“Then Nature is in covenant with you, and helps you to deceive yourself to imagine that you are yet young. I am told that your daughter is grown up and wondrously beautiful, and that only when you stand near her is it seen how old and ugly you are.”
Louise knew the rancor of the unhappy princess, and she knew no one could approach her without being wounded—that the undying worm in her soul was only satisfied with the blood it caused to flow. The harsh words of the princess had no sting for her. “If I were truly old,” said she, “I would live in my daughter: she is said to be my image, and when she is praised, I feel myself flattered.”
“A day will come when she will be blamed and you will also be reproached,” murmured Amelia. After a pause she said: “So you have brought me another deceiver who declares himself a prophet?”
“I do not believe him to be an impostor, your highness. He has given me convincing proofs of his inspiration.”
“What sort of proofs? How can these people who prophesy of the future prove that they are inspired?”
“He has not told me of the future, but of the past,” said Louise.
“Has he had the courage to recall any portion of your past to you?” said the princess, with a coarse laugh.
“Many droll and merry portions, your highness, and it is to be regretted that they were all true,” she said, with comic pathos.
“Bring in this soothsayer, Fraulein von Lethow. He shall prophesy of you: I think you have not, like Madame du Trouffle, any reason to fear a picture of your past.”
The prophet entered. He was wrapped in a long black robe, which was gathered around his slender form by a black leathern girdle covered with curious and strange figures and emblems; raven black hair fell around his small, pale face; his eyes burned with clouded fire, and flashed quickly around the room. With head erect and proud bearing, he drew near the princess, and only when very near did he salute her, and in a sweet, soft, melodious voice, asked why she wished to see him.