Category: prophecies

The Marquise de Ganges

The Marquise de Ganges

It is 1656, in the ancient quarter of Saint-Germain-des-Pres, whose narrow alley ways and high houses, the tops of which touch each other above the street, have always favourized the most equivocal fermentings of the mind.  In this sombre XVIIth Century, throughout which flames regularly devour witches, the little Rue d’Hautefeuille, bordered on one side by a disused Jewish cemetery and on the other by student lodgings, is no exception.  It could even be said that inside the few houses with little towers in this street, magi and fortune-tellers, adept in all types of mancies, are in charge of Paris.

One October afternoon, a young woman who is barely twenty years old, wearing deep mourning, has her carriage stop at the entrance to this little street.  If she wasn’t completely veiled, it could be seen that she is very beautiful.   So beautiful that the whole of the Court of the young Sun-King [Louis XIV] is ecstatic about it.  So beautiful that the Queen of Sweden, visiting Versailles, cannot refrain from saying:

“In all of the kingdoms that I have crossed, I have never met a woman who can compare to this beautiful Provencale!”

This beauty had been married at thirteen to an amiable officer fifteen years her senior.  She had very much loved him.  But he had recently died at sea after seven years of a happy union.  Now, his young widow is about to remarry, in obedience to her parents’ wishes.  This time her husband will be a gentleman of her own age, the Marquis de Ganges, Governor of Saint-Andre-de-Majencoules, an advanced post in the Cevennes.  The Marquis is also very beautiful, and so joyful!  Always dressed in the latest fashion, frequenting the best Parisian tailors, he is to be seen at Versailles at both the Petit and the Grand Risings.  He is always hunting, often in the King’s company.  He is exactly the same age as Louis XIV.  To resume, he is a perfect cavalier, who will go magnificently with this young, rich heiress…

Catherine Deshayes, wife of Monvoisin

Catherine Deshayes, wife of Monvoisin

A high oak door, flanked by torches, a flight of marble steps, and the young woman is at the lodgings of Catherine Deshayes, the wife of Monvoisin, whose profession is fortune-teller.  Upon entering the vestibule of the one whom the Greats, her clients, call La Voisin, the future Marquise has a moment’s hesitation.  She is shown a sinister hallway all hung in black and constellated with cabalistic signs.  But the maid leads her smilingly towards the magician’s lair.  The place has obviously been decorated by a succubus with refined taste and everything is intended to put the visitor in the right mood.  Between the standing statue of Belzebuth and a set of mirrors which allow people from the Past and from the Future to be seen, La Voisin lolls in an Egyptian armchair.  Fascinated, the young woman contemplates behind her a very crude allegory representing lust…

Draped in dark taffeta studded with little green dragons, her face hidden under a sort of nun’s cornette, La Voisin appears wary at first, and wants to know why the young woman has come to her.

“In a few days, I will have to make a capital decision.  I would like your spirits to advise me.”

The magician relaxes and tells her that she will ask them to answer her.  She asks her not to say anything but to write down, on the piece of paper that she hands to her, the questions that she wants to ask the spirits.  The young woman does not want to write anything down, fearing that the paper could be used against her.  La Voisin assures her that she will burn the paper before her eyes.

The young woman takes the pen which is being held out to her, backs away and writes two lines on the paper, which she then gives to the clairvoyant, who rolls it into a ball and drops it immediately into the mouth of a furnace where aromatic herbs are burning.  Using an elementary sleight-of-hand, La Voisin has of course hidden the paper on which is written:

“Am I young?  Am I beautiful?  Am I a girl, a woman, or a widow?  Should I marry or remarry?  Will I live a long life, will I soon die?”

She leaves, having made an appointment to return in three days.  The time needed by the spirits to come up with the answers.  The time needed by La Voisin to gather information from one of her many spies who investigate for her around Paris…

When the future Marquise returns, she hears this:

“You are young, you are beautiful, you are a widow.  Soon you will remarry…”

Then, touching the head of a stuffed salamander with big orange spots, she concentrates for a moment then says this, which is true clairvoyance:

“I have to tell you…  yes… I have to tell you, that you are going to die young!”

The young woman wants to know whether the cards ever make a mistake.  La Voisin replies that they rarely do.  The young woman begs her to try again.  The fortune-teller slowly rises and goes towards her oven.  In a recipient she takes a pinch of resin which she rolls in what appears to be incense, then throws the little ball into the fire.

A green and blue flame rises, which she carefully inspects.  She turns back toward the young woman.

“There is little hope…  You will die young from a violent death!”


To be continued.


Robespierre was presented as the new Messiah by a woman calling herself the "Mother of God".

Vadier would definitively condemn Robespierre by displaying a letter from a Geneva Notary, which proposes a supernatural Constitution to Robespierre.  It is the end.  After a three-hour battle, the High Priest of the Supreme Being is dead, killed by ridicule.

A few days later, on 9 Thermidor 1794, he who had wanted to bring back the Golden Age, via terror and the scaffold, perishes on the scaffold, amid songs, dances and cries of joy.

The day after this day when the Revolution falls, Catherine Theot is taken to the Petite Force Prison, and from there to the Plessis.  Robespierre had been opposed to her being harmed, and she now risks being persecuted as one of the tyrant’s accomplices.  Inside her gaol, covered in wounds, the origin of which cannot be explained, the Sibyl of the Rue Contrescarpe continues to prophesy…  She had vaticinated in her first prison:

“A great blow will strike me on the Pantheon hill, in a house next to the Ecole de Droit.  It will announce my rejuvenation and my transformation into an Immortal!”

Her prophecy as to the last place of her detention would reveal itself to be exact.  And what “great blow” does she mean?  To the questioners and gaolers who mock her, she says:

“Yes, I am going to die!  But not on the scaffold like you hope!  I shall die of my own death and unhappiness!  When I die, you will see!…  The ground will tremble, and it will collapse everywhere!…”

On 31 August, the visionary, surrounded by her faithful, enters into agony.  She dies peacefully at half-past seven.  At this precise instant, a formidable detonation shakes the walls of the prison.  The ground begins to tremble and all of the windows in Paris shatter while the doors of the prison next to the Luxembourg open on their own.

After the fall of Robespierre, Catherine Theot, considered as one of his admirers, was arrested and taken to the Petite Force Prison.

