It was long before Angélique came to herself from the swoon in which she
had been left lying on the floor by La Corriveau. Fortunately for her it
was without discovery. None of the servants happened to come to her
room during its continuance, else a weakness so strange to her usual
hardihood would have become the city's talk before night, and set all
its idle tongues conjecturing or inventing a reason for it. It would
have reached the ears of Bigot, as every spray of gossip did, and set
him thinking, too, more savagely than he was yet doing, as to the causes
and occasions of the murder of Caroline.
All the way back to the Palace, Bigot had scarcely spoken a word to
Cadet. His mind was in a tumult of the wildest conjectures, and his
thoughts ran to and fro like hounds in a thick brake darting in every
direction to find the scent of the game they were in search of. When
they reached the Palace, Bigot, without speaking to any one, passed
through the anterooms to his own apartment, and threw himself, dressed
and booted as he was, upon a couch, where he lay like a man stricken
down by a mace from some unseen hand.
Cadet had coarser ways of relieving himself from the late unusual strain
upon his rough feelings. He went down to the billiard-room, and joining
recklessly in the game that was still kept up by De Pean, Le Gardeur,
and a number of wild associates, strove to drown all recollections of
the past night at Beaumanoir by drinking and gambling with more than
usual violence until far on in the day.
Bigot neither slept nor wished to sleep. The image of the murdered
girl lying in her rude grave was ever before him, with a vividness so
terrible that it seemed he could never sleep again. His thoughts ran
round and round like a mill-wheel, without advancing a step towards a
solution of the mystery of her death.
He summoned up his recollections of every man and woman he knew in the
Colony, and asked himself regarding each one, the question, “Is it he
who has done this? Is it she who has prompted it? And who could have had
a motive, and who not, to perpetrate such a bloody deed?”
One image came again and again before his mind's eye as he reviewed the
list of his friends and enemies. The figure of Angélique appeared and
reappeared, intruding itself between every third or fourth personage
which his memory called up, until his thoughts fixed upon her with the
maddening inquiry, “Could Angélique des Meloises have been guilty of
this terrible deed?”
He remembered her passionate denunciation of the lady of Beaumanoir,
her fierce demand for her banishment by a lettre de cachet. He knew her
ambition and recklessness, but still, versed as he was in all the ways
of wickedness, and knowing the inexorable bitterness of envy, and the
cruelty of jealousy in the female breast,--at least in such women as he
had for the most part had experience of,--Bigot could hardly admit the
thought that one so fair as Angélique, one who held him in a golden net
of fascination, and to whom he had been more than once on the point of
yielding, could have committed so great a crime.
He struggled with his thoughts like a man amid tossing waves, groping
about in the dark for a plank to float upon, but could find none. Still,
in spite of himself, in spite of his violent asseverations that “it was
IMPOSSIBLE;” in spite of Cadet's plausible theory of robbers,--which
Bigot at first seized upon as the likeliest explanation of the
mystery,--the thought of Angélique ever returned back upon him like a
fresh accusation.
He could not accuse her yet, though something told him he might have to
do so at last. He grew angry at the ever-recurring thought of her, and
turning his face to the wall, like a man trying to shut out the light,
resolved to force disbelief in her guilt until clearer testimony than
his own suspicions should convict her of the death of Caroline. And
yet in his secret soul he dreaded a discovery that might turn out as he
feared. But he pushed the black thoughts aside; he would wait and watch
for what he feared to find.
The fact of Caroline's concealment at Beaumanoir, and her murder at the
very moment when the search was about to be made for her, placed Bigot
in the cruelest dilemma. Whatever his suspicions might be, he dared not,
by word or sign, avow any knowledge of Caroline's presence, still less
of her mysterious murder, in his Château. Her grave had been dug; she
had been secretly buried out of human sight, and he was under bonds as
for his very life never to let the dreadful mystery be discovered.
So Bigot lay on his couch, for once a weak and frightened man,
registering vain vows of vengeance against persons unknown, vows which
he knew at the moment were empty as bubbles, because he dared not move
hand or foot in the matter to carry them out, or make open accusation
against any one of the foul crime. What thoughts came to Bigot's subtle
mind were best known to himself, but something was suggested by the
mocking devil who was never far from him, and he caught and held fast
the wicked suggestion with a bitter laugh. He then grew suddenly still
and said to himself, “I will sleep on it!” and pillowing his head
quietly, not in sleep, but in thoughts deeper than sleep, he lay till
day.
Angélique, who had never in her life swooned before, felt, when she
awoke, like one returning to life from death. She opened her eyes
wondering where she was, and half remembering the things she had
heard as things she had seen, looked anxiously around the room for
La Corriveau. She rose up with a start when she saw she was gone, for
Angélique recollected suddenly that La Corriveau now held the terrible
secret which concerned her life and peace for evermore.
