“‘No doubt,’ said the professor, ‘he is happier not to know one fact. If he derived his bad luck from Phœbe, the ninth satellite of Saturn, that malicious lady is still engaged in overlooking his career. The star close to Saturn that he imagined to be her was near that planet simply by the chance of its orbit—probably at different times he has regarded many other stars that happened to be in Saturn’s neighbourhood as his evil one. The real Phœbe is visible only through a very good telescope.’
“About a year afterward,” continued Captain Maloné, “I was walking down a street that crossed the Poydras Market. An immensely stout, pink-faced lady in black satin crowded me from the narrow sidewalk with a frown. Behind her trailed a little man laden to the gunwales with bundles and bags of goods and vegetables.
“It was Kearny—but changed. I stopped and shook one of his hands, which still clung to a bag of garlic and red peppers.
“‘How is the luck, old companero?’ I asked him. I had not the heart to tell him the truth about his star.
“‘Well,’ said he, ‘I am married, as you may guess.’
“‘Francis!’ called the big lady, in deep tones, ‘are you going to stop in the street talking all day?
“‘I am coming, Phœbe dear,’ said Kearny, hastening after her.”
Captain Maloné ceased again.
“After all, do you believe in luck?” I asked.
“Do you?” answered the captain, with his ambiguous smile shaded by the brim of his soft straw hat.
