Amid the ruins of the once magnificent palace of the Intendant, massive fragments of which still remain to attest its former greatness, there may still be traced the outline of the room where Bigot walked restlessly up and down the morning after the Council of War. The disturbing letters he had received from France on both public and private affairs irritated him, while it set his fertile brain at work to devise means at once to satisfy the Marquise de Pompadour and to have his own way still.

The walls of his cabinet—now bare, shattered, and roofless with the blasts of six score winters—were hung with portraits of ladies and statesmen of the day; conspicuous among which was a fine picture from the pencil of Vanloo of the handsome, voluptuous Marquise de Pompadour.

With a world of faults, that celebrated dame, who ruled France in the name of Louis XV., made some amends by her persistent good nature and her love for art. The painter, the architect, the sculptor, and above all, the men of literature in France, were objects of her sincere admiration, and her patronage of them was generous to profusion. The picture of her in the cabinet of the Intendant had been a work of gratitude by the great artist who painted it, and was presented by her to Bigot as a mark of her friendship and demi-royal favor. The cabinet itself was furnished in a style of regal magnificence, which the Intendant carried into all details of his living.

The Chevalier de Pean, the Secretary and confidential friend of the Intendant, was writing at a table. He looked up now and then with a curious glance as the figure of his chief moved to and fro with quick turns across the room. But neither of them spoke.

Bigot would have been quite content with enriching himself and his friends, and turning out of doors the crowd of courtly sycophants who clamored for the plunder of the Colony. He had sense to see that the course of policy in which he was embarked might eventually ruin New France,—nay, having its origin in the Court, might undermine the whole fabric of the monarchy. He consoled himself, however, with the reflection that it could not be helped. He formed but one link in the great chain of corruption, and one link could not stand alone: it could only move by following those which went before and dragging after it those that came behind. Without debating a useless point of morals, Bigot quietly resigned himself to the service of his masters, or rather mistresses, after he had first served himself.

If the enormous plunder made out of the administration of the war by the great monopoly he had established were suddenly to cease, Bigot felt that his genius would be put to a severe test. But he had no misgivings, because he had no scruples. He was not the man to go under in any storm. He would light upon his feet, as he expressed it, if the world turned upside down.

Bigot suddenly stopped in his walk. His mind had been dwelling upon the great affairs of his Intendancy and the mad policy of the Court of Versailles. A new thought struck him. He turned and looked fixedly at his Secretary.

“De Pean!” said he. “We have not a sure hold of the Chevalier de Repentigny! That young fellow plays fast and loose with us. One who dines with me at the palace and sups with the Philiberts at the Chien d'Or cannot be a safe partner in the Grand Company!”

“I have small confidence in him, either,” replied De Pean. “Le Gardeur has too many loose ends of respectability hanging about him to make him a sure hold for our game.”

“Just so! Cadet, Varin, and the rest of you, have only half haltered the young colt. His training so far is no credit to you! The way that cool bully, Colonel Philibert, walked off with him out of Beaumanoir, was a sublime specimen of impudence. Ha! Ha! The recollection of it has salted my meat ever since! It was admirably performed! although, egad, I should have liked to run my sword through Philibert's ribs! and not one of you all was man enough to do it for me!”

“But your Excellency gave no hint, you seemed full of politeness towards Philibert,” replied De Pean, with a tone that implied he would have done it had Bigot given the hint.

“Zounds! as if I do not know it! But it was provoking to be flouted, so politely too, by that whelp of the Golden Dog! The influence of that Philibert is immense over young De Repentigny. They say he once pulled him out of the water, and is, moreover, a suitor of the sister, a charming girl, De Pean! with no end of money, lands, and family power. She ought to be secured as well as her brother in the interests of the Grand Company. A good marriage with one of our party would secure her, and none of you dare propose, by God!”

“It is useless to think of proposing to her,” replied De Pean. “I know the proud minx. She is one of the angelic ones who regard marriage as a thing of Heaven's arrangement. She believes God never makes but one man for one woman, and it is her duty to marry him or nobody. It is whispered among the knowing girls who went to school with her at the Convent,—and the Convent girls do know everything, and something more,—that she always cherished a secret affection for this Philibert, and that she will marry him some day.”

