Fanchon walked into the house to see her uncle Dodier. When she was
gone, the countenance of La Corriveau put on a dark and terrible
expression. Her black eyes looked downwards, seeming to penetrate the
very earth, and to reflect in their glittering orbits the fires of the
underworld.
She stood for a few moments, buried in deep thought, with her arms
tightly folded across her breast. Her fingers moved nervously, as they
kept time with the quick motions of her foot, which beat the ground.
“It is for death, and no lost jewels, that girl sends for me!” muttered
La Corriveau through her teeth, which flashed white and cruel between
her thin lips. “She has a rival in her love for the Intendant, and she
will lovingly, by my help, feed her with the manna of St. Nicholas!
Angélique des Meloises has boldness, craft, and falseness for twenty
women, and can keep secrets like a nun. She is rich and ambitious, and
would poison half the world rather than miss the thing she sets her mind
on. She is a girl after my own heart, and worth the risk I run with her.
Her riches would be endless should she succeed in her designs; and with
her in my power, nothing she has would henceforth be her own,--but mine!
mine! Besides,” added La Corriveau, her thoughts flashing back to the
fate which had overtaken her progenitors, Exili and La Voisin, “I
may need help myself, some day, to plead with the Intendant on my own
account,--who knows?”
A strange thrill ran through the veins of La Corriveau, but she
instantly threw it off. “I know what she wants,” added she. “I will take
it with me. I am safe in trusting her with the secret of Beatrice Spara.
That girl is worthy of it as Brinvilliers herself.”
La Corriveau entered her own apartment. She locked the door behind her,
drew a bunch of keys from her bosom, and turned towards a cabinet of
singular shape and Italian workmanship which stood in a corner of the
apartment. It was an antique piece of furniture, made of some dark
oriental wood, carved over with fantastic figures from Etruscan designs
by the cunning hand of an old Italian workman, who knew well how to
make secret drawers and invisible concealments for things dangerous and
forbidden.
It had once belonged to Antonio Exili, who had caused it to be made,
ostensibly for the safe-keeping of his cabalistic formulas and alchemic
preparations, when searching for the philosopher's stone and the elixir
of life, really for the concealment of the subtle drugs out of which his
alembics distilled the aqua tofana and his crucibles prepared the poudre
de succession.
In the most secret place of all were deposited, ready for use, a few
vials of the crystal liquid, every single drop of which contained the
life of a man, and which, administered in due proportion of time and
measure, killed and left no sign, numbering its victim's days, hours,
and minutes, exactly according to the will and malignity of his
destroyer.
La Corriveau took out the vials, and placed them carefully in a casket
of ebony not larger than a woman's hand. In it was a number of small
flaskets, each filled with pills like grains of mustard-seed, the
essence and quintessence of various poisons, that put on the appearance
of natural diseases, and which, mixed in due proportion with the aqua
tofana, covered the foulest murders with the lawful ensigns of the angel
of death.
In that box of ebony was the sublimated dust of deadly nightshade, which
kindles the red fires of fever and rots the roots of the tongue. There
was the fetid powder of stramonium, that grips the lungs like an asthma;
and quinia, that shakes its victims like the cold hand of the miasma of
the Pontine marshes. The essence of poppies, ten times sublimated, a few
grains of which bring on the stupor of apoplexy; and the sardonic plant,
that kills its victim with the frightful laughter of madness on his
countenance.
The knowledge of these and many more cursed herbs, once known to Medea
in the Colchian land, and transplanted to Greece and Rome with the
enchantments of their use, had been handed, by a long succession of
sorcerers and poisoners, down to Exili and Beatrice Spara, until they
came into the possession of La Corriveau, the legitimate inheritrix of
this lore of hell.
Before closing the cabinet, La Corriveau opened one more secret drawer,
and took out, with a hesitating hand, as if uncertain whether to do so
or no, a glittering stiletto, sharp and cruel to see. She felt the point
of it mechanically with her thumb; and, as if fascinated by the touch,
placed it under her robe. “I may have need of it,” muttered she, “either
to save myself OR to make sure of my work on another. Beatrice Spara
was the daughter of a Sicilian bravo, and she liked this poignard better
than even the poisoned chalice.”
La Corriveau rose up now, well satisfied with her foresight and
preparation. She placed the ebony casket carefully in her bosom,
cherishing it like an only child, as she walked out of the room with her
quiet, tiger-like tread. Her look into the future was pleasant to her at
this moment. There was the prospect of an ample reward for her trouble
and risk, and the anticipated pleasure of practising her skill upon one
whose position she regarded as similar to that of the great dames of the
Court, whom Exili and La Voisin had poisoned during the high carnival of
death, in the days of Louis XIV.
