It was long before AngÉlique came to herself from the swoon in which she had been left lying on the floor by La Corriveau. Fortunately for her it was without discovery. None of the servants happened to come to her room during its continuance, else a weakness so strange to her usual hardihood would have become the city's talk before night, and set all its idle tongues conjecturing or inventing a reason for it. It would have reached the ears of Bigot, as every spray of gossip did, and set him thinking, too, more savagely than he was yet doing, as to the causes and occasions of the murder of Caroline.

All the way back to the Palace, Bigot had scarcely spoken a word to Cadet. His mind was in a tumult of the wildest conjectures, and his thoughts ran to and fro like hounds in a thick brake darting in every direction to find the scent of the game they were in search of. When they reached the Palace, Bigot, without speaking to any one, passed through the anterooms to his own apartment, and threw himself, dressed and booted as he was, upon a couch, where he lay like a man stricken down by a mace from some unseen hand.

Cadet had coarser ways of relieving himself from the late unusual strain upon his rough feelings. He went down to the billiard-room, and joining recklessly in the game that was still kept up by De Pean, Le Gardeur, and a number of wild associates, strove to drown all recollections of the past night at Beaumanoir by drinking and gambling with more than usual violence until far on in the day.

Bigot neither slept nor wished to sleep. The image of the murdered girl lying in her rude grave was ever before him, with a vividness so terrible that it seemed he could never sleep again. His thoughts ran round and round like a mill-wheel, without advancing a step towards a solution of the mystery of her death.

He summoned up his recollections of every man and woman he knew in the Colony, and asked himself regarding each one, the question, “Is it he who has done this? Is it she who has prompted it? And who could have had a motive, and who not, to perpetrate such a bloody deed?”

One image came again and again before his mind's eye as he reviewed the list of his friends and enemies. The figure of AngÉlique appeared and reappeared, intruding itself between every third or fourth personage which his memory called up, until his thoughts fixed upon her with the maddening inquiry, “Could AngÉlique des Meloises have been guilty of this terrible deed?”

He remembered her passionate denunciation of the lady of Beaumanoir, her fierce demand for her banishment by a lettre de cachet. He knew her ambition and recklessness, but still, versed as he was in all the ways of wickedness, and knowing the inexorable bitterness of envy, and the cruelty of jealousy in the female breast,—at least in such women as he had for the most part had experience of,—Bigot could hardly admit the thought that one so fair as AngÉlique, one who held him in a golden net of fascination, and to whom he had been more than once on the point of yielding, could have committed so great a crime.

He struggled with his thoughts like a man amid tossing waves, groping about in the dark for a plank to float upon, but could find none. Still, in spite of himself, in spite of his violent asseverations that “it was IMPOSSIBLE;” in spite of Cadet's plausible theory of robbers,—which Bigot at first seized upon as the likeliest explanation of the mystery,—the thought of AngÉlique ever returned back upon him like a fresh accusation.

He could not accuse her yet, though something told him he might have to do so at last. He grew angry at the ever-recurring thought of her, and turning his face to the wall, like a man trying to shut out the light, resolved to force disbelief in her guilt until clearer testimony than his own suspicions should convict her of the death of Caroline. And yet in his secret soul he dreaded a discovery that might turn out as he feared. But he pushed the black thoughts aside; he would wait and watch for what he feared to find.

The fact of Caroline's concealment at Beaumanoir, and her murder at the very moment when the search was about to be made for her, placed Bigot in the cruelest dilemma. Whatever his suspicions might be, he dared not, by word or sign, avow any knowledge of Caroline's presence, still less of her mysterious murder, in his ChÂteau. Her grave had been dug; she had been secretly buried out of human sight, and he was under bonds as for his very life never to let the dreadful mystery be discovered.

So Bigot lay on his couch, for once a weak and frightened man, registering vain vows of vengeance against persons unknown, vows which he knew at the moment were empty as bubbles, because he dared not move hand or foot in the matter to carry them out, or make open accusation against any one of the foul crime. What thoughts came to Bigot's subtle mind were best known to himself, but something was suggested by the mocking devil who was never far from him, and he caught and held fast the wicked suggestion with a bitter laugh. He then grew suddenly still and said to himself, “I will sleep on it!” and pillowing his head quietly, not in sleep, but in thoughts deeper than sleep, he lay till day.

AngÉlique, who had never in her life swooned before, felt, when she awoke, like one returning to life from death. She opened her eyes wondering where she was, and half remembering the things she had heard as things she had seen, looked anxiously around the room for La Corriveau. She rose up with a start when she saw she was gone, for AngÉlique recollected suddenly that La Corriveau now held the terrible secret which concerned her life and peace for evermore.

The thing she had so long wished for, and prayed for, was at last done! Her rival was out of the way! But she also felt that if the murder was discovered her own life was forfeit to the law, and the secret was in the keeping of the vilest of women.

A mountain, not of remorse, but of apprehension, overwhelmed her for a time. But AngÉlique's mind was too intensely selfish, hard, and superficial, to give way to the remorse of a deeper nature.

She was angry at her own cowardice, but she feared the suspicions of Bigot. There was ever something in his dark nature which she could not fathom, and deep and crafty as she knew herself to be, she feared that he was more deep and more crafty than herself.