“Marry Satan! Such a girl as that to marry a cursed Philibert!” Bigot was really irritated at the information. “I think,” said he, “women are ever ready to sail in the ships of Tarshish, so long as the cargo is gold, silver, ivory, apes, and peacocks! It speaks ill for the boasted gallantry of the Grand Company if not one of them can win this girl. If we could gain her over we should have no difficulty with the brother, and the point is to secure him.”

“There is but one way I can see, your Excellency.” De Pean did not appear to make his suggestion very cheerfully, but he was anxious to please the Intendant.

“How is that?” the Intendant asked sharply. He had not the deepest sense of De Pean's wisdom.

“We must call in woman to fight woman in the interests of the Company,” replied the Secretary.

“A good scheme if one could be got to fight and win! But do you know any woman who can lay her fingers on Le Gardeur de Repentigny and pull him out from among the HonnÊtes Gens?”

“I do, your Excellency. I know the very one can do it,” replied De Pean confidently.

“You do! Why do you hesitate then? Have you any arriÈre pensÉe that keeps you from telling her name at once?” asked the Intendant impatiently.

“It is Mademoiselle des Meloises. She can do it, and no other woman in New France need try!” replied De Pean.

“Why, she is a clipper, certainly! Bright eyes like hers rule the world of fools—and of wise men, too,” added Bigot in a parenthesis. “However, all the world is caught by that bird-lime. I confess I never made a fool of myself but a woman was at the bottom of it. But for one who has tripped me up, I have taken sweet revenge on a thousand. If Le Gardeur be entangled in Nerea's hair, he is safe in our toils. Do you think AngÉlique is at home, De Pean?”

The Intendant looked up at the clock. It was the usual hour for morning calls in Quebec.

“Doubtless she is at home at this hour, your Excellency,” replied De Pean. “But she likes her bed, as other pretty women do, and is practising for the petite levÉe, like a duchess. I don't suppose she is up!”

“I don't know that,” replied Bigot. “A greater runagate in petticoats there is not in the whole city! I never pass through the streets but I see her.”

“Ay, that is because she intends to meet your Excellency!” Bigot looked sharply at De Pean. A new thought flashed in his eyes.

“What! think you she makes a point of it, De Pean?”

“I think she would not go out of the way of your Excellency.” De Pean shuffled among his papers, but his slight agitation was noticed by the Intendant.

“Hum! is that your thought, De Pean? Looks she in this quarter?” Bigot meditated with his hand on his chin for a moment or two. “You think she is doubtless at home this morning?” added he.

“It was late when De Repentigny left her last night, and she would have long and pleasant dreams after that visit, I warrant,” replied the Secretary.

“How do you know? By St. Picot! You watch her closely, De Pean!”

“I do, your Excellency: I have reason,” was the reply.

De Pean did not say what his reason for watching AngÉlique was; neither did Bigot ask. The Intendant cared not to pry into the personal matters of his friends. He had himself too much to conceal not to respect the secrets of his associates.

“Well, De Pean! I will wait on Mademoiselle des Meloises this morning. I will act on your suggestion, and trust I shall not find her unreasonable.”

“I hope your Excellency will not find her unreasonable, but I know you will, for if ever the devil of contradiction was in a woman he is in AngÉlique des Meloises!” replied De Pean savagely, as if he spoke from some experience of his own.

“Well, I will try to cast out that devil by the power of a still stronger one. Ring for my horse, De Pean!”

The Secretary obeyed and ordered the horse. “Mind, De Pean!” continued the Intendant. “The Board of the Grand Company meet at three for business! actual business! not a drop of wine upon the table, and all sober! not even Cadet shall come in if he shows one streak of the grape on his broad face. There is a storm of peace coming over us, and it is necessary to shorten sail, take soundings, and see where we are, or we may strike on a rock.”