For a reason which was never elucidated, the Grenelle ammunition dump had just exploded, killing hundreds of people…


After this, the Mother of God’s gaolers took her prophecies seriously and, mad with terror, installed her body on a big parade bed, covered with flowers and surrounded by a thousand candles.  Of course, when they learned that it was the central ammunition dump which had exploded and that the Illuminated woman had nothing to do with it, they threw her body into the common grave and covered it with lime…


Robespierre had never seen her and didn’t even know that she existed.  The Atheist Party simply used her to ridicule Robespierre’s religious ideas.


This former pupil of the Oratorians, who owed to the Bishop of Arras his Bursary of Collegian and Student, lived right to the end surrounded by priests.  A fervent disciple of Rousseau, whom he had perhaps met in his Ermenonville retreat, he attacked Voltaire in all of his speeches, which caused great scandal among the Atheists.  At the Convention tribunal, where he purposely smattered his interventions with many resounding :  “May it not displease God!”  he said:

“To attack the cult, is to attack the morality of the People!”

Just before and at the beginning of the Revolution, the good God was never in better health.  When the churches start to be closed, people turn in frenzy to all forms of mysticism.  The most naive, or the craziest, revelations of somnambulists and necromancians, tarots and horoscopes, those of Mademoiselle Lenormand in particular, who has among her clients Saint-Just, Barere and Robespierre himself, who faints every time that he touches the Nine of Spades.  When in 1793, Saint Genevieve’s shrine is profaned, the Sans-Culottes of the neighbourhood want to raise in the church an “altar, where pious vestals would maintain a perpetual fire”.  In the families, Chaumette’s portrait placed between two candles is adored, and Petion, the President of the Convention, has his sect which finds him “very superior to Our Lord Jesus-Christ”.

At the precise moment that Catherine Theot breathed her last breath, the Grenelle ammunition dump exploded.

In the good aristocratic society, things are not much better.  The Duchess de Bourbon welcomes all that Paris counts in somnambulists, wizards, cabbalists and augures.  Every day, the prophet Elie holds conferences which are followed by a lot of people in the Tuileries garden.  People believe that they are followed by their guardian angel or persecuted by their guardian devil and those who do not give themselves up to magnetism, follow the prophetess Jeanne Labrousse, as far as Rome, where she goes to convert the Pope.

Catherine Theot also has success, as we have seen, with an imagination even more fertile than the others.  The Police find in her home a recipe for making a magical sword which renders invincible, but above all numerous rough copies of letters, all addressed to her “dear son” Robespierre in which she gratifies him with the name of “Guide des milices celestes” and “angel of the Lord”.


The only element which is in any way compromising for the Incorruptible, is the presence in the Theot’s home of Dom Gerle, the man in the white coat.

This strange person, a former Deputy of the Constituante, who had launched the visionary Suzanne Labrousse in Paris, would furnish Vadier with the only political element of his report.  It is a letter from Robespierre to the former Chartreux, in which he guarantees his patriotism and his revolutionary convictions and gives him as well “une carte de Surete”, a precious talisman, without which the slightest movement inside Paris can end at the Conciergerie.


In the Summer of 1794, anything was good for bringing down the Angel of Death who was only hanging on by public pressure.  The absolute Reign of Terror had arrived and anybody in France could be arrested at night, judged at noon and guillotined at four o’clock in the afternoon, without even having opened his or her mouth.  Atrocious times, when the Deputies didn’t dare sleep in their beds, continually changed places in the chamber during a sitting, spent their day running around in the streets and slipping into buildings with two entrances, to uncover spies.  Barras, in his Memoires, recounts that a Deputy, drunk with fatigue, was at his place, his forehead resting on his hand.  Suddenly he is seen to jump on his seat as if stung by a scorpion.  Simply because the Dictator had stared at him.  Trembling, decomposed, he turns to one of his colleagues and stammers:

“He’s going to believe that I’m thinking something!”


Inside, as well as outside, Robespierre had acquired immense prestige, to the point that he personified, all on his own, the Revolution.  And the Terror.  It was said at the Convention:

“If Robespierre asks for blood, blood will flow;  if he doesn’t, no-one else will dare ask for it!”

Women in particular added to it.  Widow Jaquin from Nantes, endowed with 40,000 pounds of rent, writes to him:

“You are my supreme divinity, I see you as my tutelary angel”

The Municipalities write to him that they throw themselves at his feet and that they sing Te Deums in his honour…


Until his death in 1828, the former Conventionnel Vadier would not cease to repeat in his Brussels exile the story of Catherine Theot and what he had been able to do with it.  He said with his inimitable Ariege accent:

“Robespierre, I annihilated him, I sank him, I struck him down in one blow…  Can you imagine it?!  He was saying that Atheism is aristocratic!”

The implacable Voltairian, who had brought down a man whose power surpassed by a great deal that of the Sun-King [Louis XIV] himself, died piously on the day of the Pentecost in 1828 and his body was presented at the Sainte-Gudule Cathedral, where the high clergy assembled to celebrate a solemn service for the repose of his soul…


Ferdinand Ossendowski

The Hutuktu of Narabanchi recounted this to me when I made a visit to his monastery at the beginning of 1921:

“When the King of the World appeared before the Lamas who were favourised by God, inside our monastery, thirty years ago, he made a prophecy relative to the fifty years to come.  Here it is:

‘ More and more, men will forget their souls and will occupy themselves with their bodies.  The greatest corruption will reign on the Earth.  Men will become like ferocious animals, thirsting for the blood of their brothers.  The Crescent will efface itself and its adepts will fall into mendicity and into perpetual war.  Its conquerors will be struck by the sun but will not rise twice;  the greatest misfortune will happen to them which will end in insults in the eyes of other peoples.  The crowns of kings, big and small, will fall:  one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…  There will be a terrible war among all peoples.  The oceans will turn red…  the land and the bottom of the seas will be covered in bones…  kingdoms will be split up, entire peoples will die…  hunger, illness, crimes unknown to the laws, that never before the world has seen.  Then will come the enemies of God and the Divine Spirit who are in Man.  Those who take the hand of another will also perish.  The forgotten, the persecuted will rise up and will hold the attention of the whole world.  There will be fogs and tempests.  Denuded mountains will be covered in forests.  The Earth will quake…  Millions of men will exchange the chains of slavery and humiliations for hunger, illness and death.  The ancient roads will be covered in crowds going from one place to another.  The biggest, the most beautiful cities will perish by fire…  one, two, three…  The father will rise up against the son, the brother against the brother, the mother against the daughter.  Vice, crime, destruction of the body and of the soul will follow…  Families will be dispersed…  Fidelity and love will disappear…  From ten thousand men, only one will survive…  he will be naked, mad, without strength and will not know how to build a house or find food…  He will hurl like the furious wolf, will devour cadavers, will bite his own flesh, and will defy God in combat…  All the Earth will be empty.  God will turn away from it.  On it will spread only night and death.  Then I shall send a People, now unknown, who, with a strong hand, will tear out the weeds of madness and vice, and will lead those who remain faithful to the Spirit of Man in the battle against evil.  They will found a new life on the Earth that is purified by the death of nations.  In the fiftieth year, three great kingdoms only will appear, which will live happily for seventy-one years.  Afterwards, there will be eighteen years of war and destruction.  Then the Peoples of Agharti will come out of their Underground Caverns and will appear on the surface of the Earth.’

