who conspire!
Every day brings forth some galling disappointment. We push