What if he should discover her hand in this bloody business? The thought drove her frantic, until she fancied she repented of the deed.

Had it brought a certainty, this crime, then—why, then—she had found a compensation for the risk she was running, for the pain she was enduring, which she tried to believe was regret and pity for her victim. Her anxiety redoubled when it occurred to her that Bigot, remembering her passionate appeals to him for the removal of Caroline, might suspect her of the murder as the one alone having a palpable interest in it.

“But Bigot shall never believe it even if he suspect it!” exclaimed she at last, shaking off her fears. “I have made fools of many men for my pleasure, I can surely blind one for my safety; and, after all, whose fault is it but Bigot's? He would not grant me the lettre de cachet nor keep his promise for her removal. He even gave me her life! But he lied; he did not mean it. He loved her too well, and meant to deceive me and marry her, and I have deceived him and shall marry him, that is all!” and AngÉlique laughed a hysterical laugh, such as Dives in his torments may sometimes give way to.

“La Corriveau has betrayed her trust in one terrible point,” continued she, “she promised a death so easy that all men would say the lady of Beaumanoir died of heartbreak only, or by God's visitation! A natural death! The foul witch has used her stiletto and made a murder of that which, without it, had been none! Bigot will know it, must know it even if he dare not reveal it! for how in the name of all the saints is it to be concealed?

“But, my God! this will never do!” continued she, starting up, “I look like very guilt!” She stared fiercely in the mirror at her hollow eyes, pale cheeks, and white lips. She scarcely recognized herself. Her bloom and brightness had vanished for the time.

“What if I have inhaled some of the poisoned odor of those cursed roses?” thought she, shuddering at the supposition; but she reassured herself that it could not be. “Still, my looks condemn me! The pale face of that dead girl is looking at me out of mine! Bigot, if he sees me, will not fail to read the secret in my looks.”

She glanced at the clock: the morning was far advanced towards noon; visitors might soon arrive, Bigot himself might come, she dare not deny herself to him. She would deny herself to no one to-day! She would go everywhere and see everybody, and show the world, if talk of it should arise, that she was wholly innocent of that girl's blood.

She would wear her brightest looks, her gayest robe, her hat and feathers, the newest from Paris. She would ride out into the city,—go to the Cathedral,—show herself to all her friends, and make every one say or think that AngÉlique des Meloises had not a care or trouble in the world.

She rang for Fanchon, impatient to commence her toilet, for when dressed she knew that she would feel like herself once more, cool and defiant. The touch of her armor of fashionable attire would restore her confidence in herself, and enable her to brave down any suspicion in the mind of the Intendant,—at any rate it was her only resource, and AngÉlique was not one to give up even a lost battle, let alone one half gained through the death of her rival.

Fanchon came in haste at the summons of her mistress. She had long waited to hear the bell, and began to fear she was sick or in one of those wild moods which had come over her occasionally since the night of her last interview with Le Gardeur.

The girl started at sight of the pale face and paler lips of her mistress. She uttered an exclamation of surprise, but AngÉlique, anticipating all questions, told her she was unwell, but would dress and take a ride out in the fresh air and sunshine to recruit.

“But had you not better see the physician, my Lady?—you do look so pale to-day, you are really not well!”

“No, but I will ride out;” and she added in her old way, “perhaps, Fanchon, I may meet some one who will be better company than the physician. Qui sait?” And she laughed with an appearance of gaiety which she was far from feeling, and which only half imposed on the quick-witted maid who waited upon her.

“Where is your aunt, Fanchon? When did you see Dame Dodier?” asked she, really anxious to learn what had become of La Corriveau.

“She returned home this morning, my Lady! I had not seen her for days before, but supposed she had already gone back to St. Valier,—but Aunt Dodier is a strange woman, and tells no one her business.”

“She has, perhaps, other lost jewels to look after besides mine,” replied AngÉlique mechanically, yet feeling easier upon learning the departure of La Corriveau.

“Perhaps so, my Lady. I am glad she is gone home. I shall never wish to see her again.”

“Why?” asked AngÉlique, sharply, wondering if Fanchon had conjectured anything of her aunt's business.

“They say she has dealings with that horrid MÈre Malheur, and I believe it,” replied Fanchon, with a shrug of disgust.

“Ah! do you think MÈre Malheur knows her business or any of your aunt's secrets, Fanchon?” asked AngÉlique, thoroughly roused.

“I think she does, my Lady,—you cannot live in a chimney with another without both getting black alike, and MÈre Malheur is a black witch as sure as my aunt is a white one,” was Fanchon's reply.

“What said your aunt on leaving?” asked her mistress.

“I did not see her leave, my Lady; I only learned from Ambroise Gariepy that she had crossed the river this morning to return to St. Valier.”

“And who is Ambroise Gariepy, Fanchon? You have a wide circle of acquaintance for a young girl, I think!” AngÉlique knew the dangers of gossiping too well not to fear Fanchon's imprudences.

“Yes, my Lady,” replied Fanchon with affected simplicity, “Ambroise Gariepy keeps the Lion Vert and the ferry upon the south shore; he brings me news and sometimes a little present from the pack of the Basque pedlers,—he brought me this comb, my Lady!” Fanchon turned her head to show her mistress a superb comb in her thick black hair, and in her delight of talking of Ambroise Gariepy, the little inn of the ferry, and the cross that leaned like a failing memory over the grave of his former wife, Fanchon quite forgot to ease her mind further on the subject of La Corriveau, nor did AngÉlique resume the dangerous topic.