The thing she had so long wished for, and prayed for, was at last done!
Her rival was out of the way! But she also felt that if the murder was
discovered her own life was forfeit to the law, and the secret was in
the keeping of the vilest of women.
A mountain, not of remorse, but of apprehension, overwhelmed her for
a time. But Angélique's mind was too intensely selfish, hard, and
superficial, to give way to the remorse of a deeper nature.
She was angry at her own cowardice, but she feared the suspicions of
Bigot. There was ever something in his dark nature which she could not
fathom, and deep and crafty as she knew herself to be, she feared that
he was more deep and more crafty than herself.
What if he should discover her hand in this bloody business? The thought
drove her frantic, until she fancied she repented of the deed.
Had it brought a certainty, this crime, then--why, then--she had found
a compensation for the risk she was running, for the pain she was
enduring, which she tried to believe was regret and pity for her victim.
Her anxiety redoubled when it occurred to her that Bigot, remembering
her passionate appeals to him for the removal of Caroline, might suspect
her of the murder as the one alone having a palpable interest in it.
“But Bigot shall never believe it even if he suspect it!” exclaimed she
at last, shaking off her fears. “I have made fools of many men for my
pleasure, I can surely blind one for my safety; and, after all, whose
fault is it but Bigot's? He would not grant me the lettre de cachet nor
keep his promise for her removal. He even gave me her life! But he lied;
he did not mean it. He loved her too well, and meant to deceive me and
marry her, and I have deceived him and shall marry him, that is all!”
and Angélique laughed a hysterical laugh, such as Dives in his torments
may sometimes give way to.
“La Corriveau has betrayed her trust in one terrible point,” continued
she, “she promised a death so easy that all men would say the lady of
Beaumanoir died of heartbreak only, or by God's visitation! A natural
death! The foul witch has used her stiletto and made a murder of that
which, without it, had been none! Bigot will know it, must know it even
if he dare not reveal it! for how in the name of all the saints is it to
be concealed?
“But, my God! this will never do!” continued she, starting up, “I look
like very guilt!” She stared fiercely in the mirror at her hollow eyes,
pale cheeks, and white lips. She scarcely recognized herself. Her bloom
and brightness had vanished for the time.
“What if I have inhaled some of the poisoned odor of those cursed
roses?” thought she, shuddering at the supposition; but she reassured
herself that it could not be. “Still, my looks condemn me! The pale face
of that dead girl is looking at me out of mine! Bigot, if he sees me,
will not fail to read the secret in my looks.”
She glanced at the clock: the morning was far advanced towards noon;
visitors might soon arrive, Bigot himself might come, she dare not deny
herself to him. She would deny herself to no one to-day! She would go
everywhere and see everybody, and show the world, if talk of it should
arise, that she was wholly innocent of that girl's blood.
She would wear her brightest looks, her gayest robe, her hat and
feathers, the newest from Paris. She would ride out into the city,--go
to the Cathedral,--show herself to all her friends, and make every one
say or think that Angélique des Meloises had not a care or trouble in
the world.
She rang for Fanchon, impatient to commence her toilet, for when dressed
she knew that she would feel like herself once more, cool and defiant.
The touch of her armor of fashionable attire would restore her
confidence in herself, and enable her to brave down any suspicion in
the mind of the Intendant,--at any rate it was her only resource, and
Angélique was not one to give up even a lost battle, let alone one half
gained through the death of her rival.
Fanchon came in haste at the summons of her mistress. She had long
waited to hear the bell, and began to fear she was sick or in one of
those wild moods which had come over her occasionally since the night of
her last interview with Le Gardeur.
The girl started at sight of the pale face and paler lips of her
mistress. She uttered an exclamation of surprise, but Angélique,
anticipating all questions, told her she was unwell, but would dress and
take a ride out in the fresh air and sunshine to recruit.
“But had you not better see the physician, my Lady?--you do look so pale
to-day, you are really not well!”
“No, but I will ride out;” and she added in her old way, “perhaps,
Fanchon, I may meet some one who will be better company than the
physician. Qui sait?” And she laughed with an appearance of gaiety
which she was far from feeling, and which only half imposed on the
quick-witted maid who waited upon her.
“Where is your aunt, Fanchon? When did you see Dame Dodier?” asked she,
really anxious to learn what had become of La Corriveau.
“She returned home this morning, my Lady! I had not seen her for days
before, but supposed she had already gone back to St. Valier,--but Aunt
Dodier is a strange woman, and tells no one her business.”
“She has, perhaps, other lost jewels to look after besides mine,”
replied Angélique mechanically, yet feeling easier upon learning the
departure of La Corriveau.
“Perhaps so, my Lady. I am glad she is gone home. I shall never wish to
see her again.”