She was now ready, and waited impatiently to depart.
The goodman Dodier brought the calèche to the door. It was a
substantial, two-wheeled vehicle, with a curious arrangement of springs,
made out of the elastic wood of the hickory. The horse, a stout Norman
pony, well harnessed, sleek and glossy, was lightly held by the hand
of the goodman, who patted it kindly as an old friend; and the pony,
in some sort, after an equine fashion, returned the affection of its
master.
La Corriveau, with an agility hardly to be expected from her years,
seated herself beside Fanchon in the calèche, and giving her willing
horse a sharp cut with the lash for spite, not for need,--goodman Dodier
said, only to anger him,--they set off at a rapid pace, and were soon
out of sight at the turn of the dark pine-woods, on their way to the
city of Quebec.
Angélique des Meloises had remained all day in her house, counting the
hours as they flew by, laden with the fate of her unsuspecting rival at
Beaumanoir.
Night had now closed in; the lamps were lit, the fire again burned red
upon the hearth. Her door was inexorably shut against all visitors.
Lizette had been sent away until the morrow; Angélique sat alone and
expectant of the arrival of La Corriveau.
The gay dress in which she had outshone all her sex at the ball on the
previous night lay still in a heap upon the floor, where last night she
had thrown it aside, like the robe of innocence which once invested her.
Her face was beautiful, but cruel, and in its expression terrible as
Medea's brooding over her vengeance sworn against Creusa for her sin
with Jason. She sat in a careless dishabille, with one white arm partly
bare. Her long golden locks flowed loosely down her back and touched
the floor, as she sat on her chair and watched and waited for the coming
footsteps of La Corriveau. Her lips were compressed with a terrible
resolution; her eyes glanced red as they alternately reflected the glow
of the fire within them and of the fire without. Her hands were clasped
nervously together, with a grip like iron, and lay in her lap, while her
dainty foot marked the rhythm of the tragical thoughts that swept like a
song of doom through her soul.
The few compunctious feelings which struggled up into her mind were
instantly overborne by the passionate reflection that the lady of
Beaumanoir must die! “I must, or she must--one or other! We cannot both
live and marry this man!” exclaimed she, passionately. “Has it come to
this: which of us shall be the wife, which the mistress? By God, I would
kill him too, if I thought he hesitated in his choice; but he shall soon
have no choice but one! Her death be on her own head and on Bigot's--not
on mine!”
And the wretched girl strove to throw the guilt of the sin she
premeditated upon her victim, upon the Intendant, upon fate, and, with
a last subterfuge to hide the enormity of it from her own eyes, upon La
Corriveau, whom she would lead on to suggest the crime and commit it!--a
course which Angélique tried to believe would be more venial than if it
were suggested by herself! less heinous in her own eyes, and less wicked
in the sight of God.
“Why did that mysterious woman go to Beaumanoir and place herself in the
path of Angélique des Meloises?” exclaimed she angrily. “Why did Bigot
reject my earnest prayer, for it was earnest, for a lettre de cachet to
send her unharmed away out of New France?”
Then Angélique sat and listened without moving for a long time. The
clock ticked loud and warningly. There was a sighing of the wind about
the windows, as if it sought admittance to reason and remonstrate with
her. A cricket sang his monotonous song on the hearth. In the wainscot
of the room a deathwatch ticked its doleful omen. The dog in the
courtyard howled plaintively as the hour of midnight sounded upon
the Convent bell, close by. The bell had scarcely ceased ere she was
startled by a slight creaking like the opening of a door, followed by a
whispering and the rustle of a woman's garments, as of one approaching
with cautious steps up the stair. A thrill of expectation, not unmingled
with fear, shot through the breast of Angélique. She sprang up,
exclaiming to herself, “She is come, and all the demons that wait on
murder come with her into my chamber!” A knock followed on the door.
Angélique, very agitated in spite of her fierce efforts to appear calm,
bade them come in.
Fanchon opened the door, and, with a courtesy to her mistress, ushered
in La Corriveau, who walked straight into the room and stood face to
face with Angélique.
The eyes of the two women instantly met in a searching glance that took
in the whole look, bearing, dress, and almost the very thoughts of each
other. In that one glance each knew and understood the other, and could
trust each other in evil, if not in good.
And there was trust between them. The evil spirits that possessed each
of their hearts shook hands together, and a silent league was sworn to
in their souls before a word was spoken.