Fanchon's easy, shallow way of talking of her lover touched a sympathetic chord in the breast of her mistress. Grand passions were grand follies in AngÉlique's estimation, which she was less capable of appreciating than even her maid; but flirtation and coquetry, skin-deep only, she could understand, and relished beyond all other enjoyments. It was just now like medicine to her racking thoughts to listen to Fanchon's shallow gossip.

She had done what she had done, she reflected, and it could not be undone! why should she give way to regret, and lose the prize for which she had staked so heavily? She would not do it! No, par Dieu! She had thrown Le Gardeur to the fishes for the sake of the Intendant, and had done that other deed! She shied off from the thought of it as from an uncouth thing in the dark, and began to feel shame of her weakness at having fainted at the tale of La Corriveau.

The light talk of Fanchon while dressing the long golden hair of her mistress and assisting her to put on a new riding-dress and the plumed hat fresh from Paris, which she had not yet displayed in public, did much to restore her equanimity.

Her face had, however, not recovered from its strange pallor. Her eager maid, anxious for the looks of her mistress, insisted on a little rouge, which AngÉlique's natural bloom had never before needed. She submitted, for she intended to look her best to-day, she said. “Who knows whom I shall fall in with?”

“That is right, my Lady,” exclaimed Fanchon admiringly, “no one could be dressed perfectly as you are and be sick! I pity the gentleman you meet to-day, that is all! There is murder in your eye, my Lady!”

Poor Fanchon believed she was only complimenting her mistress, and at other times her remark would only have called forth a joyous laugh; now the word seemed like a sharp knife: it cut, and AngÉlique did not laugh. She pushed her maid forcibly away from her, and was on the point of breaking out into some violent exclamation when, recalled by the amazed look of Fanchon, she turned the subject adroitly, and asked, “Where is my brother?”

“Gone with the Chevalier de Pean to the Palace, my Lady!” replied Fanchon, trembling all over, and wondering how she had angered her mistress.

“How know you that, Fanchon?” asked AngÉlique, recovering her usual careless tone.

“I overheard them speaking together, my Lady. The Chevalier de Pean said that the Intendant was sick, and would see no one this morning.”

“Yes, what then?” AngÉlique was struck with a sudden consciousness of danger in the wind. “Are you sure they said the Intendant was sick?” asked she.

“Yes, my Lady! and the Chevalier de Pean said that he was less sick than mad, and out of humor to a degree he had never seen him before!”

“Did they give a reason for it? that is, for the Intendant's sickness or madness?” AngÉlique's eyes were fixed keenly upon her maid, to draw out a full confession.

“None, my Lady, only the Chevalier des Meloises said he supposed it was the news from France which sat so ill on his stomach.”

“And what then, Fanchon? you are so long of answering!” AngÉlique stamped her foot with impatience.

Fanchon looked up at the reproof so little merited, and replied quickly, “The Chevalier de Pean said it must be that, for he knew of nothing else. The gentlemen then went out and I heard no more.”

AngÉlique was relieved by this turn of conversation. She felt certain that if Bigot discovered the murder he would not fail to reveal it to the Chevalier de Pean, who was understood to be the depository of all his secrets. She began to cheer up under the belief that Bigot would never dare accuse any one of a deed which would be the means of proclaiming his own falseness and duplicity towards the King and the Marquise de Pompadour.

“I have only to deny all knowledge of it,” said she to herself, “swear to it if need be, and Bigot will not dare to go farther in the matter. Then will come my time to turn the tables upon him in a way he little expects! Pshaw!” continued she, glancing at her gay hat in the mirror, and with her own dainty fingers setting the feather more airily to her liking. “Bigot is bound fast enough to me now that she is gone! and when he discovers that I hold his secret he will not dare meddle with mine.”

AngÉlique, measurably reassured and hopeful of success in her desperate venture, descended the steps of her mansion, and, gathering up her robes daintily, mounted her horse, which had long been chafing in the hands of her groom waiting for his mistress.

She bade the man remain at home until her return, and dashed off down the Rue St. Louis, drawing after her a hundred eyes of admiration and envy.

She would ride down to the Place d'Armes, she thought, where she knew that before she had skirted the length of the Castle wall half a dozen gallants would greet her with offers of escort, and drop any business they had in hand for the sake of a gallop by her side.

She had scarcely passed the Monastery of the Recollets when she was espied by the Sieur La Force, who, too, was as quickly discovered by her, as he loitered at the corner of the Rue St. Ann, to catch sight of any fair piece of mischief that might be abroad that day from her classes in the Convent of the Ursulines.

“AngÉlique is as fair a prize as any of them,” thought La Force, as he saluted her with Parisian politeness, and with a request to be her escort in her ride through the city.

“My horse is at hand, and I shall esteem it such an honor,” said La Force, smiling, “and such a profit too,” added he; “my credit is low in a certain quarter, you know where!” and he laughingly pointed towards the Convent. “I desire to make HER jealous, for she has made me madly so, and no one can aid in an enterprise of that kind better than yourself, Mademoiselle des Meloises!”

“Or more willingly, Sieur La Force!” replied she, laughing. “But you overrate my powers, I fear.”