“Why?” asked Angélique, sharply, wondering if Fanchon had conjectured
anything of her aunt's business.
“They say she has dealings with that horrid Mère Malheur, and I believe
it,” replied Fanchon, with a shrug of disgust.
“Ah! do you think Mère Malheur knows her business or any of your aunt's
secrets, Fanchon?” asked Angélique, thoroughly roused.
“I think she does, my Lady,--you cannot live in a chimney with another
without both getting black alike, and Mère Malheur is a black witch as
sure as my aunt is a white one,” was Fanchon's reply.
“What said your aunt on leaving?” asked her mistress.
“I did not see her leave, my Lady; I only learned from Ambroise Gariepy
that she had crossed the river this morning to return to St. Valier.”
“And who is Ambroise Gariepy, Fanchon? You have a wide circle of
acquaintance for a young girl, I think!” Angélique knew the dangers of
gossiping too well not to fear Fanchon's imprudences.
“Yes, my Lady,” replied Fanchon with affected simplicity, “Ambroise
Gariepy keeps the Lion Vert and the ferry upon the south shore; he
brings me news and sometimes a little present from the pack of the
Basque pedlers,--he brought me this comb, my Lady!” Fanchon turned her
head to show her mistress a superb comb in her thick black hair, and in
her delight of talking of Ambroise Gariepy, the little inn of the ferry,
and the cross that leaned like a failing memory over the grave of
his former wife, Fanchon quite forgot to ease her mind further on the
subject of La Corriveau, nor did Angélique resume the dangerous topic.
Fanchon's easy, shallow way of talking of her lover touched a
sympathetic chord in the breast of her mistress. Grand passions were
grand follies in Angélique's estimation, which she was less capable of
appreciating than even her maid; but flirtation and coquetry, skin-deep
only, she could understand, and relished beyond all other enjoyments.
It was just now like medicine to her racking thoughts to listen to
Fanchon's shallow gossip.
She had done what she had done, she reflected, and it could not be
undone! why should she give way to regret, and lose the prize for which
she had staked so heavily? She would not do it! No, par Dieu! She had
thrown Le Gardeur to the fishes for the sake of the Intendant, and had
done that other deed! She shied off from the thought of it as from an
uncouth thing in the dark, and began to feel shame of her weakness at
having fainted at the tale of La Corriveau.
The light talk of Fanchon while dressing the long golden hair of her
mistress and assisting her to put on a new riding-dress and the plumed
hat fresh from Paris, which she had not yet displayed in public, did
much to restore her equanimity.
Her face had, however, not recovered from its strange pallor. Her eager
maid, anxious for the looks of her mistress, insisted on a little rouge,
which Angélique's natural bloom had never before needed. She submitted,
for she intended to look her best to-day, she said. “Who knows whom I
shall fall in with?”
“That is right, my Lady,” exclaimed Fanchon admiringly, “no one could be
dressed perfectly as you are and be sick! I pity the gentleman you meet
to-day, that is all! There is murder in your eye, my Lady!”
Poor Fanchon believed she was only complimenting her mistress, and at
other times her remark would only have called forth a joyous laugh; now
the word seemed like a sharp knife: it cut, and Angélique did not laugh.
She pushed her maid forcibly away from her, and was on the point of
breaking out into some violent exclamation when, recalled by the amazed
look of Fanchon, she turned the subject adroitly, and asked, “Where is
my brother?”
“Gone with the Chevalier de Pean to the Palace, my Lady!” replied
Fanchon, trembling all over, and wondering how she had angered her
mistress.
“How know you that, Fanchon?” asked Angélique, recovering her usual
careless tone.
“I overheard them speaking together, my Lady. The Chevalier de Pean said
that the Intendant was sick, and would see no one this morning.”
“Yes, what then?” Angélique was struck with a sudden consciousness of
danger in the wind. “Are you sure they said the Intendant was sick?”
asked she.
“Yes, my Lady! and the Chevalier de Pean said that he was less sick than
mad, and out of humor to a degree he had never seen him before!”
“Did they give a reason for it? that is, for the Intendant's sickness or
madness?” Angélique's eyes were fixed keenly upon her maid, to draw out
a full confession.
“None, my Lady, only the Chevalier des Meloises said he supposed it was
the news from France which sat so ill on his stomach.”
“And what then, Fanchon? you are so long of answering!” Angélique
stamped her foot with impatience.
Fanchon looked up at the reproof so little merited, and replied quickly,
“The Chevalier de Pean said it must be that, for he knew of nothing
else. The gentlemen then went out and I heard no more.”
Angélique was relieved by this turn of conversation. She felt certain
that if Bigot discovered the murder he would not fail to reveal it to
the Chevalier de Pean, who was understood to be the depository of all
his secrets. She began to cheer up under the belief that Bigot would
never dare accuse any one of a deed which would be the means of
proclaiming his own falseness and duplicity towards the King and the
Marquise de Pompadour.