The Intendant left the palace attended by a couple of equerries. He rode through the palace gate and into the city. Habitans and citizens bowed to him out of habitual respect for their superiors. Bigot returned their salutations with official brevity, but his dark face broke into sunshine as he passed ladies and citizens whom he knew as partners of the Grand Company or partizans of his own faction.

As he rode rapidly through the streets many an ill wish followed him, until he dismounted before the mansion of the Des Meloises.

“As I live, it is the Royal Intendant himself,” screamed Lizette, as she ran, out of breath, to inform her mistress, who was sitting alone in the summer-house in the garden behind the mansion, a pretty spot tastefully laid out with flower beds and statuary. A thick hedge of privet, cut into fantastic shapes by some disciple of the school of LenÔtre, screened it from the slopes that ran up towards the green glacis of Cape Diamond.

AngÉlique looked beautiful as Hebe the golden-haired, as she sat in the arbor this morning. Her light morning dress of softest texture fell in graceful folds about her exquisite form. She held a Book of Hours in her hand, but she had not once opened it since she sat down. Her dark eyes looked not soft, nor kindly, but bright, defiant, wanton, and even wicked in their expression, like the eyes of an Arab steed, whipped, spurred, and brought to a desperate leap—it may clear the wall before it, or may dash itself dead against the stones. Such was the temper of AngÉlique this morning.

Hard thoughts and many respecting the Lady of Beaumanoir, fond almost savage regret at her meditated rejection of De Repentigny, glittering images of the royal Intendant and of the splendors of Versailles, passed in rapid succession through her brain, forming a phantasmagoria in which she colored everything according to her own fancy. The words of her maid roused her in an instant.

“Admit the Intendant and show him into the garden, Lizette. Now!” said she, “I shall end my doubts about that lady! I will test the Intendant's sincerity,—cold, calculating woman-slayer that he is! It shames me to contrast his half-heartedness with the perfect adoration of my handsome Le Gardeur de Repentigny!”

The Intendant entered the garden. AngÉlique, with that complete self-control which distinguishes a woman of half a heart or no heart at all, changed her whole demeanor in a moment from gravity to gayety. Her eyes flashed out pleasure, and her dimples went and came, as she welcomed the Intendant to her arbor.

“A friend is never so welcome as when he comes of his own accord!” said she, presenting her hand to the Intendant, who took it with empressement. She made room for him on the seat beside her, dashing her skirts aside somewhat ostentatiously.

Bigot looked at her admiringly. He thought he had never seen, in painting, statuary, or living form, a more beautiful and fascinating woman.

AngÉlique accepted his admiration as her due, feeling no thanks, but looking many.

“The Chevalier Bigot does not lose his politeness, however long he absents himself!” said she, with a glance like a Parthian arrow well aimed to strike home.

“I have been hunting at Beaumanoir,” replied he extenuatingly; “that must explain, not excuse, my apparent neglect.” Bigot felt that he had really been a loser by his absence.

“Hunting! indeed!” AngÉlique affected a touch of surprise, as if she had not known every tittle of gossip about the gay party and all their doings at the ChÂteau. “They say game is growing scarce near the city, Chevalier,” continued she nonchalantly, “and that a hunting party at Beaumanoir is but a pretty menotomy for a party of pleasure is that true?”

“Quite true, mademoiselle,” replied he, laughing. “The two things are perfectly compatible,—like a brace of lovers, all the better for being made one.”

“Very gallantly said!” retorted she, with a ripple of dangerous laughter. “I will carry the comparison no farther. Still, I wager, Chevalier, that the game is not worth the hunt.”

“The play is always worth the candle, in my fancy,” said he, with a glance of meaning; “but there is really good game yet in Beaumanoir, as you will confess, Mademoiselle, if you will honor our party some day with your presence.”

“Come now, Chevalier,” replied she, fixing him mischievously with her eyes, “tell me, what game do you find in the forest of Beaumanoir?”

“Oh! rabbits, hares, and deer, with now and then a rough bear to try the mettle of our chasseurs.”

“What! no foxes to cheat foolish crows? no wolves to devour pretty Red Riding Hoods straying in the forest? Come, Chevalier, there is better game than all that,” said she.