“Oh, by no means,” replied La Force; “there is not a lady in Quebec but feels in her heart that AngÉlique des Meloises can steal away her lover when and where she will. She has only to look at him across the street, and presto, change! he is gone from her as if by magic. But will you really help me, Mademoiselle?”

“Most willingly, Sieur La Force,—for your profit if not for your honor! I am just in the humor for tormenting somebody this morning; so get your horse and let us be off!”

Before La Force had mounted his horse, a number of gaily-dressed young ladies came in sight, in full sail down the Rue St. Ann, like a fleet of rakish little yachts, bearing down upon AngÉlique and her companion.

“Shall we wait for them, La Force?” asked she. “They are from the Convent!”

“Yes, and SHE is there too! The news will be all over the city in an hour that I am riding with you!” exclaimed La Force in a tone of intense satisfaction.

Five girls just verging on womanhood, perfect in manner and appearance—as the Ursulines knew well how to train the young olive-plants of the Colony,—walked on demurely enough, looking apparently straight forward, but casting side glances from under their veils which raked the Sieur La Force and AngÉlique with a searching fire that nothing could withstand, La Force said; but which AngÉlique remarked was simply “impudence, such as could only be found in Convent girls!”

They came nearer. AngÉlique might have supposed they were going to pass by them had she not known too well their sly ways. The foremost of the five, Louise Roy, whose glorious hair was the boast of the city, suddenly threw back her veil, and disclosing a charming face, dimpled with smiles and with a thousand mischiefs lurking in her bright gray eyes, sprang towards AngÉlique, while her companions—all Louises of the famous class of that name—also threw up their veils, and stood saluting AngÉlique and La Force with infinite merriment.

Louise Roy, quizzing La Force through a coquettish eyeglass which she wore on a ribbon round her pretty neck, as if she had never seen him before, motioned to him in a queenly way as she raised her dainty foot, giving him a severe look, or what tried to be such but was in truth an absurd failure.

He instantly comprehended her command, for such it was, and held out his hand, upon which she stepped lightly, and sprang up to AngÉlique, embracing and kissing her with such cordiality that, if it were not real, the acting was perfect. At the same time Louise Roy made her understand that she was not the only one who could avail herself of the gallant attentions of the Sieur La Force.

In truth Louise Roy was somewhat piqued at the Sieur La Force, and to punish him made herself as heavy as her slight figure would admit of. She stood perched up as long as she could, and actually enjoyed the tremor which she felt plainly enough in his hand as he continued to support her, and was quite disposed to test how long he could or would hold her up, while she conversed in whispers with AngÉlique.

“AngÉlique!” said she. “They say in the Convent that you are to marry the Intendant. Your old mistress, MÈre St. Louis, is crazy with delight. She says she always predicted you would make a great match.”

“Or none at all, as MÈre St. Helene used to say of me; but they know everything in the Convent, do they not?” AngÉlique pinched the arm of Louise, as much as to say, “Of course it is true.” “But who told you that, Louise?” asked she.

“Oh, every bird that flies! But tell me one thing more. They say the Intendant is a Bluebeard, who has had wives without number,—nobody knows how many or what became of them, so of course he kills them. Is that true?”

AngÉlique shrank a little, and little as it was the movement was noticed by Louise. “If nobody knows what became of them, how should I know, Louise?” replied she. “He does not look like a Bluebeard, does he?”

“So says MÈre St. Joseph, who came from the Convent at Bordeaux, you know, for she never tires telling us. She declares that the Chevalier Bigot was never married at all, and she ought to know that surely, as well as she knows her beads, for coming from the same city as the Intendant, and knowing his family as she does—”

“Well, Louise,” interrupted AngÉlique impatiently, “but do you not see the Sieur La Force is getting tired of holding you up so long with his hand? For heaven's sake, get down!”

“I want to punish him for going with you, and not waiting for me,” was the cool whisper of Louise. “But you will ask me, AngÉlique, to the wedding, will you not? If you do not,” continued she, “I shall die!” and delaying her descent as long as possible, she commenced a new topic concerning the hat worn by AngÉlique.

“Mischief that you are, get down! The Sieur La Force is my cavalier for the day, and you shall not impose on his gallantry that way! He is ready to drop,” whispered AngÉlique.

“One word more, AngÉlique.” Louise was delighted to feel the hand of La Force tremble more and more under her foot.

“No, not a word! Get down!”

“Kiss me then, and good-by, cross thing that you are! Do not keep him all day, or all the class besides myself will be jealous,” replied Louise, not offering to get down.

AngÉlique had no mind to allow her cavalier to be made a horse-block of for anybody but herself. She jerked the bridle, and making her horse suddenly pirouette, compelled Louise to jump down. The mischievous little fairy turned her bright laughing eyes full upon La Force and thanked him for his great courtesy, and with a significant gesture—as much as to say he was at liberty now to escort AngÉlique, having done penance for the same—rejoined her expectant companions, who had laughed heartily at her manoeuvre.

“She paints!” was Louise's emphatic whisper to her companions, loud enough to be heard by La Force, for whom the remark was partly intended. “She paints! and I saw in her eyes that she has not slept all night! She is in love! and I do believe it is true she is to marry the Intendant!”