“I have only to deny all knowledge of it,” said she to herself, “swear
to it if need be, and Bigot will not dare to go farther in the matter.
Then will come my time to turn the tables upon him in a way he little
expects! Pshaw!” continued she, glancing at her gay hat in the mirror,
and with her own dainty fingers setting the feather more airily to her
liking. “Bigot is bound fast enough to me now that she is gone! and when
he discovers that I hold his secret he will not dare meddle with mine.”
Angélique, measurably reassured and hopeful of success in her desperate
venture, descended the steps of her mansion, and, gathering up her robes
daintily, mounted her horse, which had long been chafing in the hands of
her groom waiting for his mistress.
She bade the man remain at home until her return, and dashed off down
the Rue St. Louis, drawing after her a hundred eyes of admiration and
envy.
She would ride down to the Place d'Armes, she thought, where she knew
that before she had skirted the length of the Castle wall half a dozen
gallants would greet her with offers of escort, and drop any business
they had in hand for the sake of a gallop by her side.
She had scarcely passed the Monastery of the Recollets when she was
espied by the Sieur La Force, who, too, was as quickly discovered by
her, as he loitered at the corner of the Rue St. Ann, to catch sight
of any fair piece of mischief that might be abroad that day from her
classes in the Convent of the Ursulines.
“Angélique is as fair a prize as any of them,” thought La Force, as
he saluted her with Parisian politeness, and with a request to be her
escort in her ride through the city.
“My horse is at hand, and I shall esteem it such an honor,” said La
Force, smiling, “and such a profit too,” added he; “my credit is low in
a certain quarter, you know where!” and he laughingly pointed towards
the Convent. “I desire to make HER jealous, for she has made me madly
so, and no one can aid in an enterprise of that kind better than
yourself, Mademoiselle des Meloises!”
“Or more willingly, Sieur La Force!” replied she, laughing. “But you
overrate my powers, I fear.”
“Oh, by no means,” replied La Force; “there is not a lady in Quebec but
feels in her heart that Angélique des Meloises can steal away her lover
when and where she will. She has only to look at him across the street,
and presto, change! he is gone from her as if by magic. But will you
really help me, Mademoiselle?”
“Most willingly, Sieur La Force,--for your profit if not for your honor!
I am just in the humor for tormenting somebody this morning; so get your
horse and let us be off!”
Before La Force had mounted his horse, a number of gaily-dressed young
ladies came in sight, in full sail down the Rue St. Ann, like a fleet of
rakish little yachts, bearing down upon Angélique and her companion.
“Shall we wait for them, La Force?” asked she. “They are from the
Convent!”
“Yes, and SHE is there too! The news will be all over the city in an
hour that I am riding with you!” exclaimed La Force in a tone of intense
satisfaction.
Five girls just verging on womanhood, perfect in manner and
appearance--as the Ursulines knew well how to train the young
olive-plants of the Colony,--walked on demurely enough, looking
apparently straight forward, but casting side glances from under their
veils which raked the Sieur La Force and Angélique with a searching
fire that nothing could withstand, La Force said; but which Angélique
remarked was simply “impudence, such as could only be found in Convent
girls!”
They came nearer. Angélique might have supposed they were going to pass
by them had she not known too well their sly ways. The foremost of
the five, Louise Roy, whose glorious hair was the boast of the city,
suddenly threw back her veil, and disclosing a charming face, dimpled
with smiles and with a thousand mischiefs lurking in her bright gray
eyes, sprang towards Angélique, while her companions--all Louises of the
famous class of that name--also threw up their veils, and stood saluting
Angélique and La Force with infinite merriment.
Louise Roy, quizzing La Force through a coquettish eyeglass which she
wore on a ribbon round her pretty neck, as if she had never seen him
before, motioned to him in a queenly way as she raised her dainty foot,
giving him a severe look, or what tried to be such but was in truth an
absurd failure.
He instantly comprehended her command, for such it was, and held out
his hand, upon which she stepped lightly, and sprang up to Angélique,
embracing and kissing her with such cordiality that, if it were not
real, the acting was perfect. At the same time Louise Roy made her
understand that she was not the only one who could avail herself of the
gallant attentions of the Sieur La Force.
In truth Louise Roy was somewhat piqued at the Sieur La Force, and to
punish him made herself as heavy as her slight figure would admit of.
She stood perched up as long as she could, and actually enjoyed the
tremor which she felt plainly enough in his hand as he continued to
support her, and was quite disposed to test how long he could or would
hold her up, while she conversed in whispers with Angélique.
“Angélique!” said she. “They say in the Convent that you are to marry
the Intendant. Your old mistress, Mère St. Louis, is crazy with delight.
