It is late.
A fire burned all evening in my studio, and King Francis has sat by the fire with me, talking. He was depressed because bankers have been demanding exorbitant sums: he plans to sell royal titles to recoup funds.
“All this will take months...there are many hazards...”
Abruptly:
“Do you see something in my face, something ominous?”
“I don’t understand...”
“It seems to me...I feel that the future has something tragic... I’m worried... Do you believe in foretelling?”
He had been jousting: I blamed fatigue. But he would not be put aside by a few casual words.
“Mon Père...tell me...some say that you can foretell? Is that true?”
“I can not.”