Madame Zchekofsky shook her head.
"She is ill, sire; it is the bitter cold of this terrible winter. Otherwise she would have been by your Majesty's side to-night."
"Ah!" cried the Emperor, with a gesture Of disappointment; "then I must not see her?"
"I fear not. These visions are not to be encouraged, as I am sure Dr. Constant will tell you. Those who command them suffer much afterwards. Is it not so, doctor?"
I hardly knew how to answer her. It had come to me suddenly that this old woman was playing with both of us, and there flashed upon me the disquieting thought that His Majesty's life might even be in danger. Could the Russians have laid hands upon him at such a moment and carried him a prisoner to Petersburg, then indeed were the fortunes of my country imperilled, and a blow struck at the Empire from which it might never recover. Yet what was I to do? The Emperor was as good a judge as I of the situation, and it would have been the mere effrontery of a subordinate which would have reminded him of its dangers.
"Madame," said I, "these things do not concern men of common sense. When I go to bed at night the only vision that I look for is that of the morning sun. If your daughter be a prophetess, I am sorry for you both, for it has never seemed to me a profitable occupation. Discourage her if you can—that is my advice."
She shook her head.
"And yet you heard His Majesty say that she foretold the burning of Moscow?"
"A guess at hazard," said I. "What is more, madame, she may have known that your Emperor was about to burn it. These things are not done by one or two people, but by many thousands. It is quite probable that she should have heard of the intentions."
His Majesty smiled at this, yet the old hawk regarded me with some malice. What her object was—whether to push the fortunes of her house with the Emperor, or merely to advance his interest in her daughter—I could not then imagine; but I know now that she had intended to follow us to Paris and there to establish herself if she could.