She says she always predicted you would make a great match.”
“Or none at all, as Mère St. Helene used to say of me; but they know
everything in the Convent, do they not?” Angélique pinched the arm of
Louise, as much as to say, “Of course it is true.” “But who told you
that, Louise?” asked she.
“Oh, every bird that flies! But tell me one thing more. They say the
Intendant is a Bluebeard, who has had wives without number,--nobody
knows how many or what became of them, so of course he kills them. Is
that true?”
Angélique shrank a little, and little as it was the movement was noticed
by Louise. “If nobody knows what became of them, how should I know,
Louise?” replied she. “He does not look like a Bluebeard, does he?”
“So says Mère St. Joseph, who came from the Convent at Bordeaux, you
know, for she never tires telling us. She declares that the Chevalier
Bigot was never married at all, and she ought to know that surely,
as well as she knows her beads, for coming from the same city as the
Intendant, and knowing his family as she does--”
“Well, Louise,” interrupted Angélique impatiently, “but do you not see
the Sieur La Force is getting tired of holding you up so long with his
hand? For heaven's sake, get down!”
“I want to punish him for going with you, and not waiting for me,” was
the cool whisper of Louise. “But you will ask me, Angélique, to the
wedding, will you not? If you do not,” continued she, “I shall die!”
and delaying her descent as long as possible, she commenced a new topic
concerning the hat worn by Angélique.
“Mischief that you are, get down! The Sieur La Force is my cavalier for
the day, and you shall not impose on his gallantry that way! He is ready
to drop,” whispered Angélique.
“One word more, Angélique.” Louise was delighted to feel the hand of La
Force tremble more and more under her foot.
“No, not a word! Get down!”
“Kiss me then, and good-by, cross thing that you are! Do not keep him
all day, or all the class besides myself will be jealous,” replied
Louise, not offering to get down.
Angélique had no mind to allow her cavalier to be made a horse-block
of for anybody but herself. She jerked the bridle, and making her horse
suddenly pirouette, compelled Louise to jump down. The mischievous
little fairy turned her bright laughing eyes full upon La Force and
thanked him for his great courtesy, and with a significant gesture--as
much as to say he was at liberty now to escort Angélique, having done
penance for the same--rejoined her expectant companions, who had laughed
heartily at her manoeuvre.
“She paints!” was Louise's emphatic whisper to her companions, loud
enough to be heard by La Force, for whom the remark was partly intended.
“She paints! and I saw in her eyes that she has not slept all night! She
is in love! and I do believe it is true she is to marry the Intendant!”
This was delicious news to the class of Louises, who laughed out like a
chime of silver bells as they mischievously bade La Force and Angélique
bon voyage, and passed down the Place d'Armes in search of fresh
adventures to fill their budgets of fun--budgets which, on their return
to the Convent, they would open under the very noses of the good nuns
(who were not so blind as they seemed, however), and regale all their
companions with a spicy treat, in response to the universal question
ever put to all who had been out in the city, “What is the news?”
La Force, compliant as wax to every caprice of Angélique, was secretly
fuming at the trick played upon him by the Mischief of the Convent,--as
he called Louise Roy,--for which he resolved to be revenged, even if he
had to marry her. He and Angélique rode down the busy streets, receiving
salutations on every hand. In the great square of the market-place
Angélique pulled up in front of the Cathedral.
Why she stopped there would have puzzled herself to explain. It was not
to worship, not to repent of her heinous sin: she neither repented nor
desired to repent. But it seemed pleasant to play at repentance and put
on imaginary sackcloth.
Angélique's brief contact with the fresh, sunny nature of Louise Roy had
sensibly raised her spirits. It lifted the cloud from her brow, and
made her feel more like her former self. The story, told half in jest
by Louise, that she was to marry the Intendant, flattered her vanity
and raised her hopes to the utmost. She liked the city to talk of her in
connection with the Intendant.
The image of Beaumanoir grew fainter and fainter as she knelt down upon
the floor, not to ask pardon for her sin, but to pray for immunity for
herself and the speedy realization of the great object of her ambition
and her crime!
The pealing of the organ, rising and falling in waves of harmony,
the chanting of choristers, and the voice of the celebrant during the
service in honor of St. Michael and all the angels, touched her sensuous
nature, but failed to touch her conscience.
A crowd of worshippers were kneeling upon the floor of the Cathedral,
unobstructed in those days by seats and pews, except on one side, where
rose the stately bancs of the Governor and the Intendant, on either side
of which stood a sentry with ported arms, and overhead upon the wall
blazed the royal escutcheons of France.
Angélique, whose eyes roved incessantly about the church, turned them
often towards the gorgeous banc of the Intendant, and the thought
intruded itself to the exclusion of her prayers, “When shall I sit
there, with all these proud ladies forgetting their devotions through
envy of my good fortune?”
