Angélique took the arm of Amélie in her old, familiar schoolgirl way,
and led her to the sunny corner of a bastion where lay a dismounted
cannon.
The girls sat down upon the old gun. Angélique held Amélie by both
hands, as if hesitating how to express something she wished to say.
Still, when Angélique did speak, it was plain to Amélie that she had
other things on her mind than what her tongue gave loose to.
“Now we are quite alone, Amélie,” said she, “we can talk as we used to
do in our school-days. You have not been in the city during the whole
summer, and have missed all its gaieties?”
“I was well content. How beautiful the country looks from here!” replied
Amélie. “How much pleasanter to be in it, revelling among the flowers
and under the trees! I like to touch the country as well as to look at
it from a distance, as you do in Quebec.”
“Well, I never care for the country if I can only get enough of the
city. Quebec was never so gay as it has been this year. The Royal
Roussillon, and the freshly arrived regiments of Béarn and Ponthieu,
have turned the heads of all Quebec,--of the girls, that is. Gallants
have been plenty as bilberries in August. And you may be sure I got my
share, Amélie.” Angélique laughed aloud at some secret reminiscences of
her summer campaign.
“It is well that I did not come to the city, Angélique, to get my
head turned like the rest; but now that I am here, suppose I should
mercifully try to heal some of the hearts you have broken!”
“I hope you won't try. Those bright eyes of yours would heal too
effectually the wounds made by mine, and that is not what I desire,”
replied Angélique, laughing.
“No! then your heart is more cruel than your eyes. But, tell me, who
have been your victims this year, Angélique?”
“Well, to be frank, Amélie, I have tried my fascinations upon the King's
officers very impartially, and with fair success. There have been
three duels, two deaths, and one captain of the Royal Roussillon turned
cordelier for my sake. Is that not a fair return for my labor?”
“You are shocking as ever, Angélique! I do not believe you feel proud of
such triumphs,” exclaimed Amélie.
“Proud, no! I am not proud of conquering men. That is easy! My triumphs
are over the women! And the way to triumph over them is to subdue
the men. You know my old rival at school, the haughty Françoise de
Lantagnac: I owed her a grudge, and she has put on the black veil for
life, instead of the white one and orange-blossoms for a day! I only
meant to frighten her, however, when I stole her lover, but she took
it to heart and went into the Convent. It was dangerous for her to
challenge Angélique des Meloises to test the fidelity of her affianced,
Julien de St. Croix.”
Amélie rose up in honest indignation, her cheek burning like a coal of
fire. “I know your wild talk of old, Angélique, but I will not believe
you are so wicked as to make deadly sport of our holiest affections.”
“Ah, if you knew men as I do, Amélie, you would think it no sin to
punish them for their perjuries.”
“No, I don't know men,” replied Amélie, “but I think a noble man is,
after God, the worthiest object of a woman's devotion. We were better
dead than finding amusement in the pain of those who love us; pray what
became of Julien de St. Croix after you broke up his intended marriage
with poor Françoise?”
“Oh! I threw him to the fishes! What did I care for him? It was mainly
to punish Françoise's presumption that I showed my power and made him
fight that desperate duel with Captain Le Franc.”
“O Angélique, how could you be so unutterably wicked?”
“Wicked? It was not my fault, you know, that he was killed. He was my
champion, and ought to have come off victor. I wore a black ribbon for
him a full half-year, and had the credit of being devoted to his memory;
I had my triumph in that if in nothing else.”
“Your triumph! for shame, Angélique! I will not listen to you: you
profane the very name of love by uttering such sentiments. The gift of
so much beauty was for blessing, not for pain. St. Mary pray for you,
Angélique: you need her prayers!” Amélie rose up suddenly.
“Nay, do not get angry and go off that way, Amélie,” ejaculated
Angélique. “I will do penance for my triumphs by relating my defeats,
and my special failure of all, which I know you will rejoice to hear.”
“I, Angélique? What have your triumphs or failures to do with me? No, I
care not to hear.” Angélique held her half forcibly by the scarf.
“But you will care when I tell you that I met an old and valued friend
of yours last night at the Castle--the new Aide-de-Camp of the Governor,
Colonel Philibert. I think I have heard you speak of Pierre Philibert in
the Convent, Amélie?”
Amélie felt the net thrown over her by the skilful retiaria. She stood
stock-still in mute surprise, with averted eye and deeply blushing
cheek, fighting desperately with the confusion she feared to let
Angélique detect. But that keen-sighted girl saw too clearly--she had
caught her fast as a bird is caught by the fowler.
“Yes, I met with a double defeat last night,” continued Angélique.
“Indeed! pray, from whom?” Amélie's curiosity, though not usually a
troublesome quality, was by this time fairly roused.