Later, travelling through Eastern Mongolia, towards Peking, I often asked myself:

Rene Guenon, in his work, "Le Roi du Monde", confirmed the existence of a Supreme Centre which apparently rules Humanity by occult means.

“What would happen?  What would happen if whole peoples, of different colours, religions, tribes began to emigrate towards the West?”

Now, at the time that I am writing these last lines, my eyes involuntarily turn toward this limitless heart of Asia over which is unwinding the trail of my wanderings.  Through the swirling snow or the sand storms of the Gobi, I see the face of the Hutuktu of Narabanchi while, in a calm voice, his slim hand showing me the horizon, he was opening for me the secret of his intimate thoughts.

Near Karakorum, on the banks of Ubsa-Nor, I see the immense multicoloured camps, the herds of horses and other animals, the blue yurtas of the Chiefs.  Above, I see the banners of Gengis-Khan, the Kings of Tibet, of Siam, of Afghanistan, and of the Indian Princes;  the sacred symbols of the Lamaist Pontiffs;  the coats-of-arms of the Khans, of the Olets and the simple symbols of the Mongol tribes of the North.  I do not hear the sound of an agitated crowd.  The singers are not singing the melancholic tunes of the mountains, of the plains and of the deserts.  The young cavaliers are not amusing themselves running, mounted on their rapid horses…  There are innumerable flocks of old men, of women and children, and, beyond, to the North and to the West, as far as the eye can see, the sky is red like the flame, one hears the grumbling and the bubbling of the fire, the ferocious noise of the battle which these warriors are leading, spilling their blood and that of others under this reddened sky!  Who is leading these flocks of old men without weapons?  I see a severe order, a deep and religious comprehension of the goal, patience, tenacity, a new emigration of peoples, the last march of the Mongols.

Karma has perhaps opened a new page in History.

And what will happen if the King of the World is with them?

But this great Mystery of Mysteries maintains its deep silence.


Roland de Jouvenel

Roland de Jouvenel photographed some time before his death.

On the evening of 2 May 1946, in the heart of a big apartment whose windows open onto the flowering sweet chestnut trees of the Tuileries, a young boy dies from typhoid.  He was going on fifteen and was called Roland de Jouvenel.

For a few days, his mother, Madame Marcelle de Jouvenel, crushed with grief, no longer opens the shutters, forgets to eat, doesn’t answer the telephone, receives no-one.  She is haunted by the idea of suicide.

One evening, like an automaton, she rises, opens the French window which leads to the balcony, looks at the street, leans over and is about to leap from the fourth floor when she suddenly feels a hand on her shoulder.  She turns around.  There is no-one there;  but the invisible hand is still holding her with authority.  So, she goes back inside the bedroom, closes the window and collapses into an armchair, crying.

A few days later, she speaks of this incident to a female friend who immediately says to her:

“Your son is near you, you should try to enter into communication with him.”

Mme de Jouvenel shrugs her shoulders.  She doesn’t believe in spiritism and finds ridiculous those people who try to make Victor Hugo or Napoleon speak to them via a side-table.  Her friend tells her:

“It’s got nothing to do with spinning tables.  You just have to take a pencil and let your hand do what it wants.”

Mme de Jouvenel refuses.  All that touches the supernatural, by near or by far, frightens her.

Madame Marcelle de Jouvenel when, under the name Marcelle Prat, she was a journalist and published little novels.

So, each morning, her friend telephones her, insisting that she at least consent to try.  Finally, annoyed, Mme de Jouvenel makes up her mind.  She thinks that at least she will be able to tell her friend that nothing has happened and she will at last leave her alone.

She takes a writing pad and a pencil.

And after a few minutes, the incredible happens:  her hand, as if traversed by an electrical current, begins to write in a relaxed, regular fashion, without crossing out or hesitating, in a big, sloping handwriting which is not her own, nor that of Roland.

When her hand stops, she can read this:

“Since you ask me to come, here I am.  Don’t be sad.  I’m here, right beside you.  I love you.  You will be happy.  Maman, your son is alive…  Believe these words:  death is life…”

She is overcome;  she can’t believe it, but the words are there…  So, she places the pencil on the writing pad once more and, again, the sentences line up without her will intervening.

The following day and the one after that, she does it again.  And from then on, each evening, Mme de Jouvenel writes under her son’s dictation.  The first messages contain a sort of religious teaching, as if Roland, from the other world, is taking control of his mother’s conversion and spiritual evolution.  For example, she receives:

“Each one, on Earth, must already forge his future life, for eternal life is only a prolongation.  Tell yourself that your human life is only a root in the ground, a seed in clay, and that your eclosion will be in Heaven…”

Then, the messages take a scientific turn.  It seems that Roland is annoyed to see that scholars are so little interested in researches on the essential.  And Mme de Jouvenel, who has no scientific culture, nor philosophical culture, writes “under dictation”:

“Pure science in its highest prolongations can sometimes explain the invisible world.  Scholars have already proven the disintegration of matter;  magicians without knowing it, they have surmounted incredible difficulties, split the atom, conceived the reality of an intermediary substance between the body and the ether.  But they do not extend their research to the soul and do not carry their investigations onto this…  The analysis of human radiations interests them a thousand times less than that of luminous radiations.  The attraction of particles of matter captivates them more than that of Man’s fluidic irradiation.  Who will direct curiosity to these unexplored horizons?”