Bigot did not appear in his place at church to-day. He was too
profoundly agitated and sick, and lay on his bed till evening, revolving
in his astute mind schemes of vengeance possible and impossible, to be
carried out should his suspicions of Angélique become certainties of
knowledge and fact. His own safety was at stake. The thought that he
had been outwitted by the beautiful, designing, heartless girl, the
reflection that he dare not turn to the right hand nor to the left to
inquire into this horrid assassination, which, if discovered, would be
laid wholly to his own charge, drove him to the verge of distraction.
The Governor and his friend Peter Kalm occupied the royal banc. Lutheran
as he was, Peter Kalm was too philosophical and perhaps too faithful a
follower of Christ to consider religion as a matter of mere opinion or
of form rather than of humble dependence upon God, the Father of all,
with faith in Christ and the conscientious striving to love God and his
neighbor.
A short distance from Angélique, two ladies in long black robes, and
evidently of rank, were kneeling with downcast faces, and hands clasped
over their bosoms, in a devout attitude of prayer and supplication.
Angélique's keen eye, which nothing escaped, needed not a second glance
to recognize the unmistakable grace of Amélie de Repentigny and the
nobility of the Lady de Tilly.
She started at sight of these relatives of Le Gardeur's, but did not
wonder at their presence, for she already knew that they had returned to
the city immediately after the abduction of Le Gardeur by the Chevalier
de Pean.
Startled, frightened, and despairing, with aching hearts but unimpaired
love, Amélie and the Lady de Tilly had followed Le Gardeur and
reoccupied their stately house in the city, resolved to leave no means
untried, no friends unsolicited, no prayers unuttered to rescue him from
the gulf of perdition into which he had again so madly plunged.
Within an hour after her return, Amélie, accompanied by Pierre
Philibert, had gone to the Palace to seek an interview with her brother.
They were rudely denied. “He was playing a game of piquet for the
championship of the Palace with the Chevalier de Pean, and could
not come if St. Peter, let alone Pierre Philibert, stood at the gate
knocking!”
This reply had passed through the impure lips of the Sieur de Lantagnac
before it reached Amélie and Pierre. They did not believe it came from
their brother. They left the Palace with heavy hearts, after long
and vainly seeking an interview, Philibert resolving to appeal to the
Intendant himself and call him to account at the sword's point, if need
be, for the evident plot in the Palace to detain Le Gardeur from his
friends.
Amélie, dreading some such resolution on the part of Pierre, went back
next day alone to the Palace to try once more to see Le Gardeur.
She was agitated and in tears at the fate of her brother. She was
anxious over the evident danger which Pierre seemed to court, for his
sake and--she would not hide the truth from herself--for her own sake
too; and yet she would not forbid him. She felt her own noble blood
stirred within her to the point that she wished herself a man to be able
to walk sword in hand into the Palace and confront the herd of revellers
who she believed had plotted the ruin of her brother.
She was proud of Pierre, while she trembled at the resolution which
she read in his countenance of demanding as a soldier, and not as a
suppliant, the restoration of Le Gardeur to his family.
Amélie's second visit to the Palace had been as fruitless as her first.
She was denied admittance, with the profoundest regrets on the part of
De Pean, who met her at the door and strove to exculpate himself from
the accusation of having persuaded Le Gardeur to depart from Tilly, and
of keeping him in the Palace against the prayers of his friends.
De Pean remembered his presumption as well as his rejection by Amélie at
Tilly, and while his tongue ran smooth as oil in polite regrets that Le
Gardeur had resolved not to see his sister to-day, her evident distress
filled him with joy, which he rolled under his tongue as the most
delicate morsel of revenge he had ever tasted.
Bowing with well-affected politeness, De Pean attended her to her
carriage, and having seen her depart in tears, returned laughing into
the Palace, remarking, as he mimicked the weeping countenance of Amélie,
that “the Honnêtes Gens had learned it was a serious matter to come
to the burial of the virtues of a young gentleman like Le Gardeur de
Repentigny.”
On her return home Amélie threw herself on the neck of her aunt,
repeating in broken accents, “My poor Le Gardeur! my brother! He refuses
to see me, aunt! He is lost and ruined in that den of all iniquity and
falsehood!”
“Be composed, Amélie,” replied the Lady de Tilly; “I know it is hard to
bear, but perhaps Le Gardeur did not send that message to you. The
men about him are capable of deceiving you to an extent you have no
conception of,--you who know so little of the world's baseness.”
“O aunt, it is true! He sent me this dreadful thing; I took it, for it
bears the handwriting of my brother.”
She held in her hand a card, one of a pack. It was the death-card of
superstitious lookers into futurity. Had he selected it because it bore
that reputation, or was it by chance?
