Bigot, a voluptuary in every sense, craved a change of pleasure. He was
never satisfied long with one, however pungent. He felt it as a relief
when Angélique went off like a laughing sprite upon the arm of De Pean.
“I am glad to get rid of the women sometimes, and feel like a man,”
he said to Cadet, who sat drinking and telling stories with hilarious
laughter to two or three boon companions, and indulging in the coarsest
jests and broadest scandal about the ladies at the ball, as they passed
by the alcove where they were seated.
The eager persistence of Angélique, in her demand for a lettre de cachet
to banish the unfortunate Caroline, had wearied and somewhat disgusted
Bigot.
“I would cut the throat of any man in the world for the sake of her
bright eyes,” said he to himself, as she gave him a parting salute with
her handkerchief; “but she must not ask me to hurt that poor foolish
girl at Beaumanoir. No, by St. Picot! she is hurt enough already, and I
will not have Angélique tormenting her! What merciless creatures women
are to one another, Cadet!” said he, aloud.
Cadet looked up with red, inflamed eyes at the remark of Bigot. He cared
nothing for women himself, and never hesitated to show his contempt for
the whole sex.
“Merciless creatures, do you call them, Bigot! the claws of all the cats
in Caen could not match the finger-nails of a jealous woman--still less
her biting tongue.”
Angélique des Meloises swept past the two in a storm of music, as if in
defiance of their sage criticisms. Her hand rested on the shoulder of
the Chevalier de Pean. She had an object which made her endure it,
and her dissimulation was perfect. Her eyes transfixed his with their
dazzling look. Her lips were wreathed in smiles; she talked continually
as she danced, and with an inconsistency which did not seem strange
in her, was lamenting the absence from the ball of Le Gardeur de
Repentigny.
“Chevalier,” said she, in reply to some gallantry of her partner,
“most women take pride in making sacrifices of themselves; I prefer to
sacrifice my admirers. I like a man, not in the measure of what I do for
him, but what he will do for me. Is not that a candid avowal, Chevalier?
You like frankness, you know.”
Frankness and the Chevalier de Pean were unknown quantities together;
but he was desperately smitten, and would bear any amount of snubbing
from Angélique.
“You have something in your mind you wish me to do,” replied he,
eagerly. “I would poison my grandmother, if you asked me, for the reward
you could give me.”
“Yes, I have something in my mind, Chevalier, but not concerning your
grandmother. Tell me why you allowed Le Gardeur de Repentigny to leave
the city?”
“I did not allow him to leave the city,” said he, twitching his ugly
features, for he disliked the interest she expressed in Le Gardeur.
“I would fain have kept him here if I could. The Intendant, too, had
desperate need of him. It was his sister and Colonel Philibert who
spirited him away from us.”
“Well, a ball in Quebec is not worth twisting a curl for in the absence
of Le Gardeur de Repentigny!” replied she. “You shall promise me to
bring him back to the city, Chevalier, or I will dance with you no
more.”
Angélique laughed so gaily as she said this that a stranger would have
interpreted her words as all jest.
“She means it, nevertheless,” thought the Chevalier. “I will promise my
best endeavor, Mademoiselle,” said he, setting hard his teeth, with a
grimace of dissatisfaction which did not escape the eye of Angélique;
“moreover, the Intendant desires his return on affairs of the Grand
Company, and has sent more than one message to him already, to urge his
return.”
“A fig for the Grand Company! Remember, it is I desire his return; and
it is my command, not the Intendant's, which you are bound, as a gallant
gentleman, to obey.” Angélique would have no divided allegiance, and the
man who claimed her favors must give himself up, body and soul, without
thought of redemption.
She felt very reckless and very wilful at this moment. The laughter on
her lips was the ebullition of a hot and angry heart, not the play of
a joyous, happy spirit. Bigot's refusal of a lettre de cachet had stung
her pride to the quick, and excited a feeling of resentment which found
its expression in the wish for the return of Le Gardeur.
“Why do you desire the return of Le Gardeur?” asked De Pean,
hesitatingly. Angélique was often too frank by half, and questioners got
from her more than they liked to hear.