“Science will be the vehicle used to give back to the world the idea that the unthinkable is a reality.  It is only by the perfect scientific path that Man will be converted to the mysterious…”

Then the messages proclaim that everything is alive, even matter.  And Mme de Jouvenel’s hand writes:

“Matter lives, dust lives, water lives, iron, copper, crystal, everything is alive;  and this collection of atoms is moved by the same principle as that which rules Man…  In each stone there are centuries of accumulated fluid;  layers of vibrations sleep in it like alguae at the bottom of the sea…”

Later, new message on this subject:

“This is very important:  Know that thought can influence matter, this will finally be discovered by Science.  But within this phenomenon, there is another:  connected thoughts, that is to say connected to us…  The important thing is that thought in itself becomes a fairly strong instrument, a fairly strong lever to dig matter out of its opacity, its immobility.  Through the relay of our brains, which emit waves, matter can become an associate.  Each intelligence has its wave length…  I keep telling you:  purify yourself and work to increase your wave-length…”

And as Mme de Jouvenel is asking herself about the concrete form that a thought must have to act on matter, her hand suddenly writes:

“A spinning propeller becomes invisible at a certain acceleration.  You don’t see thoughts because of the speed of their vibrations…”

Over months, then years, Mme de Jouvenel receives messages like this on all subjects:  the fourth dimension, telluric currents, stellar space, microphysics…  One day in 1961, antimatter is even the subject, a word that Mme de Jouvenel had never heard spoken:

“The principle of antimatter is perhaps the biggest discovery of the epoch…  Inside this absolute zero, a superstructure spreads…”

It is only very much later that Mme de Jouvenel learns that two Nobel Prizewinners, Doctors Cowan and Libby, admit the possibility of stars and galaxies composed of antimatter…

From time to time, the messages contain views of the future.  One day, Mme de Jouvenel receives this:

“I am able to affirm, without fixing a date nor giving more ample explanations, that you will traverse new anguish.  Some currents will again shake men, banks of chaotic waves shaking up brains.  There will not be war now;  the electricities of combat are going to suspend their effects, but guerillas will ceaselessly scrape your planet;  there has to be an open wound for the blood not to stop flowing.  Foyers of expiation will ceaselessly fly above the world and will land from place to place.  The guilty and the innocent will die together…”

In 1962, the messages clearly announce a time that we know well:

“The world, by desanctifying itself, has engendered its suicide.  You are entering into the era of autodestruction.  Terrorist attacks, suicides, accidents, conflicts which attack in great number are the proof of this.  Killing each other, demolishing, destroying, are incorporating themselves into the social automatisms…”

And, for twenty-five years, from 1946 to 1971, the year of her death, Mme de Jouvenel will receive thousands and thousands of messages on subjects of which she knew nothing, written in a style which corresponds in no way to her own, but which open vertiginous perspectives on physics, chemistry, biology, mathematics, as if someone, “somewhere else”, someone who already knows, was trying to help us and open our eyes a little…


To be continued.

Before taking any decision, the Greeks went to consult an oracle.

A writer goes to see Wanga Dimitrova.  He wants to find answers to the questions that everyone asks himself.  Shall I be ill?  Shall I fall in love?  Become rich and famous?  And another one, which the clairvoyant never refuses to answer, however much it may cost:  when shall I die?

For once, Wanga refuses to answer anything.  She says:

“There is something much more important than all that.  You have just written the story of an adventure which really happened.  Why, at the end, do you make your heroine die, when she is still alive?  If you respect the truth, your book can only be better… “

So speaks Wanga, who knows the slightest material changes in the lives of all those who come to see her.  But who sometimes refuses to answer.  As if, for her, the psychical and the spiritual are more important.  As if this daughter of Thrace, the land of Orpheus, the prophet and magician of the Arts, believes only in poetry, intelligence, the Conscious.  A Conscious which englobes intelligence itself, and which floats on this ocean of co-existence, the nearest coasts of which we are only just starting to explore.


In the Balkans, Wanga Dimitrova is well-known.  When this text was written, over thirty years ago, no photograph of her existed.  The Soviet authorities hoped to “domesticate” or at least find a physical, rational explanation.  Because of this, Wanga became the first prophetess in modern times to be given a salary by the Government, and be protected and even encouraged, for the social role that she played.  This shows a real absence of prejudice in the land of triumphant materialism.


The Committee of organization was put in place by the Institute of Suggestology and Parapsychology in Sofia.  This is a very serious institution which establishes the archives of Wanga’s revelations and verifies if her prophecies come true.  Wanga has two secretaries at her disposition and everything that she says or does is examined in the Institute’s laboratories.  Around thirty researchers work there under the direction of Georgi Lozanov, who is Doctor in Medicine and has worked for twenty-five years in parapsychology.  He is very well-known for this in the Communist world. and for some time now, American researchers come to see him, to exchange information with him on the hidden powers of the psychism.


The price of a consultation with Wanga is multiplied by five for non-Bulgarians.  The money goes to the State which generously supports Lozanov’s Institute…


It all started for Wanga in her childhood.  She manifested an extraordinary sensitivity.  Her family was very poor and her father, who was an agricultural worker, had to go to Greece to find work.  It was at this epoch, when she was thirteen, that Wanga’s sight started to go.  Her father showed her to a Greek doctor who recommended an immediate operation.  Through lack of money, the operation cannot take place, and at nineteen, Wanga is completely blind.

Her paranormal sight is then unveiled and predictions begin, firstly in connection with the death of loved ones, which all come true.  Her parapsychological power has in fact the lugubrious particularity of “sensing” the death of all those who come to consult her.  Whether it touches the consultant directly, or his entourage.  And it is very rare that she makes a mistake.


Sometimes it would doubtless be better that she remain silent, but she assures that this is impossible:

“I am sorry.  I can’t say anything about the life of those who come to see me if I can’t also speak of their death… “

Luckily, Wanga sometimes makes mistakes.  For, as is the case with all of the great clairvoyants and telepaths, her powers are very variable in time.  Illnesses, personal problems, for example, affect them for varying lengths of time.  Lozanov’s Institute has however been able to determine that, over a period of fourteen years, Wanga’s predictions and her clairvoyances about the present and the past are 80% correct.


Sometimes, she has instantaneous panoramic visions of the past, the present and the future of her “patient”.  At other times, it takes several hours to find a minor element.  Georgi Lozanov has also noted that it is possible to “block” the clairvoyant.  By simulating mental confusion, by taking on someone else’s identity, or by showing hostility or scepticism toward her.


The way that a visitor presents himself is a determining factor in the declenchment of the divination process.  After which, it seems that Wanga has no more power to control the voices or the images that she assures she hears and sees.


