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The Clairvoyants
by
“The retreat” was just off Longacre Square among quite a nest of fakers. A queue of automobiles before the place testified, however, to the prosperity of Madame Cassandra, as they entered the bronze grilled plate glass door and turned on the first floor toward the home of the Adept. Constance had an uncomfortable feeling as they entered of being watched behind the shades of the apartment. Still, they had no trouble in being admitted, and a soft-voiced colored attendant welcomed them.
The esoteric flat of Madame Cassandra was darkened except for the electric lights glowing in amber and rose-colored shades. There were several women there already. As they entered Constance had noticed a peculiar, dreamy odor. There did not seem to be any hurry, any such thing as time here, so skilfully was the place run. There was no noise; the feet sank in half-inch piles of rugs, and easy-chairs and divans were scattered about.
Once a puff of light smoke appeared, and Constance awoke to the fact that some were smoking little delicately gold-banded cigarettes. Indeed it was all quite recherche.
Mrs. Caswell took one from a maid. So did Constance, but after a puff or two managed to put it out and later to secure another which she kept.
Madame Cassandra herself proved to be a tall, slender, pale woman with dark hair and a magnetic eye, an eye that probably accounted more than anything else for her success. She was clad in a house gown of purplish silk which clung tightly to her, and at her throat a diamond pendant sparkled, as well as other brilliants on her long, slender fingers.
She met Mildred and Constance with outstretched hands.
“So glad to see you, my dears,” purred Madame, leading the way into an inner sanctum.
Mrs. Caswell had seated herself with the air of one who worshiped at the shrine, while Constance gazed about curiously.
“Madame,” she began a little tremulously, “I have had another of those dreadful dreams.”
“You poor dear soul,” soothed Madame, stroking her hand. “Tell me of it–all.”
Quickly Mrs. Caswell poured forth her story as she had already told it to Constance.
“My dear Mrs. Caswell,” remarked the high priestess slowly, when the story was complete, “it is all very simple. His love is dead. That is what you fear and it is the truth. The wall is the wall that he has erected against you. Try to forget it–to forget him. You would be better off. There are other things in the world–“
“Ah, but I cannot live as I am used to without money,” murmured Mrs. Caswell.
“I know,” replied Madame. “It is that that keeps many a woman with a brute. When financial and economic independence come, then woman will be free and only then. Now, listen. Would you like to be free– financially? You remember that delightful Mr. Davies who has been here? Yes? Well, he is a regular client of mine, now. He is a broker and never embarks in any enterprise without first consulting me. Just the other day I read his fortune in United Traction. It has gone up five points already and will go fifteen more. If you want, I will give you a card to him. Let me see–yes, I can do that. You too will be lucky in speculation.”
Constance, with one ear open, had been busy looking about the room. In a bookcase she saw a number of books and paused to examine their titles. She was surprised to see among the old style dream books several works on modern psychology, particularly on the interpretation of dreams.
“Of course, Mrs. Caswell, I don’t want to urge you,” Madame was saying. “I have only pointed out a way in which you can be independent. And, you know, Mr. Davies is a perfect gentleman, so courteous and reliable. I know you will be successful if you take my advice and go to him.”
Mildred said nothing for a few moments, but as she rose to go she remarked, “Thank you very much. I’ll think about it. Anyhow, you’ve made me feel better.”