The countess laughed. A few minutes before she had been white as a ghost; but rapid transitions were a part of her reckless character; the pompous bravery of this little creature was enough to change her mood. “Go, go,” she said, waving her hand; “this gentleman does not wish to hurt me. Keep watch at the door—I will call you presently.” “But should some one call?” “Send some one away.” “What if it should be the king?” “Oh! let the king wait!” The low-born audacity of this answer did not astonish the dwarf, who backed out of the room, saying, between his bows, that madame should be obeyed. “Now!” exclaimed the impatient woman, “now, monsieur, we are alone. Tell me what it is that makes your face so pale.” “Madame, you but now demanded that I should tell you what the future has in store for Marie Antoinette, who will be Queen of France.” “Will be Queen of France? When—where?” “Have I not said it is treason to divine, or prophesy the death of the king?” “But I absolve you—I, who have more power than any queen, pardon this treason in advance.” “Still I must not speak.” “Not when my entire destiny depends on that one question?” “Madame, I have spoken.” “And still refuse me?” “Madame, I still refuse!” “This is cruel! How can I bribe—how can I force you into speaking?” “This much I can say, as you will have the truth; before another year passes Marie Antoinette will be Queen of France.” “Before the end of another year? You are trifling with me! The king is not so very old, and his health—no, no! I will not believe that; the stars cannot tell you such horrible things. You are angry because I persisted. What is it now? Your very lips are white, your hand shakes, your eyes are looking away into the distance. What is it that you see?” The man answered like one in a dream. His eyes grew dim, his voice was low and hoarse. “I see a great concourse of people heaving and jostling each other along many streets, all leading into a public square, in which a scaffold stands reeking with blood, scattered over with saw-dust. Great heavens! I have seen that picture before. A cart comes lumbering through the crowd; a woman sits in the cart, her hands bound, her feet tied. She reels to and fro in the seat; her cries for mercy are mocked by the mob; the hair, cut short at the neck, has fallen over her face. She flings herself back in the agony of a last appeal, the hair sweeps aside. Woman, the face is yours!” Gosner started up, cast a wild look on the countess, and retreated from her backward till his progress was stopped by the wall, where he stood shuddering like a man who had been aroused out of some terrible dream.