This explains nothing, but the phenomenon can be described.  Lozanov has done it.  At the moment of the telepathic and divinatory trance, there is a contraction of Time and a dilation of Space.  Like the famous “global perception” of the dying.  Lozanov speaks of “concept of the great present” and this of course poses immediate philosophical problems, which are, for the moment, insoluble.  Those of the determinism which rules our life, that we call predestination, fatum, or karma, which means, for those who believe in the transmigration of souls, the sum of the acts of their anterior lives which, according to Brahmanism, weighs heavily on our future destiny…


To begin to find an answer, we must first change our opinion on a Time which is only the addition of chance events uniformly happening one after the other.  Physicists, too, have had to renounce their rational and predetermined conception in the matter.  Margaret Mead, the great American anthropologist, who was very interested in parapsychology, uses these terms:

“There are few reasons to believe that humans could live, if they have knowledge of catastrophes which they are incapable of preventing… “


At Delphi, politicians, military men or ordinary people came to consult the Pythia who prophesied in a state of sacred delirium.

Pythia comes from the word "python". The skin of this serpent killed by Apollo decorated the prophetic tripod.

Here, nothing much has changed over the last five thousand years.  Sheep still travel through these mountains which have seen the combats of Philip and Alexander against Thracian warriors, the most bellicose of Antiquity.  Today, this countryside is known as “the Switzerland of the Balkans”.  But this discrete region possesses the most eloquent clairvoyant in the world.  Who, unlike her Greek sisters of Antiquity, does not need a tripod or volcanic gas to predict the future.

We are in Petrich in Bulgaria and the oracle lives in a little, low house in this mountain village.  But we are still in the time of Socialism where everything is planned, and Wanga’s astounding gifts provoke no spectacular public manifestation, nor even any of those long queues which are characteristic of the countries of the East at this time.  He who comes to consult Wanga Dimitrova, the Bulgarian prophetess, has to pass by a sort of committee which will fix an appointment a long time in advance.  Which avoids too long a wait, and any excessive fatigue for the clairvoyant, who is blind from childhood.  She can see the future and the past with confounding precision.  She can find missing people and reveal illnesses, in a way that only two or three other people in the world are able to do.  With this difference, that she hates performing as some sort of side-show attraction, just as much as she hates leaving her Rhodope mountains for an instant.

A few years beforehand, she had fallen ill, and two doctors were then able to examine her attentively.  She greeted them by telling them that she detested doctors, explaining that, when she was little, her eyes hurt and she had been so well treated that she was now blind.  She tells them to leave.  The doctors pretend to obey, but because they absolutely want to establish some sort of contact with her, they come back an hour later.  The clairvoyant is sitting alone on a Turkish divan, and is even less welcoming.  She tells them that she never sees anything about sceptics like themselves.  The two men seize this pretext to advise her to dine in peace, saying that they know that she had received more than forty people that day…  Perhaps they could come back later?

The prophetess does not reply.  Half-an-hour later she comes out of her kitchen and again wants to chase them away, saying that she had already told them that she would only receive them the next day.

Her visitors point out that they have come a long way, and that they have to leave that same evening.  Wanga is standing in the doorway at this moment.  Suddenly, her face changes.  She has difficulty breathing.  She seems to follow an object moving on the ceiling with her eyes…  Now she staggers, and the whole left side of her face collapses.  In a demented gesture, panting and upset, she slices her left palm with her five grouped fingers.  She cries out:

“Who is Gregor?”

One of her visitors replies:

“It’s the name of one of my sons-in-law… ”

“Who is Stephana?”

“It’s my son-in-law’s mother… ”

“Your father Alexander is dead?… ”

“Yes… ”

“Your mother Flora is dead too?… ”


“You were five children… “

Little by little, Wanga’s tone becomes more affirmative.  As if she is now reading in an open book.

“Your brother Peter would really like me to say something very important.  But I don’t understand him very well…  I am so tired!  But it is very, very important!… “

Wanga’s face is congested.  Her eyes slowly roll in their sockets…  Suddenly, she again makes the same gesture with her hands, even more violently.  She shouts, as if she is suffering atrociously:

“Your wife is ill!  Very seriously ill!  You think that it is the menopause…  it is not that at all!  I see blood, an enormous amount of blood!  It is not the menopause…  It is cancer!”

Now, the paragnostic is in full hysterical trance.  With great dramatic gestures, she hammers out the same words, in prey to abundant perspiration.  In a provocative tone, she addresses the other visitor.

“So, my dear!  Why do you pass yourself off as a city man when you are from the country, born in the Plovdiv district?”

“It is true, but now I am both doctor and city-dweller… ”

“Your parents are still alive!  You have two sisters, one of whom is a school teacher and, at this moment, your parents and your sister are building a new house in your native village.  You should help them a bit more!  As for your wife, she is at the cinema at the moment!… “

All of these affirmations of course turn out to be true.  Upon returning home, one of the doctors finds his wife bathing in her blood, a victim of the haemorrhage provoked by a cancer that had not been suspected until now…

The Pythia of Delphi rendered her oracles after having breathed the mephitic vapours which seeped from a crevasse. Accused of political bias, she was sometimes attacked.

A young woman, who has a high position in the Bulgarian Government, recounts:

“Like a lot of other people, my father went one day to visit the clairvoyant.  There were a lot of people, but he didn’t have to wait long.  Wanga came to the door of her little house and received him first, saying that it was because he was the only one present who did not believe in her gift…  Then, she started to tell him numerous circumstances of his life with astounding precision, his three marriages in particular.

“She told him that he had another fourteen years to live, indicating that I, myself, would lose my husband after the birth of our first child.

“She added that I would re-marry, but that my new household would be destroyed following an error that I would commit.  Finally, to crown everything, she revealed to me that my brother would kill himself at the age of twenty in a “stupid” accident.

“Unfortunately, everything came true in the slightest detail, including the death of my brother who, by imprudently jumping from a tram, was run over.  How did the whole of my future existence pass in an instant behind the blind eyes of Wanda, when I was myself only a little girl?”

And this young woman adds thoughtfully:

“I don’t believe in either miracles or religion…  But this woman is installed on an observatory, from whence she can see how the ribbons of destinies are knotted, in their smallest details, and she makes me believe that there is something… “

To be continued.

Wolf Messing.

By order of Stalin, himself, Wolf Messing is asked to remove 100,000 roubles in cash from the Moscow Gosbank, after having telepathically conditioned the Head Teller.  Messing recounts:

“I presented myself before the teller and handed him a sheet of blank paper taken from my notebook.  Behind the counter, the man attentively examined the “document”.  He was elderly, which perhaps facilitated my enterprise.  He slowly went towards the safe and removed several wads of money which he then counted in front of me… “

Messing leaves the bank and presents himself to the two public servants who had been given the task of controlling the experiment.  Then he returns to the stunned teller and begins to re-count the notes.  The blank paper is still on top of the pile of forms, and the telepath says with a smile, pointing to the roubles:

“You gave me this for that!”

