and entered a respectable sort of inn, taking our seats at one of the tables in the tap-room, and, as we had already planned, after we had called for beer, commenced a conversation in the hearing of the others who were sitting drinking and smoking.
“Well, I never will believe it—it’s all cheat and trickery,” said Melchior, “and they only do it to pick your pocket. Tell your fortune, indeed! I suppose she promised you a rich wife and half-a-dozen children.”
“No, she did not,” replied I, “for I am too young to marry; but she told me what I know has happened.”
“Well, what was that?”
“Why, she told me that my mother had married again, and turned me out of doors to work for my bread.”
“But she might have heard that.”
“How could she? No, that’s not possible; but she told me I had a mole on my knee, which was a sign of luck. Now how could she know that?”
“Well, I grant that was odd—and pray what else did she promise you?”
“Why, she said that I should meet with my dearest friend to-night. Now that does puzzle me, for I have but one in the world, and he is a long way off.”
“Well, if you do meet your friend, then I’ll believe her; but if not, it has been all guess work; and pray what did you pay for all this—was it a shilling, or did she pick your pocket?”
“That’s what puzzles me,—she refused to take anything. I offered it again and again, and she said, ‘No; that she would have no money—that her gift was not to be sold.’”
“Well, that is odd. Do you hear what this young man says?” said Melchior, addressing the others, who had swallowed every word.
“Yes,” replied one; “but who is this person?”
“The queen of the gipsies, I am told. I never saw such a wonderful woman in my life—her eye goes right through you. I met her on the common, and, as she passed, she dropped a handkerchief. I ran back to give it her, and then she thanked me and said, ‘Open your hand and let me see the palm. Here are great lines, and you will be fortunate;’ and then she told me a great deal more, and bid God bless me.”
“Then if she said that, she cannot have dealings with the devil,” observed Melchior.
“Very odd—very strange—take no money—queen of the gipsies,” was echoed from all sides.
The landlady and the bar-maid listened with wonder, when who should come in, as previously agreed, but Timothy. I pretended not to see him; but he came up to me, seizing me by the hand, and shaking it with apparent delight, and crying, “Wilson, have you forgot Smith?”
“Smith!” cried I, looking earnestly in his face. “Why so it is. How came you here?”
“I left Dublin three days ago,” replied he; “but how I came here into this house, is one of the strangest things that ever occurred. I was walking over the common, when a tall handsome woman looked at me, and said, ‘Young man, if you will go into the third public-house you pass, you will meet an old friend, who expects you.’ I thought she was laughing at me; but as it mattered very little in which house I passed the night, I thought, for the fun of the thing, I might as well take her advice.”
“How strange!” cried Melchior, “and she told him the same—that is, he would meet a friend.”
“Strange—very strange—wonderful—astonishing!” was echoed from all quarters, and the fame of the gipsy was already established.
Timothy and I sat down together, conversing as old friends, and Melchior went about from one to the other, narrating the wonderful occurrence till past midnight, when we all three took beds at the inn, as if we were travellers.
The report which we had circulated that evening induced many people to go out to see Nattée, who appeared to take no notice of them; and when asked to tell fortunes, waved them away with her hand. But, although this plan of Melchior’s was, for the first two or three days, very expedient, yet, as it was not intended to last, Timothy, who remained with me at the inn, became very intimate with the bar-maid, and obtained from her most of the particulars of her life. I, also, from repeated conversations with the landlady, received information very important, relative to herself and many of the families in the town, but as the employment of Nattée was for an ulterior object, we contented ourselves with gaining all the information we could before we proceeded further. After we had been there a week, and the fame of the gipsy woman had been marvellously increased—many things having been asserted of her which were indeed truly improbable—Melchior agreed that Timothy should persuade the bar-maid to try if the gipsy woman would tell her fortune: the girl, with some trepidation agreed, but at the same time, expecting to be refused, consented to walk with him over the common. Timothy advised her to pretend to pick up a sixpence when near to Nattée, and ask her if it did not belong to her; and the bar-maid acted upon his suggestions, having just before that quitted the arm of Timothy, who had conducted her.
“Did you drop a sixpence? I have picked up one,” said the girl, trembling with fear as she addressed Nattée.
“Child,” replied Nattée, who was prepared, “I have neither dropped a sixpence nor have you found one—but never mind that, I know that which you wish, and I know who you are. Now what would you with me? Is it to inquire whether the landlord and landlady of the Golden Lion intend to keep you in their service?”
“No,” replied this girl, frightened at what she heard; “not to inquire that, but to ask what my fortune will be?”
“Open your palm, pretty maid, and I will tell you. Hah! I see that you were born in the West—your father is dead—your mother is in service—and let me see,—you have a brother at sea—now in the West Indies.”
At this intelligence, all of which, as may be supposed, had been gathered by us, the poor girl was so frightened that she fell down in a swoon, and Timothy carried her off. When she was taken home to the inn, she was so ill that she was put into bed, and what she did say was so incoherent, that, added to Timothy’s narrative, the astonishment of the landlady and others was beyond all bounds. I tried very hard to bring the landlady, but she would not consent; and now Nattée was pestered by people of higher condition, who wished to hear what she would say. Here Nattée’s power were brought into play. She would not refuse to see them, but would not give answers till she had asked question and, as from us she had gleaned much general information, so by making this knowledge appear in her questions to them, she made them believe she knew more. If a young person came to her, she would immediately ask the name—of that name she had all the references acquired from us as to family and connexions. Bearing upon them, she would ask a few more, and then give them an abrupt dismissal.
This behaviour was put up with from one of her commanding presence, who refused money, and treated those who accosted her as if she was their superior. Many came again and again, telling her all they knew, and acquainting her with every transaction of their life, to induce her to prophesy, for such, she informed them, was the surest way to call the spirit upon her. By these means we obtained the secret history of the major part, that is, the wealthier part of the town of —; and although the predictions of Nattée were seldom given, yet when given, they were given with such perfect and apparent knowledge of the parties, that when she left, which she did about six weeks after her first appearance, the whole town rang with accounts of her wonderful powers.
It will appear strange that Melchior would not permit Nattée to reap a harvest, which might have been great; but the fact was that he only allowed