On the back of it he had written, or scrawled in a trembling hand, yet
plainly, the words: “Return home, Amélie. I will not see you. I have
lost the game of life and won the card you see. Return home, dear
sister, and forget your unworthy and ruined brother, Le Gardeur.”
Lady de Tilly took the card, and read and re-read it, trying to find a
meaning it did not contain, and trying not to find the sad meaning it
did contain.
She comforted Amélie as best she could, while needing strength herself
to bear the bitter cross laid upon them both, in the sudden blighting of
that noble life of which they had been so proud.
She took Amélie in her arms, mingling her own tears with hers, and
bidding her not despair. “A sister's love,” said she, “never forgets,
never wearies, never despairs.” They had friends too powerful to be
withstood, even by Bigot, and the Intendant would be compelled to loosen
his hold upon Le Gardeur. She would rely upon the inherent nobleness of
the nature of Le Gardeur himself to wash itself pure of all stain, could
they only withdraw him from the seductions of the Palace. “We will win
him from them by counter charms, Amélie, and it will be seen that virtue
is stronger than vice to conquer at last the heart of Le Gardeur.”
“Alas, aunt!” replied the poor girl, her eyes suffused with tears,
“neither friend nor foe will avail to turn him from the way he has
resolved to go. He is desperate, and rushes with open eyes upon his
ruin. We know the reason of it all. There is but one who could have
saved Le Gardeur if she would. She is utterly unworthy of my brother,
but I feel now it were better Le Gardeur had married even her than that
he should be utterly lost to himself and us all. I will see Angélique
des Meloises myself. It was her summons brought him back to the city.
She alone can withdraw him from the vile companionship of Bigot and his
associates at the Palace.”
Angélique had been duly informed of the return of Amélie to the city,
and of her fruitless visits to the Palace to see her brother.
It was no pleasure, but a source of angry disappointment to Angélique
that Le Gardeur, in despair of making her his wife, refused to devote
himself to her as her lover. He was running wild to destruction, instead
of letting her win the husband she aspired to, and retain at the same
time the gallant she loved and was not willing to forego.
She had seen him at the first sober moment after his return from Tilly,
in obedience to her summons. She had permitted him to pour out again his
passion at her feet. She had yielded to his kisses when he claimed her
heart and hand, and had not refused to own the mutual flame that covered
her cheek with a blush at her own falseness. But driven to the wall
by his impetuosity, she had at last killed his reviving hopes by her
repetition of the fatal words, “I love you, Le Gardeur, but I will not
marry you!”
Angélique was seized with a sudden impulse to withdraw from the presence
of Amélie in the Cathedral before being discovered by her. She was
half afraid that her former school companion would speak to her on the
subject of Le Gardeur. She could not brazen it out with Amélie, who knew
her too well, and if she could, she would gladly avoid the angry flash
of those dark, pure eyes.
The organ was pealing the last notes of the Doxology, and the voices of
the choristers seemed to reëcho from the depths of eternity the words,
“in saecula saeculorum,” when Angélique rose up suddenly to leave the
church.
Her irreverent haste caused those about her to turn their heads at the
slight confusion she made, Amélie among the rest, who recognized at once
the countenance of Angélique, somewhat flushed and irritated, as she
strove vainly, with the help of La Force, to get out of the throng of
kneeling people who covered the broad floor of the Cathedral.
Amélie deemed it a fortunate chance to meet Angélique so
opportunely--just when her desire to do so was strongest. She caught her
eye, and made her a quick sign to stay, and approaching her, seized her
hands in her old, affectionate way.
“Wait a few moments, Angélique,” said she, “until the people depart. I
want to speak to you alone. I am so fortunate to find you here.”
“I will see you outside, Amélie. The Sieur La Force is with me, and
cannot stay.” Angélique dreaded an interview with Amélie.
“No, I will speak to you here. It will be better here in God's temple
than elsewhere. The Sieur La Force will wait for you if you ask him; or
shall I ask him?” A faint smile accompanied these words of Amélie, which
she partly addressed to La Force.
La Force, to Angélique's chagrin, understanding that Amélie desired him
to wait for Angélique outside, at once offered to do so.
“Or perhaps,” continued Amélie, offering her hand, “the Sieur La Force,
whom I am glad to see, will have the politeness to accompany the Lady de
Tilly, while I speak to Mademoiselle des Meloises?”
La Force was all compliance. “He was quite at the service of the
ladies,” he said politely, “and would esteem it an honor to accompany
the noble Lady de Tilly.”
The Lady de Tilly at once saw through the design of her niece. She
acceded to the arrangement, and left the Cathedral in company with the
Sieur La Force, whom she knew as the son of an old and valued friend.
