"What, you scamp?"
"Mother, I swear I know nothing about what I shall do, but you remember what the fortune-teller whom you questioned on my behalf predicted?"
My mother sighed.
"What did she predict?" asked M. Danré.
"She said," I replied, "'I cannot tell you what your son will become, madame; I can only see him, through clouds and flashes of lightning, like a traveller who is crossing high mountains, reaching a height to which few men attain. I do not say he will command people, but I foresee he will speak to them; although I cannot indicate the precise lines of his destiny, your son belongs to that class of men whom we style RULERS.' 'My son is to become a king, then?' my mother laughingly retorted. 'No, no, but something similar, something perhaps more desirable: every king has not a crown on his head and a sceptre in his hand.' 'So much the better,' said my mother; 'I never envied the lot of Madame Bonaparte.' I was five years old, Monsieur Danré, I was present when my horoscope was made; well—I will prove the gipsy to be in the right. You know that prophecies are not always fulfilled because they must be fulfilled, but because they put a fixed idea into the minds of those about whom they are made which influences events, which modifies circumstances, which finally brings them to the end aimed at; because this end was revealed to them in advance, whilst, had it not been for the revelation, they would have passed by the end without noticing it."
"I should like to know where he got all these notions from!" my mother exclaimed.
"Oh, why, from his own thoughts," said M. Danré.
"Then is it your judgment, too, that he ought to go?"
"I advise it."
"But you know the poor lad's resources!"