“Oh, yes!” he half surmised she was rallying him now—“plenty, but we don't wind horns after them.”

“They say,” continued she, “there is much fairer game than bird or beast in the forest of Beaumanoir, Chevalier.” She went on recklessly, “Stray lambs are picked up by intendants sometimes, and carried tenderly to the ChÂteau! The Intendant comprehends a gentleman's devoirs to our sex, I am sure.”

Bigot understood her now, and gave an angry start. AngÉlique did not shrink from the temper she had evoked.

“Heavens! how you look, Chevalier!” said she, in a tone of half banter. “One would think I had accused you of murder instead of saving a fair lady's life in the forest; although woman-killing is no murder I believe, by the laws of gallantry, as read by gentlemen—of fashion.”

Bigot rose up with a hasty gesture of impatience and sat down again. After all, he thought, what could this girl know about Caroline de St. Castin? He answered her with an appearance of frankness, deeming that to be the best policy.

“Yes, Mademoiselle, I one day found a poor suffering woman in the forest. I took her to the ChÂteau, where she now is. Many ladies beside her have been to Beaumanoir. Many more will yet come and go, until I end my bachelordom and place one there in perpetuity as 'mistress of my heart and home,' as the song says.”

AngÉlique could coquette in half-meanings with any lady of honor at Court. “Well, Chevalier, it will be your fault not to find one fit to place there. They walk every street of the city. But they say this lost and found lady is a stranger?”

“To me she is—not to you, perhaps, Mademoiselle!”

The fine ear of AngÉlique detected the strain of hypocrisy in his speech. It touched a sensitive nerve. She spoke boldly now.

“Some say she is your wife, Chevalier Bigot!” AngÉlique gave vent to a feeling long pent-up. She who trifled with men's hearts every day was indignant at the least symptom of repayment in kind. “They say she is your wife or, if not your wife, she ought to be, Chevalier,—and will be, perhaps, one of these fine days, when you have wearied of the distressed damsels of the city.”

It had been better for Bigot, better for AngÉlique, that these two could have frankly understood each other. Bigot, in his sudden admiration of the beauty of this girl, forgot that his object in coming to see her had really been to promote a marriage, in the interests of the Grand Company, between her and Le Gardeur. Her witcheries had been too potent for the man of pleasure. He was himself caught in the net he spread for another. The adroit bird-catching of AngÉlique was too much for him in the beginning: Bigot's tact and consummate heartlessness with women, might be too much for her in the end. At the present moment he was fairly dazzled with her beauty, spirit, and seductiveness.

“I am a simple quail,” thought he, “to be caught by her piping. Par Dieu! I am going to make a fool of myself if I do not take care! Such a woman as this I have not found between Paris and Naples. The man who gets her, and knows how to use her, might be Prime Minister of France. And to fancy it—I came here to pick this sweet chestnut out of the fire for Le Gardeur de Repentigny! FranÇois Bigot! as a man of gallantry and fashion I am ashamed of you!”

These were his thoughts, but in words he replied, “The lady of Beaumanoir is not my wife, perhaps never will be.” AngÉlique's eager question fell on very unproductive ground.

AngÉlique repeated the word superciliously. “'Perhaps!' 'Perhaps' in the mouth of a woman is consent half won; in the mouth of a man I know it has a laxer meaning. Love has nothing to say to 'perhaps': it is will or shall, and takes no 'perhaps' though a thousand times repeated!

“And you intend to marry this treasure trove of the forest—perhaps?” continued AngÉlique, tapping the ground with a daintier foot than the Intendant had ever seen before.

“It depends much on you, Mademoiselle des Meloises,” said he. “Had you been my treasure-trove, there had been no 'perhaps' about it.” Bigot spoke bluntly, and to AngÉlique it sounded like sincerity. Her dreams were accomplished. She trembled with the intensity of her gratification, and felt no repugnance at his familiar address.

The Intendant held out his hand as he uttered the dulcet flattery, and she placed her hand in his, but it was cold and passionless. Her heart did not send the blood leaping into her finger-ends as when they were held in the loving grasp of Le Gardeur.