This was delicious news to the class of Louises, who laughed out like a chime of silver bells as they mischievously bade La Force and AngÉlique bon voyage, and passed down the Place d'Armes in search of fresh adventures to fill their budgets of fun—budgets which, on their return to the Convent, they would open under the very noses of the good nuns (who were not so blind as they seemed, however), and regale all their companions with a spicy treat, in response to the universal question ever put to all who had been out in the city, “What is the news?”

La Force, compliant as wax to every caprice of AngÉlique, was secretly fuming at the trick played upon him by the Mischief of the Convent,—as he called Louise Roy,—for which he resolved to be revenged, even if he had to marry her. He and AngÉlique rode down the busy streets, receiving salutations on every hand. In the great square of the market-place AngÉlique pulled up in front of the Cathedral.

Why she stopped there would have puzzled herself to explain. It was not to worship, not to repent of her heinous sin: she neither repented nor desired to repent. But it seemed pleasant to play at repentance and put on imaginary sackcloth.

AngÉlique's brief contact with the fresh, sunny nature of Louise Roy had sensibly raised her spirits. It lifted the cloud from her brow, and made her feel more like her former self. The story, told half in jest by Louise, that she was to marry the Intendant, flattered her vanity and raised her hopes to the utmost. She liked the city to talk of her in connection with the Intendant.

The image of Beaumanoir grew fainter and fainter as she knelt down upon the floor, not to ask pardon for her sin, but to pray for immunity for herself and the speedy realization of the great object of her ambition and her crime!

The pealing of the organ, rising and falling in waves of harmony, the chanting of choristers, and the voice of the celebrant during the service in honor of St. Michael and all the angels, touched her sensuous nature, but failed to touch her conscience.

A crowd of worshippers were kneeling upon the floor of the Cathedral, unobstructed in those days by seats and pews, except on one side, where rose the stately bancs of the Governor and the Intendant, on either side of which stood a sentry with ported arms, and overhead upon the wall blazed the royal escutcheons of France.

AngÉlique, whose eyes roved incessantly about the church, turned them often towards the gorgeous banc of the Intendant, and the thought intruded itself to the exclusion of her prayers, “When shall I sit there, with all these proud ladies forgetting their devotions through envy of my good fortune?”

Bigot did not appear in his place at church to-day. He was too profoundly agitated and sick, and lay on his bed till evening, revolving in his astute mind schemes of vengeance possible and impossible, to be carried out should his suspicions of AngÉlique become certainties of knowledge and fact. His own safety was at stake. The thought that he had been outwitted by the beautiful, designing, heartless girl, the reflection that he dare not turn to the right hand nor to the left to inquire into this horrid assassination, which, if discovered, would be laid wholly to his own charge, drove him to the verge of distraction.

The Governor and his friend Peter Kalm occupied the royal banc. Lutheran as he was, Peter Kalm was too philosophical and perhaps too faithful a follower of Christ to consider religion as a matter of mere opinion or of form rather than of humble dependence upon God, the Father of all, with faith in Christ and the conscientious striving to love God and his neighbor.

A short distance from AngÉlique, two ladies in long black robes, and evidently of rank, were kneeling with downcast faces, and hands clasped over their bosoms, in a devout attitude of prayer and supplication.

AngÉlique's keen eye, which nothing escaped, needed not a second glance to recognize the unmistakable grace of AmÉlie de Repentigny and the nobility of the Lady de Tilly.

She started at sight of these relatives of Le Gardeur's, but did not wonder at their presence, for she already knew that they had returned to the city immediately after the abduction of Le Gardeur by the Chevalier de Pean.

Startled, frightened, and despairing, with aching hearts but unimpaired love, AmÉlie and the Lady de Tilly had followed Le Gardeur and reoccupied their stately house in the city, resolved to leave no means untried, no friends unsolicited, no prayers unuttered to rescue him from the gulf of perdition into which he had again so madly plunged.

Within an hour after her return, AmÉlie, accompanied by Pierre Philibert, had gone to the Palace to seek an interview with her brother. They were rudely denied. “He was playing a game of piquet for the championship of the Palace with the Chevalier de Pean, and could not come if St. Peter, let alone Pierre Philibert, stood at the gate knocking!”

This reply had passed through the impure lips of the Sieur de Lantagnac before it reached AmÉlie and Pierre. They did not believe it came from their brother. They left the Palace with heavy hearts, after long and vainly seeking an interview, Philibert resolving to appeal to the Intendant himself and call him to account at the sword's point, if need be, for the evident plot in the Palace to detain Le Gardeur from his friends.

AmÉlie, dreading some such resolution on the part of Pierre, went back next day alone to the Palace to try once more to see Le Gardeur.

She was agitated and in tears at the fate of her brother. She was anxious over the evident danger which Pierre seemed to court, for his sake and—she would not hide the truth from herself—for her own sake too; and yet she would not forbid him. She felt her own noble blood stirred within her to the point that she wished herself a man to be able to walk sword in hand into the Palace and confront the herd of revellers who she believed had plotted the ruin of her brother.

She was proud of Pierre, while she trembled at the resolution which she read in his countenance of demanding as a soldier, and not as a suppliant, the restoration of Le Gardeur to his family.

