THE ORACLE TELLS ME WONDERS


I forgot for a moment how impervious my mask and domino were to the hard
stare of the old campaigner, and was preparing for an animated scuffle.
It was only for a moment, of course; but the count cautiously drew a
little back as the gasconading corporal, in blue uniform, white vest,
and white gaiters--for my friend Gaillarde was as loud and swaggering in
his assumed character as in his real one of a colonel of dragoons--drew
near. He had already twice all but got himself turned out of doors for
vaunting the exploits of Napoleon le Grand, in terrific mock-heroics,
and had very nearly come to hand-grips with a Prussian hussar. In fact,
he would have been involved in several sanguinary rows already, had not
his discretion reminded him that the object of his coming there at all,
namely, to arrange a meeting with an affluent widow, on whom he believed
he had made a tender impression, would not have been promoted by his
premature removal from the festive scene of which he was an ornament, in
charge of a couple of _gendarmes_.

"Money! Gold! Bah! What money can a wounded soldier like your humble
servant have amassed, with but his sword-hand left, which, being
necessarily occupied, places not a finger at his command with which to
scrape together the spoils of a routed enemy?"

"No gold from him," said the magician. "His scars frank him."

"Bravo, Monsieur le prophete! Bravissimo! Here I am. Shall I begin,
_mon sorcier_, without further loss of time, to question you?"