“AngÉlique!” said he. It was the first time the Intendant had called her by her name. She started. It was the unlocking of his heart she thought, and she looked at him with a smile which she had practised with infallible effect upon many a foolish admirer.

“AngÉlique, I have seen no woman like you, in New France or in Old; you are fit to adorn a Court, and I predict you will—if—if—”

“If what, Chevalier?” Her eyes fairly blazed with vanity and pleasure. “Cannot one adorn Courts, at least French Courts, without if's?”

“You can, if you choose to do so,” replied he, looking at her admiringly; for her whole countenance flashed intense pleasure at his remark.

“If I choose to do so? I do choose to do so! But who is to show me the way to the Court, Chevalier? It is a long and weary distance from New France.”

“I will show you the way, if you will permit me, AngÉlique: Versailles is the only fitting theatre for the display of beauty and spirit like yours.”

AngÉlique thoroughly believed this, and for a few moments was dazzled and overpowered by the thought of the golden doors of her ambition opened by the hand of the Intendant. A train of images, full-winged and as gorgeous as birds of paradise, flashed across her vision. La Pompadour was getting old, men said, and the King was already casting his eyes round the circle of more youthful beauties in his Court for a successor. “And what woman in the world,” thought she, “could vie with AngÉlique des Meloises if she chose to enter the arena to supplant La Pompadour? Nay, more! If the prize of the King were her lot, she would outdo La Maintenon herself, and end by sitting on the throne.”

AngÉlique was not, however, a milkmaid to say yes before she was asked. She knew her value, and had a natural distrust of the Intendant's gallant speeches. Moreover, the shadow of the lady of Beaumanoir would not wholly disappear. “Why do you say such flattering things to me, Chevalier?” asked she. “One takes them for earnest coming from the Royal Intendant. You should leave trifling to the idle young men of the city, who have no business to employ them but gallanting us women.”

“Trifling! By St. Jeanne de Choisy, I was never more in earnest, Mademoiselle!” exclaimed Bigot. “I offer you the entire devotion of my heart.” St. Jeanne de Choisy was the sobriquet in the petits appartements for La Pompadour. AngÉlique knew it very well, although Bigot thought she did not.

“Fair words are like flowers, Chevalier,” replied she, “sweet to smell and pretty to look at; but love feeds on ripe fruit. Will you prove your devotion to me if I put it to the test?”

“Most willingly, AngÉlique!” Bigot thought she contemplated some idle freak that might try his gallantry, perhaps his purse. But she was in earnest, if he was not.

“I ask, then, the Chevalier Bigot that before he speaks to me again of love or devotion, he shall remove that lady, whoever she may be, from Beaumanoir!” AngÉlique sat erect, and looked at him with a long, fixed look, as she said this.

“Remove that lady from Beaumanoir!” exclaimed he in complete surprise; “surely that poor shadow does not prevent your accepting my devotion, AngÉlique?”

“Yes, but it does, Chevalier! I like bold men. Most women do, but I did not think that even the Intendant of New France was bold enough to make love to AngÉlique des Meloises while he kept a wife or mistress in stately seclusion at Beaumanoir!”

Bigot cursed the shrewishness and innate jealousy of the sex, which would not content itself with just so much of a man's favor as he chose to bestow, but must ever want to rule single and alone. “Every woman is a despot,” thought he, “and has no mercy upon pretenders to her throne.”

“That lady,” replied he, “is neither wife nor mistress, Mademoiselle: she sought the shelter of my roof with a claim upon the hospitality of Beaumanoir.

“No doubt”—AngÉlique's nostril quivered with a fine disdain—“the hospitality of Beaumanoir is as broad and comprehensive as its master's admiration for our sex!” said she.

Bigot was not angry. He gave a loud laugh. “You women are merciless upon each other, Mademoiselle!” said he.

“Men are more merciless to women when they beguile us with insincere professions,” replied she, rising up in well-affected indignation.

“Not so, Mademoiselle!” Bigot began to feel annoyed. “That lady is nothing to me,” said he, without rising as she had done. He kept his seat.