AmÉlie's second visit to the Palace had been as fruitless as her first. She was denied admittance, with the profoundest regrets on the part of De Pean, who met her at the door and strove to exculpate himself from the accusation of having persuaded Le Gardeur to depart from Tilly, and of keeping him in the Palace against the prayers of his friends.

De Pean remembered his presumption as well as his rejection by AmÉlie at Tilly, and while his tongue ran smooth as oil in polite regrets that Le Gardeur had resolved not to see his sister to-day, her evident distress filled him with joy, which he rolled under his tongue as the most delicate morsel of revenge he had ever tasted.

Bowing with well-affected politeness, De Pean attended her to her carriage, and having seen her depart in tears, returned laughing into the Palace, remarking, as he mimicked the weeping countenance of AmÉlie, that “the HonnÊtes Gens had learned it was a serious matter to come to the burial of the virtues of a young gentleman like Le Gardeur de Repentigny.”

On her return home AmÉlie threw herself on the neck of her aunt, repeating in broken accents, “My poor Le Gardeur! my brother! He refuses to see me, aunt! He is lost and ruined in that den of all iniquity and falsehood!”

“Be composed, AmÉlie,” replied the Lady de Tilly; “I know it is hard to bear, but perhaps Le Gardeur did not send that message to you. The men about him are capable of deceiving you to an extent you have no conception of,—you who know so little of the world's baseness.”

“O aunt, it is true! He sent me this dreadful thing; I took it, for it bears the handwriting of my brother.”

She held in her hand a card, one of a pack. It was the death-card of superstitious lookers into futurity. Had he selected it because it bore that reputation, or was it by chance?

On the back of it he had written, or scrawled in a trembling hand, yet plainly, the words: “Return home, AmÉlie. I will not see you. I have lost the game of life and won the card you see. Return home, dear sister, and forget your unworthy and ruined brother, Le Gardeur.”

Lady de Tilly took the card, and read and re-read it, trying to find a meaning it did not contain, and trying not to find the sad meaning it did contain.

She comforted AmÉlie as best she could, while needing strength herself to bear the bitter cross laid upon them both, in the sudden blighting of that noble life of which they had been so proud.

She took AmÉlie in her arms, mingling her own tears with hers, and bidding her not despair. “A sister's love,” said she, “never forgets, never wearies, never despairs.” They had friends too powerful to be withstood, even by Bigot, and the Intendant would be compelled to loosen his hold upon Le Gardeur. She would rely upon the inherent nobleness of the nature of Le Gardeur himself to wash itself pure of all stain, could they only withdraw him from the seductions of the Palace. “We will win him from them by counter charms, AmÉlie, and it will be seen that virtue is stronger than vice to conquer at last the heart of Le Gardeur.”

“Alas, aunt!” replied the poor girl, her eyes suffused with tears, “neither friend nor foe will avail to turn him from the way he has resolved to go. He is desperate, and rushes with open eyes upon his ruin. We know the reason of it all. There is but one who could have saved Le Gardeur if she would. She is utterly unworthy of my brother, but I feel now it were better Le Gardeur had married even her than that he should be utterly lost to himself and us all. I will see AngÉlique des Meloises myself. It was her summons brought him back to the city. She alone can withdraw him from the vile companionship of Bigot and his associates at the Palace.”

AngÉlique had been duly informed of the return of AmÉlie to the city, and of her fruitless visits to the Palace to see her brother.

It was no pleasure, but a source of angry disappointment to AngÉlique that Le Gardeur, in despair of making her his wife, refused to devote himself to her as her lover. He was running wild to destruction, instead of letting her win the husband she aspired to, and retain at the same time the gallant she loved and was not willing to forego.

She had seen him at the first sober moment after his return from Tilly, in obedience to her summons. She had permitted him to pour out again his passion at her feet. She had yielded to his kisses when he claimed her heart and hand, and had not refused to own the mutual flame that covered her cheek with a blush at her own falseness. But driven to the wall by his impetuosity, she had at last killed his reviving hopes by her repetition of the fatal words, “I love you, Le Gardeur, but I will not marry you!”

AngÉlique was seized with a sudden impulse to withdraw from the presence of AmÉlie in the Cathedral before being discovered by her. She was half afraid that her former school companion would speak to her on the subject of Le Gardeur. She could not brazen it out with AmÉlie, who knew her too well, and if she could, she would gladly avoid the angry flash of those dark, pure eyes.

The organ was pealing the last notes of the Doxology, and the voices of the choristers seemed to reËcho from the depths of eternity the words, “in saecula saeculorum,” when AngÉlique rose up suddenly to leave the church.

Her irreverent haste caused those about her to turn their heads at the slight confusion she made, AmÉlie among the rest, who recognized at once the countenance of AngÉlique, somewhat flushed and irritated, as she strove vainly, with the help of La Force, to get out of the throng of kneeling people who covered the broad floor of the Cathedral.

AmÉlie deemed it a fortunate chance to meet AngÉlique so opportunely—just when her desire to do so was strongest. She caught her eye, and made her a quick sign to stay, and approaching her, seized her hands in her old, affectionate way.

“Wait a few moments, AngÉlique,” said she, “until the people depart. I want to speak to you alone. I am so fortunate to find you here.”

“I will see you outside, AmÉlie. The Sieur La Force is with me, and cannot stay.” AngÉlique dreaded an interview with AmÉlie.