Angélique saw her drift, and played with her anxiety for a few moments.
“My first rebuff was from that gentlemanly philosopher from Sweden, a
great friend of the Governor, you know. But, alas, I might as well have
tried to fascinate an iceberg! I do not believe that he knew, after a
half-hour's conversation with me, whether I was man or woman. That was
defeat number one.”
“And what was number two?” Amélie was now thoroughly interested in
Angélique's gossip.
“I left the dry, unappreciative philosopher, and devoted myself to charm
the handsome Colonel Philibert. He was all wit and courtesy, but my
failure was even more signal with him than with the cold Swede.”
Amélie's eyes gave a sparkle of joy, which did not escape Angélique,
but she pretended not to see it. “How was that? Tell me, pray, how you
failed with Colonel Philibert?”
“My cause of failure would not be a lesson for you, Amélie. Listen! I
got a speedy introduction to Colonel Philibert, who, I confess, is one
of the handsomest men I ever saw. I was bent on attracting him.”
“For shame, Angélique! How could you confess to aught so unwomanly!”
There was a warmth in Amélie's tone that was less noticed by herself
than by her companion.
“Well, it is my way of conquering the King's army. I shot my whole
quiver of arrows at Colonel Philibert, but, to my chagrin, hit not a
vital part! He parried every one, and returned them broken at my feet.
His persistent questioning about yourself, as soon as he discovered we
had been school companions at the Convent, quite foiled me. He was full
of interest about you, and all that concerned you, but cared not a fig
about me!”
“What could Colonel Philibert have to ask you about me?” Amélie
unconsciously drew closer to her companion, and even clasped her arm by
an involuntary movement which did not escape her friend.
“Why, he asked everything a gentleman could, with proper respect, ask
about a lady.”
“And what did you say?”
“Oh, not half enough to content him. I confess I felt piqued that he
only looked on me as a sort of pythoness to solve enigmas about you.
I had a grim satisfaction in leaving his curiosity irritated, but not
satisfied. I praised your beauty, goodness, and cleverness up to the
skies, however. I was not untrue to old friendship, Amélie!” Angélique
kissed her friend on the cheek, who silently allowed what, in her
indignation a few moments ago, she would have refused.
“But what said Colonel Philibert of himself? Never mind about me.”
“Oh, impatient that you are! He said nothing of himself. He was absorbed
in my stories concerning you. I told him as pretty a fable as La
Fontaine related of the Avare qui avait perdu son trésor! I said you
were a beautiful chatelaine besieged by an army of lovers, but the
knight errant Fortunatus had alone won your favor, and would receive
your hand! The brave Colonel! I could see he winced at this. His steel
cuirass was not invulnerable. I drew blood, which is more than you
would have dared to do, Amélie! But I discovered the truth hidden in his
heart. He is in love with you, Amélie de Repentigny!”
“Mad girl! How could you? How dare you speak so of me? What must Colonel
Philibert think?”
“Think? He thinks you must be the most perfect of your sex! Why, his
mind was made up about you, Amélie, before he said a word to me. Indeed,
he only just wanted to enjoy the supernal pleasure of hearing me sing
the praises of Amélie De Repentigny to the tune composed by himself.”
“Which you seem to have done, Angélique!”
“As musically as Mère St. Borgia when singing vespers in the Ursulines,”
was Angélique's flippant reply.
Amélie knew how useless it was to expostulate. She swallowed her mingled
pleasure and vexation salt with tears she could not help. She changed
the subject by a violent wrench, and asked Angélique when she had last
seen Le Gardeur.
“At the Intendant's levee the other day. How like you he is, too, only
less amiable!”
Angélique did not respond readily to her friend's question about her
brother.
“Less amiable? that is not like my brother. Why do you think him less
amiable than me?”
“Because he got angry with me at the ball given in honor of the arrival
of the Intendant, and I have not been able to restore him to perfect
good humor with me since.”
“Oh, then Le Gardeur completes the trio of those who are proof against
your fascinations?” Amélie was secretly glad to hear of the displeasure
of Le Gardeur with Angélique.
“Not at all, I hope, Amélie. I don't place Le Gardeur in the same
category with my other admirers. But he got offended because I seemed
to neglect him a little to cultivate this gay new Intendant. Do you know
him?”
“No; nor wish to! I have heard much said to his disadvantage. The
Chevalier La Corne St. Luc has openly expressed his dislike of the
Intendant for something that happened in Acadia.”
“Oh, the Chevalier La Corne is always so decided in his likes and
dislikes: one must either be very good or very bad to satisfy him!”
replied Angélique with a scornful pout of her lips.
