It was now Bonaparte’s turn to appear astonished and irritated, and using her own words he said, shrugging his shoulders, “Madame, is it a joke you are indulging in?”
“I speak in all earnestness,” said Josephine, shaking her head. “Listen, then: a negro-woman in Martinique foretold my fortune, and as her oracular words have thus far been all fulfilled, I must conclude that the rest of her prophecies concerning me will be realized.”
“And what has she prophesied to you?” asked Bonaparte, eagerly.
“She has told me: ‘You will one day be Queen of France! you will be still more than queen!’”
The general was silent. He had remained standing; but now slowly paced the room a few times, his hands folded on his back and his head inclined on his breast. Then again he stood before the viscountess, and his eyes rested upon her with a wondrous bright and genial expression.
“I bid defiance to fate,” said he, somewhat solemnly. “This prophecy does not frighten me away, and in defiance of your prophetic negro-woman, I, the republican general, address my prayer to the future Queen of France: be my wife!—give me your hand.”
Josephine felt almost affrighted at this pertinacity of the general, and a sentiment of apprehension overcame her as she looked into the pale, decided countenance of this man, a stranger to her, and who claimed her for his wife.
“Oh, sir,” exclaimed she, with some anguish, “you offer me your hand with as much carelessness as if the whole matter were merely for a contra-dance. But I can assure you that marriage is a very grave matter, which has no resemblance whatever to a gay dance. I know it is so. I have had my sad experience, and I cannot so easily decide upon marrying a second time.”
“You refuse my hand, then?” said Bonaparte, with a threatening tone.
Josephine smiled. “On the contrary, general,” said she, “give me your hand and accompany me to my carriage, which has been waiting for me this long time.”