And yet how unlike to human eye were these two women!--how like in God's
eye, that sees the heart and reads the Spirit, of what manner it is!
Angélique, radiant in the bloom of youth and beauty, her golden hair
floating about her like a cloud of glory round a daughter of the sun,
with her womanly perfections which made the world seem brighter for
such a revelation of completeness in every external charm; La Corriveau,
stern, dark, angular, her fine-cut features crossed with thin lines of
cruelty and cunning, no mercy in her eyes, still less on her lips, and
none at all in her heart, cold to every humane feeling, and warming only
to wickedness and avarice: still these women recognized each other as
kindred spirits, crafty and void of conscience in the accomplishment of
their ends.
Had fate exchanged the outward circumstances of their lives, each might
have been the other easily and naturally. The proud beauty had nothing
in her heart better than La Corriveau, and the witch of St. Valier, if
born in luxury and endowed with beauty and wealth, would have rivalled
Angélique in seductiveness, and hardly fallen below her in ambition and
power.
La Corriveau saluted Angélique, who made a sign to Fanchon to retire.
The girl obeyed somewhat reluctantly. She had hoped to be present at
the interview between her aunt and her mistress, for her curiosity was
greatly excited, and she now suspected there was more in this visit than
she had been told.
Angélique invited La Corriveau to remove her cloak and broad hat.
Seating her in her own luxurious chair, she sat down beside her, and
began the conversation with the usual platitudes and commonplaces of the
time, dwelling longer upon them than need was, as if she hesitated or
feared to bring up the real subject of this midnight conference.
“My Lady is fair to look on. All women will admit that; all men swear to
it!” said La Corriveau, in a harsh voice that grated ominously, like
the door of hell which she was opening with this commencement of her
business.
Angélique replied only with a smile. A compliment from La Corriveau even
was not wasted upon her; but just now she was on the brink of an abyss
of explanation, looking down into the dark pit, resolved, yet hesitating
to make the plunge.
“No witch or witchery but your own charms is needed, Mademoiselle,”
continued La Corriveau, falling into the tone of flattery she often used
towards her dupes, “to make what fortune you will in this world; what
pearl ever fished out of the sea could add a grace to this wondrous hair
of yours? Permit me to touch it, Mademoiselle!”
La Corriveau took hold of a thick tress, and held it up to the light of
the lamp, where it shone like gold. Angélique shrank back as from the
touch of fire. She withdrew her hair with a jerk from the hand of La
Corriveau. A shudder passed through her from head to foot. It was the
last parting effort of her good genius to save her.
“Do not touch it!” said she quickly; “I have set my life and soul on
a desperate venture, but my hair--I have devoted it to our Lady of St.
Foye; it is hers, not mine! Do not touch it, Dame Dodier.”
Angélique was thinking of a vow she had once made before the shrine of
the little church of Lorette. “My hair is the one thing belonging to me
that I will keep pure,” continued she; “so do not be angry with me,” she
added, apologetically.
“I am not angry,” replied La Corriveau, with a sneer. “I am used to
strange humors in people who ask my aid; they always fall out with
themselves before they fall in with La Corriveau.”
“Do you know why I have sent for you at this hour, good Dame Dodier?”
asked Angélique, abruptly.
“Call me La Corriveau; I am not good Dame Dodier. Mine is an ill name,
and I like it best, and so should you, Mademoiselle, for the business
you sent me for is not what people who say their prayers call good. It
was to find your lost jewels that Fanchon Dodier summoned me to your
abode, was it not?” La Corriveau uttered this with a suppressed smile of
incredulity.
“Ah! I bade Fanchon tell you that in order to deceive her, not you! But
you know better, La Corriveau! It was not for the sake of paltry jewels
I desired you to come to the city to see me at this hour of midnight.”
“I conjectured as much!” replied La Corriveau, with a sardonic smile
which showed her small teeth, white, even, and cruel as those of a
wildcat. “The jewel you have lost is the heart of your lover, and
you thought La Corriveau had a charm to win it back; was not that it,
Mademoiselle?”
Angélique sat upright, gazing boldly into the eyes of her visitor. “Yes,
it was that and more than that I summoned you for. Can you not guess?
You are wise, La Corriveau, you know a woman's desire better than she
dare avow it to herself!”
“Ah!” replied La Corriveau, returning her scrutiny with the eyes of a
basilisk; a green light flashed out of their dark depths. “You have a
lover, and you have a rival, too! A woman more potent than yourself,
in spite of your beauty and your fascinations, has caught the eye and
entangled the affections of the man you love, and you ask my counsel how
to win him back and how to triumph over your rival. Is it not for that
you have summoned La Corriveau?”
