The curious manner in which the Obi uttered these words, “I have this mark,” attracted my attention.
“The mark of a lion’s claw which you have on your left eyelid is only noticeable amongst men of undoubted courage; but to close this, General Jean Biassou, your forehead shows every sign of the most unexampled success, and on it is a combination of lines which form the letter M, the commencement of the name of the Blessed Virgin. In whatever part of the forehead, and in whatever line of the face, such a sign appears, the signification is the same—genius, glory, and power. He who bears it will always bring success to whatever cause he embraces, and those under his command will never have to regret any loss. He alone is worth all the soldiers of his army. You, general, are the elect of Fate.”
“Thanks, your reverence,” said Biassou, preparing to return to his mahogany throne.
“Stay a moment, general,” said the Obi, “I forgot one last sign: the line of the sun, which is so strongly marked on your forehead, proves that you understand the way of the world, that you possess the wish to make others happy, that you have much liberality, and like to do things in a magnificent manner.”
Biassou at once recognized his forgetfulness, and drawing from his pocket a heavy purse, he threw it into the plate, so as to prove that the line of the sun never lies.
But this miraculous horoscope of the general’s had produced its effect upon the army. All the insurgents who, since the news of the death of Bouckmann attached greater weight than ever to the words of the Obi, lost their feelings of uneasiness and became violently enthusiastic, and trusting blindly in their infallible sorcerer and their predestined chief, began to shout, “Long live our Obi! long live our general!”
The Obi and Biassou glanced at each other, and I almost thought I could hear the stifled laugh of the one replied to by the sardonic chuckle of the other. I do not know how it was, but this Obi tormented me dreadfully; I had a feeling that I had seen or heard him before, and I made up my mind to speak to him.
“Ho, Obi, your reverence, doctor, here!” cried I to him.
He turned sharply round.
“There is some one here whose lot you have not yet cast—it is mine.”