“But she has been! you have loved her at some time or other! and she is now living on the scraps and leavings of former affection. I am never deceived, Chevalier!” continued she, glancing down at him, a wild light playing under her long eyelashes like the illumined under-edge of a thundercloud.

“But how in St. Picot's name did you arrive at all this knowledge, Mademoiselle?” Bigot began to see that there was nothing for it but to comply with every caprice of this incomprehensible girl if he would carry his point.

“Oh, nothing is easier than for a woman to divine the truth in such matters, Chevalier,” said she. “It is a sixth sense given to our sex to protect our weakness: no man can make love to two women but each of them knows instinctively to her finger-tips that he is doing it.”

“Surely woman is a beautiful book written in golden letters, but in a tongue as hard to understand as hieroglyphics of Egypt.” Bigot was quite puzzled how to proceed with this incomprehensible girl.

“Thanks for the comparison, Chevalier,” replied she, with a laugh. “It would not do for men to scrutinize us too closely, yet one woman reads another easily as a horn-book of Troyes, which they say is so easy that the children read it without learning.”

To boldly set at defiance a man who had boasted a long career of success was the way to rouse his pride, and determine him to overcome her resistance. AngÉlique was not mistaken. Bigot saw her resolution, and, although it was with a mental reservation to deceive her, he promised to banish Caroline from his chÂteau.

“It was always my good fortune to be conquered in every passage of arms with your sex, AngÉlique,” said he, at once radiant and submissive. “Sit down by me in token of amity.”

She complied without hesitation, and sat down by him, gave him her hand again, and replied with an arch smile, while a thousand inimitable coquetries played about her eyes and lips, “You speak now like an amant magnifique, Chevalier!

“It is a bargain henceforth and forever, AngÉlique!” said he; “but I am a harder man than you imagine: I give nothing for nothing, and all for everything. Will you consent to aid me and the Grand Company in a matter of importance?”

“Will I not? What a question, Chevalier! Most willingly I will aid you in anything proper for a lady to do!” added she, with a touch of irony.

“I wish you to do it, right or wrong, proper or improper, although there is no impropriety in it. Improper becomes proper if you do it, Mademoiselle!”

“Well, what is it, Chevalier,—this fearful test to prove my loyalty to the Grand Company, and which makes you such a matchless flatterer?”

“Just this, AngÉlique!” replied he. “You have much influence with the Seigneur de Repentigny?”

AngÉlique colored up to the eyes. “With Le Gardeur! What of him? I can take no part against the Seigneur de Repentigny;” said she, hastily.

“Against him? For him! We fear much that he is about to fall into the hands of the HonnÊtes Gens: you can prevent it if you will, AngÉlique?”

“I have an honest regard for the Seigneur de Repentigny!” said she, more in answer to her own feelings than to the Intendant's remark—her cheek flushed, her fingers twitched nervously at her fan, which she broke in her agitation and threw the pieces vehemently upon the ground. “I have done harm enough to Le Gardeur I fear,” continued she. “I had better not interfere with him any more! Who knows what might result?” She looked up almost warningly at the Intendant.

“I am glad to find you so sincere a friend to Le Gardeur,” remarked Bigot, craftily. “You will be glad to learn that our intention is to elevate him to a high and lucrative office in the administration of the Company, unless the HonnÊtes Gens are before us in gaining full possession of him.”

“They shall not be before us if I can prevent it, Chevalier,” replied she, warmly. She was indeed grateful for the implied compliment to Le Gardeur. “No one will be better pleased at his good fortune than myself.”

“I thought so. It was partly my business to tell you of our intentions towards Le Gardeur.”

“Indeed!” replied she, in a tone of pique. “I flattered myself your visit was all on my own account, Chevalier.”

“So it was.” Bigot felt himself on rather soft ground. “Your brother, the Chevalier des Meloises, has doubtless consulted you upon the plan of life he has sketched out for both of you?”

“My good brother sketches so many plans of life that I really am not certain I know the one you refer to.” She guessed what was coming, and held her breath hard until she heard the reply.