“Because he was my first admirer, and I never forget a true friend,
Chevalier,” replied she, with an undertone of fond regret in her voice.
“But he will not be your last admirer,” replied De Pean, with what
he considered a seductive leer, which made her laugh at him. “In the
kingdom of love, as in the kingdom of heaven, the last shall be first
and the first last. May I be the last, Mademoiselle?”
“You will certainly be the last, De Pean; I promise that.” Angélique
laughed provokingly. She saw the eye of the Intendant watching her. She
began to think he remained longer in the society of Cadet than was due
to herself.
“Thanks, Mademoiselle,” said De Pean, hardly knowing whether her laugh
was affirmative or negative; “but I envy Le Gardeur his precedence.”
Angélique's love for Le Gardeur was the only key which ever unlocked her
real feelings. When the fox praised the raven's voice and prevailed on
her to sing, he did not more surely make her drop the envied morsel out
of her mouth than did Angélique drop the mystification she had worn so
coquettishly before De Pean.
“Tell me, De Pean,” said she, “is it true or not that Le Gardeur de
Repentigny is consoling himself among the woods of Tilly with a fair
cousin of his, Héloise de Lotbinière?”
De Pean had his revenge, and he took it. “It is true; and no wonder,”
said he. “They say Héloise is, without exception, the sweetest girl in
New France, if not one of the handsomest.”
“Without exception!” echoed she, scornfully. “The women will not believe
that, at any rate, Chevalier. I do not believe it, for one.” And she
laughed in the consciousness of beauty. “Do you believe it?”
“No, that were impossible,” replied he, “while Angélique des Meloises
chooses to contest the palm of beauty.”
“I contest no palm with her, Chevalier; but I give you this rosebud for
your gallant speech. But tell me, what does Le Gardeur think of this
wonderful beauty? Is there any talk of marriage?”
“There is, of course, much talk of an alliance.” De Pean lied, and the
truth had been better for him.
Angélique started as if stung by a wasp. The dance ceased for her, and
she hastened to a seat. “De Pean,” said she, “you promised to bring Le
Gardeur forthwith back to the city; will you do it?”
“I will bring him back, dead or alive, if you desire it; but I must have
time. That uncompromising Colonel Philibert is with him. His sister,
too, clings to him like a good angel to the skirt of a sinner. Since you
desire it,”--De Pean spoke it with bitterness,--“Le Gardeur shall come
back, but I doubt if it will be for his benefit or yours, Mademoiselle.”
“What do you mean, De Pean?” asked she, abruptly, her dark eyes alight
with eager curiosity, not unmingled with apprehension. “Why do you doubt
it will not be for his benefit or mine? Who is to harm him?”
“Nay, he will only harm himself, Angélique. And, by St. Picot! he will
have ample scope for doing it in this city. He has no other enemy but
himself.” De Pean felt that she was making an ox of him to draw the
plough of her scheming.
“Are you sure of that, De Pean?” demanded she, sharply.
“Quite sure. Are not all the associates of the Grand Company his fastest
friends? Not one of them will hurt him, I am sure.”
“Chevalier de Pean!” said she, noticing the slight shrug he gave when he
said this, “you say Le Gardeur has no enemy but himself; if so, I hope
to save him from himself, nothing more. Therefore I want him back to the
city.”
De Pean glanced towards Bigot. “Pardon me, Mademoiselle. Did the
Intendant never speak to you of Le Gardeur's abrupt departure?” asked
he.
“Never! He has spoken to you, though. What did he say?” asked she, with
eager curiosity.
“He said that you might have detained him had you wished, and he blamed
you for his departure.”
De Pean had a suspicion that Angélique had really been instrumental in
withdrawing Le Gardeur from the clutches of himself and associates; but
in this he erred. Angélique loved Le Gardeur, at least for her own sake
if not for his, and would have preferred he should risk all the dangers
of the city to avoid what she deemed the still greater dangers of the
country,--and the greatest of these, in her opinion, was the fair face
of Héloise de Lotbinière. While, from motives of ambition, Angélique
refused to marry him herself, she could not bear the thought of another
getting the man whom she had rejected.