The teller grabs the piece of paper and furiously turns it in all directions.  He even holds it towards a lamp, as if an order had been written there in filigrane.  Then suddenly, he collapses, struck down by a heart attack…

Highly delighted by these results, Stalin submits the paragnostic to a whole series of new tests.  Thanks to his faculties, Messing manages to slip into the most secret places of the Red Empire in full war alert, and to crown everything, he presents himself one day before Stalin, who is working in his datcha, surrounded by a rampart of policemen and bodyguards.  Not only had he succeeded in an enterprise as considerable as entering Fort Knox to try to steal the gold of the United States of America, but the civil and military guards had bowed to him as he passed…  The dictator, who was starting to worry, asked him how he had done it.  Messing replied:

“It’s quite simple.  I mentally suggested to your domestics and to your guards that…  I was Beria!  It’s a shame that I was unable to procure a steel pince-nez, like your Chief of Police!”

The telepath was laughing.  He was tall and had light, curly hair, quite the opposite of the short, dark, bald boss of the NKVD…

In the highest spheres of the Regime, no-one has any more doubts about Messing’s powers, and everyone is asking if he mightn’t be justiciable for a little stay in Siberia.  Or, what would be the best way of using him…  Stalin is so impressed that he agrees to his request to make a grand tour throughout the whole of the Soviet Union.

It is said that the function creates the organ.  As the paragnostic multiplied the challenges, his faculties developed and there he was, driving a car, while wearing a blindfold, through the whole of Riga, obeying only the telepathic injunctions of a passenger.  The least astounding thing about this is that, in his normal state, Messing was perfectly incapable of driving a car…

A little while later, he wins a game of chess, also wearing a blindfold, against an excellent local player.  There again, he has no experience of chess, and he plays and wins because a champion is holding his left hand throughout the game.  Now he can also make someone trip at a distance, and his prophetic gifts are confirmed by the announcement made in public at this time [1940], that the war would end in the first week of May 1945.  Within a few months, the reputation of the paragnostic grows to the point that no Soviet citizen has not heard of his exploits.  He rapidly becomes a sort of national hero, which is accompanied by an unexpected consequence:  because crowds flow to each of his performances, the telepath’s bank account swells to overflowing.  He is so popular that he is untouchable, and the policemen who follow him every time he goes out are only able to confirm the ampleur of his success day after day.  But he knows that he shouldn’t irritate the People’s Commissioners too much…  As he has chosen his camp, he makes a gift of two fighters to Russian aviation, which he entirely finances himself.  There are photographs which represent the Pole surrounded by officers in fur hats, very flattered to be posing beside the star of the day, whose name has been painted on the two aeroplanes.  The ceremony for the reception of the gifts is brilliant, and from the Black Sea to the Ural, Messing’s popularity is immense.  Nikolai Semyonov, Nobel Prize winner in Chemistry, will write a little later that it was capital to scientifically study the parapsychological phenomena produced by sensitive people like Messing.

The Russians did.  Despite surface hostility, which denounced telepathy as “idealist and antisocial”, Leonid Vassiliev, Professor of Physiology at the University of Leningrad, acquired a notoriety just as great as that of the American Rhine, the founder of scientific telepathy.  The Russian used a sort of space cabin, so well insolated with mercury and lead, that even short radio waves were unable to penetrate it.  He installed percipients in it, who had to capture orders coming from the exterior.  The most gifted of them succeeded in “reading” a message sent from 17,000 kilometres away.

What happened to Messing?  We don’t know.  His last sign of life was in the form of a remarkable article, which appeared in the famous Soviet magazine Science and Religion.  In it he explains that his gifts are not mysterious nor supernatural, but that he is totally incapable of explaining them in rational terms.  He announces the imminent release of a book in which the whole of his experiments would be related, with a chapter on the concrete use which could be made of them in the case of armed conflict.

This book never appeared, or in any case it did not arrive in the West.

To be continued.

Louis XV from a Van Loo portrait.

It is half past ten at night, on Friday 29 April 1774, when a doctor notices – while leaning over Louis XV, who is confined to bed – a few suspicious red marks on the royal face.  He orders a servant to bring a candle closer so that he can see better and, with a worried expression, goes over to his colleagues present in the sovereign’s bedchamber.  He murmurs a few words, and they all, one after the other, approach the patient to better examine him.  After a brief consultation with each other, the doctors decide to forbid the royal family access to the patient’s bedchamber and, a few minutes later, the Duke de Bouillon informs the Court that “the King’s smallpox is declared”.

The news rapidly spreads throughout the palace but it is decided to keep the sovereign in ignorance of his illness.  This is made easier because he believes that he has had smallpox in his youth and thinks himself immunised against it.  They therefore talk to him about “suette militaire”, a malady characterised by the eruption of a rash, accompanied by abundant perspiration.  This illness appeared in Picardie at the beginning of the century, and the King’s advanced age – sixty-four – normally shields him from a fatal outcome…

All that can be done is wait, for, in this matter, the doctors of the time know only too well the limitations of their art.  Doctor Lorry declares “that on the subject of smallpox, we have said all that we know as soon as we have named it”, and another doctor, Lemonnier, answers the Cardinal de La Roche-Aymon, Grand Chaplain to the King, who questions him on the gravity of the illness, “that there is nothing in particular to say;  it’s smallpox, you know it, you see it;  I have nothing else to add”.  At this precise moment, no-one can establish any prognosis for the evolution of the illness and the patient’s chances for survival.


For many people, this smallpox which takes hold of the royal person at the end of fifty-nine years of reign, assumes the dimension of a divine punishment.  Jesuits, Jansenists, Members of Parliament, partisans of Choiseul, all those who have something with which to reproach the man who had been Louis le Bien-Aime [the Beloved] will see a celestial punishment in his last illness.  On the preceding Holy Thursday, Abbot Jean-Baptiste Beauvais had prophesied from the pulpit.  Recently promoted Bishop of Senez, and given the task of preaching during Lent, he had denounced the debauchery which reigned at Court and the guilty complacency of a King accused of “libertinage”.  He reminded the sovereign of his wife’s death and that of six of his children, notably the Dauphin Louis, before accusing

“this monarch, glutted with voluptuousness, tired of having dipped into all the types of pleasures which surround the throne to awaken his wilted senses, who finishes by seeking out a new sort in the vile remains of public licence”.