“Don't speak ill of my godfather, Angélique; better be profane on any
other topic: you know my ideal of manly virtues is the Chevalier La
Corne,” replied Amélie.
“Well, I won't pull down your idol, then! I respect the brave old
soldier, too; but could wish him with the army in Flanders!”
“Thousands of estimable people augur ill from the accession of the
Intendant Bigot in New France, besides the Chevalier La Corne,” Amélie
said after a pause. She disliked censuring even the Intendant.
“Yes,” replied Angélique, “the Honnêtes Gens do, who think themselves
bound to oppose the Intendant, because he uses the royal authority in a
regal way, and makes every one, high and low, do their devoir to Church
and State.”
“While he does his devoir to none! But I am no politician, Angélique.
But when so many good people call the Intendant a bad man, it behooves
one to be circumspect in 'cultivating him,' as you call it.”
“Well, he is rich enough to pay for all the broken pots: they say he
amassed untold wealth in Acadia, Amélie!”
“And lost the province for the king!” retorted Amélie, with all the
asperity her gentle but patriotic spirit was capable of. “Some say he
sold the country.”
“I don't care!” replied the reckless beauty, “he is like Joseph in
Egypt, next to Pharaoh in authority. He can shoe his horses with gold! I
wish he would shoe me with golden slippers--I would wear them, Amélie!”
Angélique stamped her dainty foot upon the ground, as if in fancy she
already had them on.
“It is shocking if you mean it!” remarked Amélie pityingly, for she felt
Angélique was speaking her genuine thoughts. “But is it true that the
Intendant is really as dissolute as rumor says?”
“I don't care if it be true: he is noble, gallant, polite, rich, and
all-powerful at Court. He is reported to be prime favorite of the
Marquise de Pompadour. What more do I want?” replied Angélique warmly.
Amélie knew enough by report of the French Court to cause her to shrink
instinctively, as from a repulsive insect, at the name of the mistress
of Louis XV. She trembled at the thought of Angélique's infatuation, or
perversity, in suffering herself to be attracted by the glitter of the
vices of the Royal Intendant.
“Angélique!” exclaimed she, “I have heard things of the Intendant that
would make me tremble for you, were you in earnest.”
“But I am in earnest! I mean to win and wear the Intendant of New
France, to show my superiority over the whole bevy of beauties competing
for his hand. There is not a girl in Quebec but would run away with him
tomorrow.”
“Fie, Angélique! such a libel upon our sex! You know better. But you
cannot love him?”
“Love him? No!” Angélique repeated the denial scornfully. “Love him! I
never thought of love and him together! He is not handsome, like your
brother Le Gardeur, who is my beau-ideal of a man I could love; nor has
the intellect and nobility of Colonel Philibert, who is my model of a
heroic man. I could love such men as them. But my ambition would not be
content with less than a governor or royal intendant in New France. In
old France I would not put up with less than the King himself!”
Angélique laughed at her own extravagance, but she believed in it all
the same. Amélie, though shocked at her wildness, could not help smiling
at her folly.
“Have you done raving?” said she; “I have no right to question your
selection of a lover or doubt your power, Angélique. But are you
sure there exists no insurmountable obstacle to oppose these high
aspirations? It is whispered that the Intendant has a wife, whom he
keeps in the seclusion of Beaumanoir. Is that true?”
The words burnt like fire. Angélique's eyes flashed out daggers. She
clenched her delicate hands until her nails drew blood from her velvet
palms. Her frame quivered with suppressed passion. She grasped her
companion fiercely by the arm, exclaiming,--“You have hit the secret
now, Amélie! It was to speak of that I sought you out this morning, for
I know you are wise, discreet, and every way better than I. It is all
true what I have said, and more too, Amélie. Listen! The Intendant has
made love to me with pointed gallantry that could have no other meaning
but that he honorably sought my hand. He has made me talked of and hated
by my own sex, who envied his preference of me. I was living in the
most gorgeous of fool's paradises, when a bird brought to my ear the
astounding news that a woman, beautiful as Diana, had been found in the
forest of Beaumanoir by some Hurons of Lorette, who were out hunting
with the Intendant. She was accompanied by a few Indians of a strange
tribe, the Abenaquais of Acadia. The woman was utterly exhausted by
fatigue, and lay asleep on a couch of dry leaves under a tree, when the
astonished Hurons led the Intendant to the spot where she lay.
“Don't interrupt me, Amélie; I see you are amazed, but let me go on!”
She held the hands of her companion firmly in her lap as she proceeded:
“The Intendant was startled out of all composure at the apparition
of the sleeping lady. He spoke eagerly to the Abenaquais in their own
tongue, which was unintelligible to the Hurons. When he had listened
to a few words of their explanation, he ran hastily to the lady,
kissed her, called her by name, 'Caroline!' She woke up suddenly, and
recognizing the Intendant, embraced him, crying 'François! 'François!'
and fainted in his arms.