De Pean was fairly puzzled by her caprices: he could not fathom, but he
dared not oppose them.
At this moment Bigot, who had waited for the conclusion of a game of
cards, rejoined the group where she sat.
Angélique drew in her robe and made room for him beside her, and was
presently laughing and talking as free from care, apparently, as an
oriole warbling on a summer spray. De Pean courteously withdrew, leaving
her alone with the Intendant.
Bigot was charmed for the moment into oblivion of the lady who sat in
her secluded chamber at Beaumanoir. He forgot his late quarrel with
Angélique in admiration of her beauty. The pleasure he took in her
presence shed a livelier glow of light across his features. She observed
it, and a renewed hope of triumph lifted her into still higher flights
of gaiety.
“Angélique,” said he, offering his arm to conduct her to the gorgeous
buffet, which stood loaded with golden dishes of fruit, vases of
flowers, and the choicest confectionery, with wine fit for a feast of
Cyprus, “you are happy to-night, are you not? But perfect bliss is only
obtained by a judicious mixture of earth and heaven: pledge me gaily now
in this golden wine, Angélique, and ask me what favor you will.”
“And you will grant it?” asked she, turning her eyes upon him eagerly.
“Like the king in the fairy tale, even to my daughter and half of my
kingdom,” replied he, gaily.
“Thanks for half the kingdom, Chevalier,” laughed she, “but I would
prefer the father to the daughter.” Angélique gave him a look of
ineffable meaning. “I do not desire a king to-night, however. Grant me
the lettre de cachet, and then--”
“And then what, Angélique?” He ventured to take her hand, which seemed
to tempt the approach of his.
“You shall have your reward. I ask you for a lettre de cachet, that is
all.” She suffered her hand to remain in his.
“I cannot,” he replied sharply to her urgent repetition. “Ask her
banishment from Beaumanoir, her life if you like, but a lettre de cachet
to send her to the Bastile I cannot and will not give!”
“But I ask it, nevertheless!” replied the wilful, passionate girl.
“There is no merit in your love if it fears risk or brooks denial! You
ask me to make sacrifices, and will not lift your finger to remove that
stumbling-block out of my way! A fig for such love, Chevalier Bigot! If
I were a man, there is nothing in earth, heaven, or hell I would not do
for the woman I loved!”
Angélique fixed her blazing eyes full upon him, but magnetic as was
their fire, they drew no satisfying reply. “Who in heaven's name is this
lady of Beaumanoir of whom you are so careful or so afraid?”
“I cannot tell you, Angélique,” said he, quite irritated. “She may be a
runaway nun, or the wife of the man in the iron mask, or--”
“Or any other fiction you please to tell me in the stead of truth, and
which proves your love to be the greatest fiction of all!”
“Do not be so angry, Angélique,” said he, soothingly, seeing the need
of calming down this impetuous spirit, which he was driving beyond all
bounds. But he had carelessly dropped a word which she picked up eagerly
and treasured in her bosom. “Her life! He said he would give me her
life! Did he mean it?” thought she, absorbed in this new idea.
Angélique had clutched the word with a feeling of terrible import. It
was not the first time the thought had flashed its lurid light across
her mind. It had seemed of comparatively light import when it was only
the suggestion of her own wild resentment. It seemed a word of terrible
power heard from the lips of Bigot, yet Angélique knew well he did not
in the least seriously mean what he said.
“It is but his deceit and flattery,” she said to herself, “an idle
phrase to cozen a woman. I will not ask him to explain it, I shall
interpret it in my own way! Bigot has said words he understood not
himself; it is for me to give them form and meaning.”
She grew quiet under these reflections, and bent her head in seeming
acquiescence to the Intendant's decision. The calmness was apparent
only.
“You are a true woman, Angélique,” said he, “but no politician: you
have never heard thunder at Versailles. Would that I dared to grant your
request. I offer you my homage and all else I have to give you to half
my kingdom.”
Angélique's eyes flashed fire. “It is a fairy tale after all!” exclaimed
she; “you will not grant the lettre de cachet?”