After this direct allusion to Madame du Barry, wrongfully accused by public rumour of having been formerly an inmate of a Parisian house of pleasure, the predicator concluded with this terrible menace:

“Another forty days and Niniva will be destroyed… “

The sermon was pronounced on 1 April.  On the following 10 May, Louis XV will breathe his last breath…

The King assumed his part of the Bishop of Senez’ scarcely veiled threats, and spent an excellent month of April, which introduced the first wafts of Spring.  Installed at the Petit Trianon – which had just been finished – in the company of Mme du Barry, he consecrated himself above all to the pleasures of the hunt.  It was noticed, however, that he didn’t look very well and had very little appetite from the 20th.  His state became more serious on the 27th.  Affected with headaches, he still went hunting, but had to give it up during the day.  The situation grew worse the next day, for fever declared itself, accompanied by violent nauseas.  Consulted, La Martiniere, First Surgeon, advised returning to the Palace, which augured ill for what was to follow, for it was thought that a sovereign in danger of death should naturally be among his own.  In a few minutes, a carriage drove from the Petit Trianon to the Palace.  During the night which followed, the pains grew worse.  On Friday 29 April, Lemonnier, Ordinary Doctor to the King, decided to bleed him and consulted several of his colleagues, Lorry, Bordeu, Mme du Barry’s doctor, and Lassone, that of the Dauphine Marie-Antoinette.  Nothing very precise came out of the discussions which were then engaged and they contented themselves with speaking of “humoral fever”.  After having bled the King for the second time, they did their best to make the patient vomit and applied cataplasms to draw the “bad humours” out of the body…  There was no question of smallpox since everybody then thought, like Louis XV, that he had had it in his youth and that he was therefore safe from it.  No eruption of a rash was noticed, anyway.  It was only during the evening of the 29th that the rash appeared, immediately revealing the amplitude of the disease which was affecting the unfortunate sovereign.

The last days of Louis XV are well-known thanks to the Souvenirs of Jacob-Nicolas Moreau, the King’s historiographer, and to the witness reports of the Duke de Belle-Isle and the Duke de Croy who, a close friend of the patient, had access to his bedside.  Other witness reports, notably those of the Duke de La Rochefoucauld-Liancourt and the Baron de Besenval, use the story to get even with the King and certain members of the Court.  The Chroniques de l’Oeil-de-Boeuf or other stories of libertine inspiration, heap blame on the dying man and contribute to soiling his memory durably.  Taken up by Michelet, the black legend of a King uniquely preoccupied with hunting and his favourites, receiving by his atrocious death the just punishment for his sins, will be installed for a long time, and will please the Republican historiography of the XIXth Century.  We have to wait for the works of Pierre Gaxotte or, more recently, those of Michel Antoine, for the truth to be re-established.  Published in 1989, the excellent little book that Pierre Darmon consecrates to La Petite Verole mortelle de Louis XV has established a definitive end to the question.

To be continued.

Twenty-eight year old Prince Felix Yussupov fights with all his will against being dominated;  but, completely paralysed, he has to wait for Rasputin to order him to get up, to be able to use his members again.

The “prophet” believes that the Prince will be in his power from now on.  He does not guess that the Prince, more and more convinced of being designated by Heaven to “deliver” Holy Russia from Rasputin, is preparing a trap for him.  Several plots are cooked up.  Finally, the house owned by Yussupov on the Moika quay is chosen as the place of execution.  And on the evening of 29 December 1916, in the cellar converted into a comfortable salon, the Prince and his friends make the last preparations for “appropriately” receiving the “prophet” who has accepted to come “to talk about the soul”.  They place pastry, bottles of alcohol, wines, a samovar in evidence on a table;  then one of them, who is a doctor, puts on rubber gloves and, crushing some potassium cyanide crystals to powder, sprinkles the cakes with a dose of poison which is sufficient to provoke the instantaneous death of several people.  Prince Yussupov goes to get Rasputin and brings him back by car.  The two men enter the cellar alone, settle themselves in front of the table and engage in a conversation on philosophy, as usual.

Prince Felix Yussupov.

While talking, Prince Yussupov offers Rasputin some of the cakes containing cyanide;  Rasputin willingly takes several of them and eats them.

A few minutes go by.  Pale with fright, the Prince watches the “prophet”.  To his great surprise, Rasputin does not collapse and continues to talk in a joyful voice.  Maliciously considering his host, he then swallows several glasses of poisoned wine…

Suddenly, he rises, and his eyes gleam, becoming frightening.  Is this the end?  No.  The next minute, he smiles and asks for music.  Then, the Prince, who can’t wait any longer, takes out his revolver, aims at the heart and fires.

Rasputin lets out a savage roar and collapses.  The Prince’s friends, who are waiting in a neighbouring room, immediately arrive.  The doctor leans over the body, notes that the bullet has traversed the region of the heart and that the “prophet” is dead.  Everyone goes back up to the ground floor to discuss the future of the country, now rid of its bad genie.

But, after half an hour, Prince Yussupov, suddenly anxious, and compelled by a sudden impulse, goes back down to the cellar.  Rasputin is still lying on the floor.  He considers him, and is about to go back upstairs, when his attention is drawn to an almost imperceptible trembling of the left eyelid.  “My spine icy”, as he will later write, he stares in terror at this eye which slowly opens.  A few instants later, the right eyelid starts to tremble as well, then opens, and the Prince sees Rasputin’s two eyes, two viper eyes, fixed on him with a satanical expression.  Hypnotised, he remains fixed to the spot without being able to cry out.  In a sudden movement, Rasputin leaps with a roar onto the Prince and tries to strangle him.  A terrible struggle begins.  Finally, Yussupov sends his adversary rolling onto the floor, and races upstairs to find his friends.

“Come down quickly, he is still alive!”

Before the three men have time to do anything, Rasputin, dragging himself on his stomach, appears on the stairs;  he is covered in blood.  With one bound, he gets up and runs towards a secret door which opens onto the courtyard.  The Prince had previously locked this door with a key, however, the “prophet” opens it, as if it were unlocked, and disappears into the night.

Is he going to succeed in escaping?  Panicked, Prince Yussupov leads his friends out of the castle.  One of them, Puvichkenitch, seizes his revolver and fires at Rasputin, once, twice, three times.  But the Tsarine’s extraordinary counsellor continues walking.  A fourth shot finally makes him fall.

The three men rush to him:  Rasputin is really dead this time.  Two hours later, his body is thrown into the river…


After having inexplicably survived cyanide poisoning and a bullet in the heart, Rasputin is finally killed by Yussupov and his friends.

