One of Irene's chief delights was to take one of my hands, and, having placed it between her mother's, she would silently gaze at us. This slight favour would have been precious to me had it been granted spontaneously by a tender sentiment on the part of Madame de Fersen; but, not wishing to obtain it otherwise, each time that Irene had this caprice I would carry her little fingers up to my lips without giving her a chance to place my hand in her mother's. The day before reaching Paris, I was resolved to make another attempt at declaring my love, when a strange incident, which should perhaps have encouraged me to take this step, deterred me from it. I had not yet been able to ascertain whether or no Madame de Fersen was jealous of her daughter's affection for me; sometimes she had spoken of it in a gaily bantering manner, at other times, on the contrary, she had alluded to it with sadness, almost with bitterness. That day Irene, who occupied a place in her mother's carriage, asked her if I should have a handsome room in Paris. I hastily answered the child that I would have a house of my own, and would not live with them. At these words, Irene as usual silently wept. Madame de Fersen, seeing her tears, exclaimed, with grieved impatience: "_Mon Dieu!_ what is the matter with the child? Why does she love you thus? It is hateful!" "She loves me, perhaps, for the same reason that she loved Ivan," said I. As Madame de Fersen did not seem to understand my words, I explained to her the meaning which I attached to them, and spoke of the Sanscrit tradition. Madame de Fersen thought I was joking. I have already said that this tradition was written by my father in a book full of notes relating to one of his journeys to England. Fortunately, this manuscript was in my carriage, for quite recently I had sought in it some particulars in order to explain to Madame de Fersen certain customs which in Scotland are handed down from generation to generation. At one of the relays, I went for the manuscript, and showed it to Madame de Fersen. The date was so clear, the writing so faded, that Madame de Fersen could not doubt its authenticity. I shall never forget the tearful look which Madame de Fersen fixed on me as she let the book fall on her lap. Doubtless she experienced the same strange emotion I felt when I considered Irene's affection for Ivan and his death, with the writing of this extraordinary tradition: "Those predestined to an early and violent death have the gift of fascinating children and lunatics." Irene displayed for me the same fondness she had for Ivan. Might not my fate be the same? To understand, moreover, all the interest felt by Madame de Fersen at this discovery, one should know that I had frequently frankly confessed to her my excessive superstition, and had so greatly impressed her by relating many singular incidents of this character, that the germs of the same weakness had been laid in her mind.