“As I told you before, I dare not grant that, Angélique; anything
else--”
“You dare not! You, the boldest Intendant ever sent to New France, and
say you dare not! A man who is worth the name dare do anything in the
world for a woman if he loves her, and for such a man a true woman
will kiss the ground he walks on, and die at his feet if need be!”
Angélique's thoughts reverted for a moment to Le Gardeur, not to Bigot,
as she said this, and thought how he would do it for her sake if she
asked him.
“My God, Angélique, you drive this matter hard, but I like you better so
than when you are in your silkiest humor.”
“Bigot, it were better you had granted my request.” Angélique clenched
her fingers hard together, and a cruel expression lit her eyes for a
moment. It was like the glance of a lynx seeking a hidden treasure in
the ground: it penetrated the thick walls of Beaumanoir! She suppressed
her anger, however, lest Bigot should guess the dark imaginings and
half-formed resolution which brooded in her mind.
With her inimitable power of transformation she put on her air of
gaiety again and exclaimed,--“Pshaw! let it go, Bigot. I am really no
politician, as you say; I am only a woman almost stifled with the heat
and closeness of this horrid ballroom. Thank God, day is dawning in the
great eastern window yonder; the dancers are beginning to depart! My
brother is waiting for me, I see, so I must leave you, Chevalier.”
“Do not depart just now, Angélique! Wait until breakfast, which will be
prepared for the latest guests.”
“Thanks, Chevalier,” said she, “I cannot wait. It has been a gay and
delightful ball--to them who enjoyed it.”
“Among whom you were one, I hope,” replied Bigot.
“Yes, I only wanted one thing to be perfectly happy, and that I could
not get, so I must console myself,” said she, with an air of mock
resignation.
Bigot looked at her and laughed, but he would not ask what it was she
lacked. He did not want a scene, and feared to excite her wrath by
mention again of the lettre de cachet.
“Let me accompany you to the carriage, Angélique,” said he, handing her
cloak and assisting her to put it on.
“Willingly, Chevalier,” replied she coquettishly, “but the Chevalier
de Pean will accompany me to the door of the dressing-room. I promised
him.” She had not, but she beckoned with her finger to him. She had
a last injunction for De Pean which she cared not that the Intendant
should hear.
De Pean was reconciled by this manoevre; he came, and Angélique and
he tripped off together. “Mind, De Pean, what I asked you about Le
Gardeur!” said she in an emphatic whisper.
“I will not forget,” replied he, with a twinge of jealousy. “Le Gardeur
shall come back in a few days or De Pean has lost his influence and
cunning.”
Angélique gave him a sharp glance of approval, but made no further
remark. A crowd of voluble ladies were all telling over the incidents
of the ball, as exciting as any incidents of flood and field, while they
arranged themselves for departure.
The ball was fast thinning out. The fair daughters of Quebec, with
disordered hair and drooping wreaths, loose sandals, and dresses looped
and pinned to hide chance rents or other accidents of a long night's
dancing, were retiring to their rooms, or issuing from them hooded and
mantled, attended by obsequious cavaliers to accompany them home.
The musicians, tired out and half asleep, drew their bows slowly across
their violins; the very music was steeped in weariness. The lamps grew
dim in the rays of morning, which struggled through the high windows,
while, mingling with the last strains of good-night and bon répos, came
a noise of wheels and the loud shouts of valets and coachmen out in the
fresh air, who crowded round the doors of the Palace to convey home
the gay revellers who had that night graced the splendid halls of the
Intendant.
Bigot stood at the door bowing farewell and thanks to the fair company
when the tall, queenly figure of Angélique came down leaning on the arm
of the Chevalier de Pean. Bigot tendered her his arm, which she at once
accepted, and he accompanied her to her carriage.
She bowed graciously to the Intendant and De Pean, on her departure,
but no sooner had she driven off, than, throwing herself back in her
carriage, heedless of the presence of her brother, who accompanied her
home, she sank into a silent train of thoughts from which she was roused
with a start when the carriage drew up sharply at the door of their own
home.