Prince Yussupov went to bed.  But, the following day, he found on his desk a photo of Rasputin which he did not at all remember seeing before.  On the back was the following inscription in Rasputin’s hand:

“I bless you, child.  Live not in wildness, but in enjoyment, light and joy.  Gregory.”

Yussupov never found out who had placed this photo in his home…


Later, it was learnt that, at the precise moment of Rasputin’s death, curious perturbations occurred in Russian convents.  Nuns suddenly started screaming and raising their skirts with obscene gestures, and priests blasphemed while rolling on the floor, as if they had suddenly gone mad.  Further, Rasputin is said to have appeared to several people.  A few days later, Prince Yussupov went to visit an elderly nun who had a reputation for sainthood.  She received him, saying:

“It is you I was waiting for…  Do not torment yourself, you are under God’s protection.  Rasputin was a fiend of Satan that you brought down, like Saint George brought down the dragon.  And he, himself, is protecting you, for, by killing him, you have prevented him from committing the even bigger sins that he would have committed in the future…”


At Rasputin’s death, hundreds of women mourned him, of course;  but all those who had deplored the influence that he had had on the Tsarine were able to breathe more easily…  For them, Russia and the Romanov dynasty had been saved…  They did not know about a letter, written in 1915 by Papus (Doctor Encausse) to the Empress, which ended like this:

“From the cabalistic point of view, Rasputin is a vase, comparable to Pandora’s box, which holds all the vices, all the crimes, all the filth of the Russian people.  If this vase breaks, we will see its appalling contents immediately spreading over Russia.”

One month after Rasputin’s death, the Russian Revolution erupted…


Michel de Nostre-Dame, known as Nostradamus, painted by his son Cesar.

One of these causes is the one that penetrates the mind and illuminates it with a supernatural light;  the other is that of a person who predicts by founding his affirmations on the doctrine of the stars and prophesies under the effect of the revelation received from God.

Thanks to this inspiration, the prophet is capable of understanding that this divine spirit is injected into him by the Creator by means of a natural suggestion.  Then, he knows that that which he predicts is true, that his prophecies come from Heaven itself and that, like the light and the little flame, they cannot be contested…

But, at this point in my demonstration, I must stop, for I do not want to strain your mind’s capacity.

I have discovered that the world, before the final conflagration, will suffer diluvial inundations following which no land will emerge any more.  These inundations will last so long that, with the exception of those living in the seas and on the mountains, all other beings will perish.

Before and after these events, the rains will be rare in numerous regions;  incandescent stones and balls of fire will fall from the sky and everything will be destroyed by fire.  All of this will occur without warning, before the final conflagration.

Although the planet Mars has to accomplish its cycle until its end, it was not given to me to know if, having finished it, it will recommence, for certain planets will be grouped in the constellation of Virgo for numerous years while others will be assembled in the constellation of Cancer for an even longer duration.

Now, we are under the influence of the Moon, according to the will of Eternal and Almighty God.  When it has accomplished its complete cycle, the Sun will come and then Saturn, for, according to the celestial signs, Saturn’s reign will be the one during which the world will approach a revolutionary period which will overthrow everything in the world.

This will commence, counting from the present time when I am writing, in one hundred and seventy-seven years, three months and eleven days, (that is to say 1732 which will be, according to certain historians, notably Doctor de Fontbrune, the date of the first arrival in Paris of Jean-Jacques Rousseau whose influence on the changing of ideas, no-one denies.) and will lead to the corruption of ideas and ways of life.  The world will then know deadly epidemics, long periods of famine, wars and terrible inundations;  between the beginning and the end of this time, immense damages will be caused and the human species will be decimated to the point that the survivors will no longer be able to cultivate the fields which will have become sterile.

One can see and read in the celestial movements that this will happen while we are still in the seventh thousand of years which will see the conclusion of everything.  When we are approaching the eighth thousand and the reign of the eighth sphere which will appear in the firmament (Saturn), then our God Eternal will put an end to the period of revolution and the celestial bodies will recommence moving.  It will be the same for all of the sideral movements assuring the stability of the earthly globe, which will not remain eternally inclined on its axis and will not always turn.  Then His will will be accomplished and it cannot be otherwise, in spite of all of the contrary opinions whose equivocal arguments are only illusions.

It happens that the Divine Creator, through the messages which he sends to us (the fire and the flame), proposes to our senses and, consequently, to our eyes, images of future events which are the matter of prediction;  He also gives the explanation of them so that he to whom he has revealed them can, in turn, make them known to other men.

For the presage which issues from an exterior vision ineluctably contains within it the conception of a fraction of Himself resulting from the vision received.  However, this fraction which has permitted the comprehension of the whole of the phenomenon, is nothing more, in reality, than the impression perceived by the mind.  The reason for this is evident, for all prediction comes from God;  the angelic spirit injected into the man who prophesies gives a sacred character to his vaticinations and illuminates him after his mind has been sensitized by numerous nocturnal apparitions.  As for the certitudes which are brought to him afterwards by the astronomical calculations that he will do during the day, it is up to him to put them in harmony with the elements composing the holy predictions concerning the future since these calculations depend exclusively on the man’s free will.

Let me now tell you what the calculations that I have made, according to the revolution of the planets, reveal to me on the subject of the revelations which I have received from the Divine Master.  The mortal sword is approaching us in the form of epidemics, plague and wars whose horror is greater than that which the last three generations of men have known.  It also takes the aspect of famines which will badly strike Humanity several times, as this flows from the conjunction of the stars.  For it is written:

“I will crush their iniquity with an iron rod and will punish them with the whip.”

God’s misericord will not manifest itself for as long as the major part of my predictions will not have been accomplished or are not in the course of being accomplished.  Then, during sinister tempests, the Lord will say:

“I will trample them under my feet, I will break them and I will have no pity for them.”

The waters and the continual rains will provoke many other events which I have described in detail in my other prophecies written in prose.  In these texts, I give the places and the duration of the phenomena, the date at which they will commence and that of their end, such as they have been fixed in advance.  So, the men who will come then, knowing the facts that have already occurred, will be able to determine those that are still to happen and that are described with the greatest precision.

Then, under the vault of the skies, minds will understand;  but this will only happen after the coming of the times that will see their ignorance dissipate.

My dear son, the moment has come for me to conclude.  Accept this gift which your father, Michel Nostradamus, gives you now in the hope that you are able to discover the sense of each of the prophecies that I have confided to the quatrains composing the present work.

I pray God, our Eternal Lord, to accord you a long, happy and prosperous life.

Salon, 1st March 1555.

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