“Well, you of course know that his plan of life depends mainly upon an alliance between yourself and the Chevalier de Repentigny.”

She gave vent to her anger and disappointment. She rose up suddenly, and, grasping the Intendant's arm fiercely, turned him half round in her vehemence. “Chevalier Bigot! did you come here to propose for me on behalf of Le Gardeur de Repentigny?”

“Pardon me, Mademoiselle; it is no proposal of mine,—on behalf of Le Gardeur. I sanctioned his promotion. Your brother, and the Grand Company generally, would prefer the alliance. I don't!” He said this with a tone of meaning which AngÉlique was acute enough to see implied Bigot's unwillingness to her marrying any man—but himself, was the addendum she at once placed to his credit. “I regret I mentioned it,” continued he, blandly, “if it be contrary to your wishes.”

“It is contrary to my wishes,” replied she, relaxing her clutch of his arm. “Le Gardeur de Repentigny can speak for himself. I will not allow even my brother to suggest it; still less will I discuss such a subject with the Chevalier Bigot.”

“I hope you will pardon me, Mademoiselle—I will not call you AngÉlique until you are pleased with me again. To be sure, I should never have forgiven you had you conformed to your brother's wishes. It was what I feared might happen, and I—I wished to try you; that was all!”

“It is dangerous trying me, Chevalier,” replied she, resuming her seat with some heat. “Don't try me again, or I shall take Le Gardeur out of pure SPITE,” she said. Pure love was in her mind, but the other word came from her lips. “I will do all I can to rescue him from the HonnÊtes Gens, but not by marrying him, Chevalier,—at present.”

They seemed to understand each other fully. “It is over with now,” said Bigot. “I swear to you, AngÉlique, I did not mean to offend you,—you cut deep.”

“Pshaw!” retorted she, smiling. “Wounds by a lady are easily cured: they seldom leave a mark behind, a month after.”

“I don't know that. The slight repulse of a lady's finger—a touch that would not crush a gnat—will sometimes kill a strong man like a sword-stroke. I have known such things to happen,” said Bigot.

“Well, happily, my touch has not hurt you, Chevalier. But, having vindicated myself, I feel I owe you reparation. You speak of rescuing Le Gardeur from the HonnÊtes Gens. In what way can I aid you?”

“In many ways and all ways. Withdraw him from them. The great festival at the Philiberts—when is it to be?”

“To-morrow! See, they have honored me with a special invitation.” She drew a note from her pocket. “This is very polite of Colonel Philibert, is it not?” said she.

Bigot glanced superciliously at the note. “Do you mean to go, AngÉlique?” asked he.

“No; although, had I no feelings but my own to consult, I would certainly go.”

“Whose feelings do you consult, AngÉlique,” asked the Intendant, “if not your own?”

“Oh, don't be flattered,—the Grand Company's! I am loyal to the association without respect to persons.”

“So much the better,” said he. “By the way, it would not be amiss to keep Le Gardeur away from the festival. These Philiberts and the heads of the HonnÊtes Gens have great sway over him.”

“Naturally; they are all his own kith and kin. But I will draw him away, if you desire it. I cannot prevent his going, but I can find means to prevent his staying!” added she, with a smile of confidence in her power.

“That will do, AngÉlique,—anything to make a breach between them!”

While there were abysses in Bigot's mind which AngÉlique could not fathom, as little did Bigot suspect that, when AngÉlique seemed to flatter him by yielding to his suggestions, she was following out a course she had already decided upon in her own mind from the moment she had learned that Cecile Tourangeau was to be at the festival of Belmont, with unlimited opportunities of explanation with Le Gardeur as to her treatment by AngÉlique.

The Intendant, after some pleasant badinage, rose and took his departure, leaving AngÉlique agitated, puzzled, and dissatisfied, on the whole, with his visit. She reclined on the seat, resting her head on her hand for a long time,—in appearance the idlest, in reality the busiest, brain of any girl in the city of Quebec. She felt she had much to do,—a great sacrifice to make,—but firmly resolved, at whatever cost, to go through with it; for, after all, the sacrifice was for herself, and not for others.