“Yes, it is that, and still more than that!” replied Angélique,
clenching her hands hard together, and gazing earnestly at the fire with
a look of merciless triumph at what she saw there reflected from her own
thoughts distinctly as if she looked at her own face in a mirror.
“It is all that, and still more than that,--cannot you guess yet why I
have summoned you here?” continued Angélique, rising and laying her left
hand firmly upon the shoulder of La Corriveau, as she bent her head and
whispered with terrible distinctness in her ear.
La Corriveau heard her whisper and looked up eagerly. “Yes, I know now,
Mademoiselle,--you would kill your rival! There is death in your eye,
in your voice, in your heart, but not in your hand! You would kill the
woman who robs you of your lover, and you have sent for La Corriveau to
help you in the good work! It is a good work in the eyes of a woman to
kill her rival! but why should I do that to please you? What do I care
for your lover, Angélique des Meloises?”
Angélique was startled to hear from the lips of another, words which
gave free expression to her own secret thoughts. A denial was on her
lips, but the lie remained unspoken. She trembled before La Corriveau,
but her resolution was unchanged.
“It was not only to please me, but to profit yourself that I sent
for you!” Angélique replied eagerly, like one trying to outstrip her
conscience and prevent it from overtaking her sin. “Hark you! you love
gold, La Corriveau! I will give you all you crave in return for your
help,--for help me you shall! you will never repent of it if you do; you
will never cease to regret it if you do not! I will make you rich, La
Corrivean! or else, by God! do you hear? I swear it! I will have you
burnt for a witch, and your ashes strewn all over St. Valier!”
La Corriveau spat contemptuously upon the floor at the holy name. “You
are a fool, Angélique des Meloises, to speak thus to me! Do you know
who and what I am? You are a poor butterfly to flutter your gay wings
against La Corriveau; but still I like your spirit! women like you are
rare. The blood of Exili could not have spoken bolder than you do; you
want the life of a woman who has kindled the hell-fire of jealousy in
your heart, and you want me to tell you how to get your revenge!”
“I do want you to do it, La Corriveau, and your reward shall be great!”
answered Angélique with a burst of impatience. She could beat about the
bush no longer.
“To kill a woman or a man were of itself a pleasure even without the
profit,” replied La Corriveau, doggedly. “But why should I run myself
into danger for you, Mademoiselle des Meloises? Have you gold enough to
balance the risk?”
Angélique had now fairly overleaped all barriers of reserve. “I will
give you more than your eyes ever beheld, if you will serve me in this
matter, Dame Dodier!”
“Perhaps so, but I am getting old and trust neither man nor woman. Give
a pledge of your good faith, before you speak one word farther to me
on this business, Mademoiselle des Meloises.” La Corriveau held out her
double hands significantly.
“A pledge? that is gold you want!” replied Angélique. “Yes, La
Corriveau; I will bind you to me with chains of gold; you shall have it
uncounted, as I get it,--gold enough to make you the richest woman in
St. Valier, the richest peasant-woman in New France.”
“I am no peasant-woman,” replied La Corriveau, with a touch of pride,
“I come of a race ancient and terrible as the Roman Caesars! But pshaw!
what have you to do with that? Give me the pledge of your good faith and
I will help you.”
Angélique rose instantly, and, opening the drawer of an escritoire,
took out a long silken purse filled with louis d'or, which peeped and
glittered through the interstices of the net-work. She gave it with the
air of one who cared nothing for money.
La Corriveau extended both hands eagerly, clutching as with the claws of
a harpy. She pressed the purse to her thin bloodless lips, and touched
with the ends of her bony fingers the edges of the bright coin visible
through the silken net.
“This is indeed a rare earnest-penny!” exclaimed La Corriveau. “I will
do your whole bidding, Mademoiselle; only I must do it in my own way. I
have guessed aright the nature of your trouble and the remedy you seek.
But I cannot guess the name of your false lover, nor that of the woman
whose doom is sealed from this hour.”
“I will not tell you the name of my lover,” replied Angélique. She
was reluctant to mention the name of Bigot as her lover. The idea was
hateful to her. “The name of the woman I cannot tell you, even if I
would,” added she.
“How, Mademoiselle? you put the death-mark upon one you do not know?”
“I do not know her name. Nevertheless, La Corriveau, that gold, and ten
times as much, are yours, if you relieve me of the torment of knowing
that the secret chamber of Beaumanoir contains a woman whose life is
death to all my hopes, and disappointment to all my plans.”
