For a moment she did not answer him, she was pursuing the train of her own thoughts.
“I never told you I had my fortune told by a gipsy when I was sixteen. Would you like to know what she predicted?”
“If you wish,” replied Contraras politely. He had no respect for gipsies or their prophecies.
“Ah, I see it won’t interest you. I don’t think you believe much in the spiritual side of existence. Still, I will tell it; it will not take a moment. Up to the present, it has come remarkably true. This gipsy, she was a very old woman, predicted that I should have a very hard life for some years, then would come some years of great good fortune, and then—equally great tribulation.”
Contraras smiled. “My dear child, she probably predicted precisely the same things hundreds of times to her clients. The veil of the future is not to be lifted by a wandering beggar-woman.”
“Of course, I knew you would not be impressed, or perhaps you just say it to cheer me.”
She had forgotten his question—should he come and see her again before she started for the Palace? He repeated it.
“No, my good friend, I would rather not. If all goes well, we shall meet again often. If not, we will say good-bye here. A thousand thanks for your friendship and kindness.”
Could fanaticism go further? She was thanking this hardened old schemer for his friendship and kindness—friendship and kindness that were ready to sacrifice her at any moment for his own ends.