“No; his back was turned.”

“Momselle Aurore,” said Palmyre, dropping her elbows upon her knees and taking the lady’s hand as if the better to secure the truth, “was that the gentleman you met at the ball?”

“My faith!” said Aurora, stretching her eyebrows upward.  “I did not think to look.  Who was it?”

But Palmyre Philosophe was not going to give more than she got, even to her old-time Momselle; she merely straightened back into her chair with an amiable face.

“Who do you think he is?” persisted Aurora, after a pause, smiling downward and toying with her rings.

The quadroon shrugged.

They both sat in reverie for a moment—­a long moment for such sprightly natures—­and Palmyre’s mien took on a professional gravity.  She presently pushed the landlord’s letter under the lady’s hands as they lay clasped in her lap, and a moment after drew Aurora’s glance with her large, strong eyes and asked: 

“What shall we do?”

The lady immediately looked startled and alarmed and again dropped her eyes in silence.  The quadroon had to speak again.

“We will burn a candle.”

Aurora trembled.

“No,” she succeeded in saying.

“Yes,” said Palmyre, “you must get your rent money.”  But the charm which she was meditating had no reference to rent money.  “She knows that,” thought the voudou.

As she rose and called her Congo slave-woman, Aurora made as if to protest further; but utterance failed her.  She clenched her hands and prayed to fate for Clotilde to come and lead her away as she had done at the apothecary’s.  And well she might.

The articles brought in by the servant were simply a little pound-cake and cordial, a tumbler half-filled with the sirop naturelle of the sugar-cane, and a small piece of candle of the kind made from the fragrant green wax of the candleberry myrtle.  These were set upon the small table, the bit of candle standing, lighted, in the tumbler of sirup, the cake on a plate, the cordial in a wine-glass.  This feeble child’s play was all; except that as Palmyre closed out all daylight from the room and received the offering of silver that “paid the floor” and averted guillons (interferences of outside imps), Aurora,—­alas! alas!—­went down upon her knees with her gaze fixed upon the candle’s flame, and silently called on Assonquer (the imp of good fortune) to cast his snare in her behalf around the mind and heart of—­she knew not whom.

By and by her lips, which had moved at first, were still and she only watched the burning wax.  When the flame rose clear and long it was a sign that Assonquer was enlisted in the coveted endeavor.  When the wick sputtered, the devotee trembled in fear of failure.  Its charred end curled down and twisted away from her and her heart sank; but the tall figure of Palmyre for a moment came between, the wick was snuffed, the flame tapered up again, and for a long time burned, a bright, tremulous cone.  Again the wick turned down, but this time toward her,—­a propitious omen,—­and suddenly fell through the expended wax and went out in the sirup.