The mention of Beaumanoir startled La Corriveau.
“The lady of Beaumanoir!” she exclaimed, “whom the Abenaquis brought
in from Acadia? I saw that lady in the woods of St. Valier, when I was
gathering mandrakes one summer day. She asked me for some water in God's
name. I cursed her silently, but I gave her milk. I had no water.
She thanked me. Oh, how she thanked me! nobody ever before thanked La
Corriveau so sweetly as she did! I, even I, bade her a good journey,
when she started on afresh with her Indian guides, after asking me the
distance and direction of Beaumanoir.”
This unexpected touch of sympathy surprised and revolted Angélique a
little.
“You know her then! That is rare fortune, La Corriveau,” said she; “she
will remember you, you will have less difficulty in gaining access to
her and winning her confidence.”
La Corriveau clapped her hands, laughing a strange laugh, that sounded
as if it came from a deep well.
“Know her? That is all I know; she thanked me sweetly. I said so, did I
not? but I cursed her in my heart when she was gone. I saw she was both
beautiful and good,--two things I hate.”
“Do you call her beautiful? I care not whether she be good, that will
avail nothing with him; but is she beautiful, La Corriveau? Is she
fairer than I, think you?”
La Corriveau looked at Angélique intently and laughed. “Fairer than you?
Listen! It was as if I had seen a vision. She was very beautiful, and
very sad. I could wish it were another than she, for oh, she spoke to me
the sweetest I was ever spoken to since I came into the world.”
Angélique ground her teeth with anger. “What did you do, La Corriveau?
Did you not wish her dead? Did you think the Intendant or any man could
not help loving her to the rejection of any other woman in the world?
What did you do?”
“Do? I went on picking my mandrakes in the forest, and waited for you
to send for La Corriveau. You desire to punish the Intendant for his
treachery in forsaking you for one more beautiful and better!”
It was but a bold guess of La Corriveau, but she had divined the truth.
The Intendant Bigot was the man who was playing false with Angélique.
Her words filled up the measure of Angélique's jealous hate, and
confirmed her terrible resolution. Jealousy is never so omnipotent as
when its rank suspicions are fed and watered by the tales of others.
“There can be but one life between her and me!” replied the vehement
girl; “Angélique des Meloises would die a thousand deaths rather than
live to feed on the crumbs of any man's love while another woman feasts
at his table. I sent for you, La Corriveau, to take my gold and kill
that woman!”
“Kill that woman! It is easily said, Mademoiselle; but I will not
forsake you, were she the Madonna herself! I hate her for her goodness,
as you hate her for her beauty. Lay another purse by the side of this,
and in thrice three days there shall be weeping in the Château of
Beaumanoir, and no one shall know who has killed the cuckquean of the
Chevalier Intendant!”
Angélique sprang up with a cry of exultation, like a pantheress seizing
her prey. She clasped La Corriveau in her arms and kissed her dark,
withered cheek, exclaiming, “Yes, that is her name! His cuckquean she
is; his wife she is not and never shall be!--Thanks, a million golden
thanks, La Corriveau, if you fulfil your prophecy! In thrice three days
from this hour, was it not that you said?”
“Understand me!” said La Corriveau, “I serve you for your money, not
for your liking! but I have my own joy in making my hand felt in a world
which I hate and which hates me!” La Corriveau held out her hands as
if the ends of her fingers were trickling poison. “Death drops on
whomsoever I send it,” said she, “so secretly and so subtly that the
very spirits of air cannot detect the trace of the aqua tofana.”
Angélique listened with amaze, yet trembled with eagerness to hear more.
“What! La Corriveau, have you the secret of the aqua tofana, which the
world believes was burnt with its possessors two generations ago, on the
Place de Grève?”
“Such secrets never die,” replied the poisoner; “they are too precious!
Few men, still fewer women, are there who would not listen at the
door of hell to learn them. The king in his palace, the lady in her
tapestried chamber, the nun in her cell, the very beggar on the street,
would stand on a pavement of fire to read the tablets which record the
secret of the aqua tofana. Let me see your hand,” added she abruptly,
speaking to Angélique.
Angélique held out her hand; La Corriveau seized it. She looked intently
upon the slender fingers and oval palm. “There is evil enough in these
long, sharp spatulae of yours,” said she, “to ruin the world. You are
worthy to be the inheritrix of all I know. These fingers would pick
fruit off the forbidden tree for men to eat and die! The tempter only is
needed, and he is never far off! Angélique des Meloises, I may one day
teach you the grand secret; meantime I will show you that I possess it.”