st farewell to the island
where her early days had been spent, she bethought her of the old
mulatto-woman who had whispered in her ear one day:

"You will go back to France, and, ere long after that, all France will
be at your feet. You will be greater there than a queen."

CHAPTER II.

THE PROPHECY.

It was toward the close of the year 1790 that Josephine, with her little
daughter, Hortense, arrived in Paris and took up her residence in a
small dwelling. There she soon received the intelligence of the rescue
of her mother, and of the re-establishment of peace in Martinique. In
France, however, the revolution and the guillotine still raged, and the
banner of the Reign of Terror--the red flag--still cast its bloody
shadow over Paris. Its inhabitants were terror-stricken; no one knew in
the evening that he would still be at liberty on the following day, or
that he would live to see another sunset. Death lay in wait at every
door, and reaped its dread harvest in every house and in every family.
In the face of these horrors, Josephine forgot all her earlier griefs,
all the insults and humiliations to which she had been subjected by her
husband; the old love revived in her breast, and, as it might well be
that on the morrow death would come knocking at her own door, she wished
to devote the present moment to a reconciliation with her husband, and a
reunion with her son.

But all her attempts in this direction were in vain. The viscount had
felt her flight to Martinique to be too grave an injury, too great an
insult, to be now willing to consent to a reconciliation with his wife.
Sympathizing friends arranged a meeting between them, without, however,
previously informing the viscount of their design. His anger was
therefore great when, on entering the parlor of Count Montmorin, in
response to that gentleman's invitation, he found there the wife he had
so obstinately and wrathfully avoided. He was about to retire hastily,
when a charming child rushed forward, greeted him tenderly in silvery
tones, and threw herself into his arms. The viscount was now powerless
to fly; he pressed his child, his Hortense, to his heart, and when the
child, with a winning smile, entreated him to kiss her mamma as he had
kissed her; when he saw the beautiful countenance of Josephine wet with
tears; when he heard his father's voice saying, "My son, reconcile
yourself with my daughter! Josephine is my daughter, and I would not
call her so i