“The Chevalier was profoundly agitated, blessing and banning, in the
same breath, the fortune that had led her to him. He gave her wine,
restored her to consciousness, talked with her long, and sometimes
angrily; but to no avail, for the woman, in accents of despair,
exclaimed in French, which the Hurons understood, that the Intendant
might kill and bury her there, but she would never, never return home
any more.”
Angélique scarcely took breath as she continued her eager recital.
“The Intendant, overpowered either by love of her or fear of her, ceased
his remonstrances. He gave some pieces of gold to the Abenaquais, and
dismissed them. The strange Indians kissed her on both hands as they
would a queen, and with many adieus vanished into the forest. The lady,
attended by Bigot, remained seated under the tree till nightfall, when
he conducted her secretly to the Château, where she still remains in
perfect seclusion in a secret chamber, they say, and has been seen by
none save one or two of the Intendant's most intimate companions.”
“Heavens! what a tale of romance! How learned you all this, Angélique?”
exclaimed Amélie, who had listened with breathless attention to the
narrative.
“Oh, partly from a hint from a Huron girl, and the rest from the
Intendant's Secretary. Men cannot keep secrets that women are interested
in knowing! I could make De Pean talk the Intendant's head off his
shoulders, if I had him an hour in my confessional. But all my ingenuity
could not extract from him what he did not know--who that mysterious
lady is, her name and family.”
“Could the Huron hunters give no guess?” asked Amélie, thoroughly
interested in Angélique's story.
“No. They learned by signs, however, from the Abenaquais, that she was
a lady of a noble family in Acadia which had mingled its patrician
blood with that of the native chiefs and possessors of the soil. The
Abenaquais were chary of their information, however: they would only say
she was a great white lady, and as good as any saint in the calendar.”
“I would give five years of my life to know who and what that woman is!”
Angélique added, as she leaned over the parapet, gazing intently at the
great forest that lay beyond Charlebourg, in which was concealed the
Château of Beaumanoir.
“It is a strange mystery. But I would not seek to unravel it,
Angélique,” remarked Amélie, “I feel there is sin in it. Do not touch
it: it will only bring mischief upon you if you do!”
“Mischief! So be it! But I will know the worst! The Intendant is
deceiving me! Woe be to him and her if I am to be their intended victim!
Will you not assist me, Amélie, to discover the truth of this secret?”
“I? how can I? I pity you, Angélique, but it were better to leave this
Intendant to his own devices.”
“You can very easily help me if you will. Le Gardeur must know
this secret. He must have seen the woman--but he is angry with me,
for--for--slighting him--as he thinks--but he was wrong. I could not
avow to him my jealousy in this matter. He told me just enough to
madden me, and angrily refused to tell the rest when he saw me so
infatuated--he called it--over other people's love affairs. Oh, Amélie,
Le Gardeur will tell you all if you ask him!”
“And I repeat it to you, Angélique, I cannot question Le Gardeur on such
a hateful topic. At any rate I need time to reflect, and will pray to be
guided right.”
“Oh, pray not at all! If you pray you will never aid me! I know you
will say the end is wicked and the means dishonorable. But find out I
will--and speedily! It will only be the price of another dance with the
Chevalier de Pean, to discover all I want. What fools men are when they
believe we love them for their sakes and not for our own!”
Amélie, pitying the wild humors, as she regarded them, of her old school
companion, took her arm to walk to and fro in the bastion, but was not
sorry to see her aunt and the Bishop and Father de Berey approaching.
“Quick,” said she to Angélique, “smooth your hair, and compose your
looks. Here comes my aunt and the Bishop--Father de Berey too!”
Angélique prepared at once to meet them, and with her wonderful power
of adaptation transformed herself in a moment into a merry creature, all
light and gaiety. She saluted the Lady de Tilly and the reverend Bishop
in the frankest manner, and at once accepted an interchange of wit and
laughter with Father de Berey.
“She could not remain long, however, in the Church's company,” she said,
“she had her morning calls to finish.” She kissed the cheek of Amélie
and the hand of the Lady de Tilly, and with a coquettish courtesy to the
gentlemen, leaped nimbly into her calèche, whirled round her spirited
horses like a practised charioteer, and drove with rapid pace down
the crowded street of St. John, the observed of all observers, the
admiration of the men and the envy of the women as she flashed by.
Amélie and the Lady de Tilly, having seen a plenteous meal distributed
among their people, proceeded to their city home--their seigniorial
residence, when they chose to live in the capital.