The Empress Josephine | Page 8

as she was walking alone and thoughtful through the plantation. A group of negresses, in the centre of which was an old and unknown woman, attracted her attention. Josephine approached. It was an old negro woman from a neighboring plantation, and she was telling the fortune of the young negro women of M. Tascher de la Pagerie. No sooner did the old woman cast her eyes on Josephine than she seemed to shrink into one mass, whilst an expression of horror and wonder stole over her face. She vehemently seized the hand of the young maiden, examined it carefully, and then lifted up her large, astonished eyes with a searching expression to the face of Josephine.
"You must see something very wonderful in my face and in my hand?" inquired Josephine, laughing.
"Yes, something very wonderful," repeated the negro woman, still intently staring at her.
"Is it a good or a bad fortune which awaits me?"
The old prophetess slowly shook her head.
"Who can tell," said she, gravely, "what is a good or a bad fortune for human beings? In your hand I see evil, but in your face happiness--great, lofty happiness."
"Well," cried out Josephine, laughing, "you are cautious, and your oracle is not very clear."
The old woman lifted up her eyes to heaven with a strange expression.
"I dare not," said she, "express myself more clearly."
"Speak on, whatever the result!" exclaimed Josephine, whose curiosity was excited by the very diffidence of the fortune-teller. "Say what you see in my future life. I wish it, I order you to do so."
"Well, if you order it, I must obey," said she, with solemnity. "Listen, then. I read in your countenance that you are called to high destinies. You will soon be married. But your marriage will not be a happy one. You will soon be a young widow, and then--"
"Well, and then?" asked Josephine, passionately, as the old woman hesitated and remained silent.
"Well, and then you will be Queen of France--more than a queen!" shouted the prophetess, with a loud voice. "You will live glorious, brilliant days, but at the last misfortune will come and carry you to your grave in a day of rebellion."
Afraid of the pictures which her prophetic vision had contemplated in the future, the old hag forced her way through the circle of negro women around, and rushed away through the field as fast as her feet could bear her on.
Josephine, laughing, turned to her astonished women, who had followed with their eyes the flight of the prophetess, but who now directed their dark eyes with an expression of awe and bewilderment to their young mistress, of whom the fortune-teller had said she would one day be Queen of France. Josephine endeavored to overthrow the faith of her swarthy servants in the fortune-teller, and, by pointing to the ridiculous prophecy in reference to herself, and which predicted an impossible future, she tried to prove to them what a folly it was to rely on the words of those who made a profession of foretelling the future.
But against her will the prophetic words of the old woman echoed in the heart of the young maiden. She could not return home to her family and talk, laugh, and dance, as she had been accustomed to do with her sisters. Followed by her slaves, she went into her garden and sank in a hammock, hung amid the gigantic leaves of a palm-tree, and, while the negro girls danced and sang round her, the young maid was dreaming about the future, and her beating heart asked if it were not possible that the prophecy of the negro woman might one day be realized.
She, the daughter of M. Tascher de la Pagerie--she a future "Queen of France! More than a queen!" Oh, it was mere folly to think on such things, and to busy herself with the ludicrous prophecies of the old woman.
And Josephine laughed at her own credulity, and the slaves sang and danced, and against her will the thoughts of the young maiden returned to the prophecy again and again.
What the old fortune-teller had said, was it so very ridiculous, so impossible? Could not that prophecy become a reality? Was it, then, the first time that a daughter of the Island of Martinique had been exalted to grandeur and lofty honors?
Josephine asked these questions to herself, as dreaming and thoughtful she swung in the hammock and gazed toward the horizon upon the sea, which, in its blue depths and brilliancy, hung there as if heaven had lowered itself down to earth. That sea was a pathway to France, and already once before had its waves wafted a daughter of the Island of Martinique to a throne.
Thus ran the thoughts of Josephine. She thought of Franchise d'Aubigne, and of her wondrous story. A poor wanderer, fleeing