“No, I will speak to you here. It will be better here in God's temple than elsewhere. The Sieur La Force will wait for you if you ask him; or shall I ask him?” A faint smile accompanied these words of AmÉlie, which she partly addressed to La Force.

La Force, to AngÉlique's chagrin, understanding that AmÉlie desired him to wait for AngÉlique outside, at once offered to do so.

“Or perhaps,” continued AmÉlie, offering her hand, “the Sieur La Force, whom I am glad to see, will have the politeness to accompany the Lady de Tilly, while I speak to Mademoiselle des Meloises?”

La Force was all compliance. “He was quite at the service of the ladies,” he said politely, “and would esteem it an honor to accompany the noble Lady de Tilly.”

The Lady de Tilly at once saw through the design of her niece. She acceded to the arrangement, and left the Cathedral in company with the Sieur La Force, whom she knew as the son of an old and valued friend.

He accompanied her home, while AmÉlie, holding fast to the arm of AngÉlique until the church was empty of all but a few scattered devotees and penitents, led her into a side chapel, separated from the body of the church by a screen of carved work of oak, wherein stood a small altar and a reliquary with a picture of St. Paul.

The seclusion of this place commended itself to the feelings of AmÉlie. She made AngÉlique kneel down by her side before the altar. After breathing a short, silent prayer for help and guidance, she seized her companion by both hands and besought her “in God's name to tell her what she had done to Le Gardeur, who was ruining himself, both soul and body.”

AngÉlique, hardy as she was, could ill bear the searching gaze of those pure eyes. She quailed under them for a moment, afraid that the question might have some reference to Beaumanoir, but reassured by the words of AmÉlie, that her interview had relation to Le Gardeur only, she replied: “I have done nothing to make Le Gardeur ruin himself, soul or body, AmÉlie. Nor do I believe he is doing so. Our old convent notions are too narrow to take out with us into the world. You judge Le Gardeur too rigidly, AmÉlie.”

“Would that were my fault, AngÉlique!” replied she earnestly, “but my heart tells me he is lost unless those who led him astray remit him again into the path of virtue whence they seduced him.”

AngÉlique winced, for she took the allusion to herself, although in the mind of AmÉlie it referred more to the Intendant. “Le Gardeur is no weakling to be led astray,” replied she. “He is a strong man, to lead others, not to be led, as I know better than even his sister.”

AmÉlie looked up inquiringly, but AngÉlique did not pursue the thought nor explain the meaning of her words.

“Le Gardeur,” continued AngÉlique, “is not worse, nay, with all his faults, is far better than most young gallants, who have the laudable ambition to make a figure in the world, such as women admire. One cannot hope to find men saints, and we women to be such sinners. Saints would be dull companions. I prefer mere men, AmÉlie!”

“For shame, AngÉlique! to say such things before the sacred shrine,” exclaimed AmÉlie, indignantly stopping her. “What wonder that men are wicked, when women tempt them to be so! Le Gardeur was like none of the gallants you compare him with! He loved virtue and hated vice, and above all things he despised the companionship of such men as now detain him at the Palace. You first took him from me, AngÉlique! I ask you now to give him back to me. Give me back my brother, AngÉlique des Meloises!” AmÉlie grasped her by the arm in the earnestness of her appeal.

“I took him from you?” exclaimed AngÉlique hotly. “It is untrue! Forgive my saying so, AmÉlie! I took him no more than did HÉloise de LotbiniÈre or Cecile Tourangeau! Will you hear the truth? He fell in love with me, and I had not the heart to repulse him,—nay, I could not, for I will confess to you, AmÉlie, as I often avowed to you in the Convent, I loved Le Gardeur the best of all my admirers! And by this blessed shrine,” continued she, laying her hand upon it, “I do still! If he be, as some say he is, going too fast for his own good or yours or mine, I regret it with my whole heart; I regret it as you do! Can I say more?”

AngÉlique was sincere in this. Her words sounded honest, and she spoke with a real warmth in her bosom, such as she had not felt in a long time.

Her words impressed AmÉlie favorably.

“I think you speak truly, AngÉlique,” replied she, “when you say you regret Le Gardeur's relapse into the evil ways of the Palace. No one that ever knew my noble brother could do other than regret it. But oh, AngÉlique, why, with all your influence over him did you not prevent it? Why do you not rescue him now? A word from you would have been of more avail than the pleading of all the world beside!”

“AmÉlie, you try me hard,” said AngÉlique, uneasily, conscious of the truth of AmÉlie's words, “but I can bear much for the sake of Le Gardeur! Be assured that I have no power to influence his conduct in the way of amendment, except upon impossible conditions! I have tried, and my efforts have been vain as your own!”

“Conditions!” replied AmÉlie, “what conditions?—but I need not ask you! He told me in his hour of agony of your inexplicable dealing with him, and yet not so inexplicable now! Why did you profess to love my brother, leading him on and on to an offer of his hand, and then cruelly reject him, adding one more to the list of your heartless triumphs? Le Gardeur de Repentigny was too good for such a fate from any woman, AngÉlique!” AmÉlie's eyes swam in tears of indignation as she said this.

“He was too good for me!” said AngÉlique, dropping her eyes. “I will acknowledge that, if it will do you any good, AmÉlie! But can you not believe that there was a sacrifice on my part, as well as on his or yours?”

