I was formerly much more superstitious than I am now; but in thinking over the strange fascination I seemed to have for this child, I recalled with a certain heart pang (I must confess the weakness) a singular Sanscrit tradition which my father had often read to me, because, he said, he had witnessed two events which confirmed its text. According to this tradition, "those predestined to an early and violent death have the gift of fascinating children and lunatics." Now, in fact, Ivan had fascinated Irene, and he died a violent death. I also fascinated Irene, who, in total ignorance of the tradition, had predicted for me a violent death. This uncommon analogy was, to say the least, most extraordinary, and sometimes forcibly preoccupied me. Even now that time has elapsed since these occurrences, Irene's prediction at times comes back to my mind. This tradition had been translated by my father, and was written with some other notes in a book containing the description of his travels in England and the East Indies. I had brought this manuscript with me from France, with other papers which were saved from the wreck of the yacht. The day following the one when the princess was confined to her room by indisposition, she came into the saloon about two o'clock; I was there alone with her child. Madame de Fersen's face was pale and sad. She saluted me graciously; her smile seemed to me more than usually friendly. "I very much fear, monsieur, that my daughter is troublesome," said she, seating herself and taking Irene on her lap. "It is I, rather, madame, who may be accused of being troublesome, for Irene has shown me several times, by the gravity of her demeanour and speech, that she considered me too much of her age, and not enough of mine." "Poor child!" said Madame de Fersen, embracing her daughter. "Have you no ill-will towards her, for her strange, her absurd prediction?" "No, madame, for in turn I shall make a forecast, and then we shall be quits. Mlle. Irene," said I, very seriously, taking her little hand in mine, "I shall not tell you that you will go up there, but I promise that ten or twelve years hence a beautiful angel will come down here from up there expressly for you. He will be beautiful like you, good like you, charming like you, and will lead you to a gorgeous palace, all marble and gold, where you will live a long, long time, the happiest of the happy with this beautiful angel, for he will love you as you love your mother; and then, one day, this palace being no longer beautiful enough for you, you and your angel together will fly away to go and occupy a more beautiful one up there." "And will you be there in that palace, with my mamma?" asked the child, fixing her large, inquiring eyes by turns on Madame de Fersen and on me. It was folly, but I could not help feeling delighted at the association made by Irene in speaking of her mother and of me.