“I judge not between you, AngÉlique! or between the many chances wasted on you; but I say this AngÉlique des Meloises, you wickedly stole the heart of the noblest brother in New France, to trample it under your feet!”

“'Fore God, I did not, AmÉlie!” she replied indignantly. “I loved and do love Le Gardeur de Repentigny, but I never plighted my troth to him, I never deceived him! I told him I loved him, but I could not marry him! And by this sacred cross,” said she, placing her hands upon it, “it is true! I never trampled upon the heart of Le Gardeur; I could kiss his hands, his feet, with true affection as ever loving woman gave to man; but my duty, my troth, my fate, were in the hands of another!”

AngÉlique felt a degree of pleasure in the confession to AmÉlie of her love for her brother. It was the next thing to confessing it to himself, which had been once the joy of her life, but it changed not one jot her determination to wed only the Intendant, unless—yes, her busy mind had to-day called up a thousand possible and impossible contingencies that might spring up out of the unexpected use of the stiletto by Corriveau. What if the Intendant, suspecting her complicity in the murder of Caroline, should refuse to marry her? Were it not well in that desperate case to have Le Gardeur to fall back upon?

AmÉlie watched nervously the changing countenance of AngÉlique. She knew it was a beautiful mask covering impenetrable deceit, and that no principle of right kept her from wrong when wrong was either pleasant or profitable.

The conviction came upon AmÉlie like a flash of inspiration that she was wrong in seeking to save Le Gardeur by seconding his wild offer of marriage to AngÉlique. A union with this false and capricious woman would only make his ruin more complete and his latter end worse than the first. She would not urge it, she thought.

“AngÉlique,” said she, “if you love Le Gardeur, you will not refuse your help to rescue him from the Palace. You cannot wish to see him degraded as a gentleman because he has been rejected by you as a lover.”

“Who says I wish to see him degraded as a gentleman? and I did not reject him as a lover! not finally—that is, I did not wholly mean it. When I sent to invite his return from Tilly it was out of friendship,—love, if you will, AmÉlie, but from no desire that he should plunge into fresh dissipation.”

“I believe you, AngÉlique! You could not, if you had the heart of a woman loving him ever so little, desire to see him fall into the clutches of men who, with the wine-cup in one hand and the dice-box in the other, will never rest until they ruin him, body, soul, and estate.”

“Before God, I never desired it, and to prove it, I have cursed De Pean to his face, and erased Lantagnac from my list of friends, for coming to show me the money he had won from Le Gardeur while intoxicated. Lantagnac brought me a set of pearls which he had purchased out of his winnings. I threw them into the fire and would have thrown him after them, had I been a man! 'fore God, I would, AmÉlie! I may have wounded Le Gardeur, but no other man or woman shall injure him with my consent.”

AngÉlique spoke this in a tone of sincerity that touched somewhat the heart of AmÉlie, although the aberrations and inconsistencies of this strange girl perplexed her to the utmost to understand what she really felt.

“I think I may trust you, AngÉlique, to help me to rescue him from association with the Palace?” said AmÉlie, gently, almost submissively, as if she half feared a refusal.

“I desire nothing more,” replied AngÉlique. “You have little faith in me, I see that,”—AngÉlique wiped her eyes, in which a shade of moisture could be seen,—“but I am sincere in my friendship for Le Gardeur. The Virgin be my witness, I never wished his injury, even when I injured him most. He sought me in marriage, and I was bound to another.”

“You are to marry the Intendant, they say. I do not wonder, and yet I do wonder, at your refusing my brother, even for him.”

“Marry the Intendant! Yes, it is what fools and some wise people say. I never said it myself, AmÉlie.”

“But you mean it, nevertheless; and for no other would you have thrown over Le Gardeur de Repentigny.”

“I did not throw him over,” she answered, indignantly. “But why dispute? I cannot, AmÉlie, say more, even to you! I am distraught with cares and anxieties, and know not which way to turn.”

“Turn here, where I turn in my troubles, AngÉlique!” replied AmÉlie, moving closer to the altar. “Let us pray for Le Gardeur.” AngÉlique obeyed mechanically, and the two girls prayed silently for a few moments, but how differently in spirit and feeling! The one prayed for her brother,—the other tried to pray, but it was more for herself, for safety in her crime and success in her deep-laid scheming. A prayer for Le Gardeur mingled with AngÉlique's devotions, giving them a color of virtue. Her desire for his welfare was sincere enough, and she thought it disinterested of herself to pray for him.

Suddenly AngÉlique started up as if stung by a wasp. “I must take leave of you, my AmÉlie,” said she; “I am glad I met you here. I trust you understand me now, and will rely on my being as a sister to Le Gardeur, to do what I can to restore him perfect to you and the good Lady de Tilly.”

AmÉlie was touched. She embraced AngÉlique and kissed her; yet so cold and impassive she felt her to be, a shiver ran through her as she did so. It was as if she had touched the dead, and she long afterwards thought of it. There was a mystery in this strange girl that AmÉlie could not fathom nor guess the meaning of. They left the Cathedral together. It was now quite empty, save of a lingering penitent or two kneeling at the shrines. AngÉlique and AmÉlie parted at the door, the one eastward, the other westward, and, carried away by the divergent currents of their lives, they never met again.