He accompanied her home, while Amélie, holding fast to the arm of
Angélique until the church was empty of all but a few scattered devotees
and penitents, led her into a side chapel, separated from the body of
the church by a screen of carved work of oak, wherein stood a small
altar and a reliquary with a picture of St. Paul.
The seclusion of this place commended itself to the feelings of Amélie.
She made Angélique kneel down by her side before the altar. After
breathing a short, silent prayer for help and guidance, she seized her
companion by both hands and besought her “in God's name to tell her
what she had done to Le Gardeur, who was ruining himself, both soul and
body.”
Angélique, hardy as she was, could ill bear the searching gaze of those
pure eyes. She quailed under them for a moment, afraid that the question
might have some reference to Beaumanoir, but reassured by the words of
Amélie, that her interview had relation to Le Gardeur only, she replied:
“I have done nothing to make Le Gardeur ruin himself, soul or body,
Amélie. Nor do I believe he is doing so. Our old convent notions are
too narrow to take out with us into the world. You judge Le Gardeur too
rigidly, Amélie.”
“Would that were my fault, Angélique!” replied she earnestly, “but my
heart tells me he is lost unless those who led him astray remit him
again into the path of virtue whence they seduced him.”
Angélique winced, for she took the allusion to herself, although in
the mind of Amélie it referred more to the Intendant. “Le Gardeur is no
weakling to be led astray,” replied she. “He is a strong man, to lead
others, not to be led, as I know better than even his sister.”
Amélie looked up inquiringly, but Angélique did not pursue the thought
nor explain the meaning of her words.
“Le Gardeur,” continued Angélique, “is not worse, nay, with all his
faults, is far better than most young gallants, who have the laudable
ambition to make a figure in the world, such as women admire. One cannot
hope to find men saints, and we women to be such sinners. Saints would
be dull companions. I prefer mere men, Amélie!”
“For shame, Angélique! to say such things before the sacred shrine,”
exclaimed Amélie, indignantly stopping her. “What wonder that men are
wicked, when women tempt them to be so! Le Gardeur was like none of the
gallants you compare him with! He loved virtue and hated vice, and above
all things he despised the companionship of such men as now detain him
at the Palace. You first took him from me, Angélique! I ask you now to
give him back to me. Give me back my brother, Angélique des Meloises!”
Amélie grasped her by the arm in the earnestness of her appeal.
“I took him from you?” exclaimed Angélique hotly. “It is untrue! Forgive
my saying so, Amélie! I took him no more than did Héloise de Lotbinière
or Cecile Tourangeau! Will you hear the truth? He fell in love with me,
and I had not the heart to repulse him,--nay, I could not, for I will
confess to you, Amélie, as I often avowed to you in the Convent, I loved
Le Gardeur the best of all my admirers! And by this blessed shrine,”
continued she, laying her hand upon it, “I do still! If he be, as some
say he is, going too fast for his own good or yours or mine, I regret it
with my whole heart; I regret it as you do! Can I say more?”
Angélique was sincere in this. Her words sounded honest, and she spoke
with a real warmth in her bosom, such as she had not felt in a long
time.
Her words impressed Amélie favorably.
“I think you speak truly, Angélique,” replied she, “when you say you
regret Le Gardeur's relapse into the evil ways of the Palace. No one
that ever knew my noble brother could do other than regret it. But oh,
Angélique, why, with all your influence over him did you not prevent it?
Why do you not rescue him now? A word from you would have been of more
avail than the pleading of all the world beside!”
“Amélie, you try me hard,” said Angélique, uneasily, conscious of
the truth of Amélie's words, “but I can bear much for the sake of Le
Gardeur! Be assured that I have no power to influence his conduct in the
way of amendment, except upon impossible conditions! I have tried, and
my efforts have been vain as your own!”
“Conditions!” replied Amélie, “what conditions?--but I need not ask you!
He told me in his hour of agony of your inexplicable dealing with him,
and yet not so inexplicable now! Why did you profess to love my brother,
leading him on and on to an offer of his hand, and then cruelly reject
him, adding one more to the list of your heartless triumphs? Le Gardeur
de Repentigny was too good for such a fate from any woman, Angélique!”
Amélie's eyes swam in tears of indignation as she said this.
“He was too good for me!” said Angélique, dropping her eyes. “I will
acknowledge that, if it will do you any good, Amélie! But can you not
believe that there was a sacrifice on my part, as well as on his or
yours?”
“I judge not between you, Angélique! or between the many chances wasted
on you; but I say this Angélique des Meloises, you wickedly stole the
heart of the noblest brother in New France, to trample it under your
feet!”
“'Fore God, I did not, Amélie!” she replied indignantly. “I loved and do
love Le Gardeur de Repentigny, but I never plighted my troth to him, I
never deceived him! I told him I loved him, but I could not marry him!
And by this sacred cross,” said she, placing her hands upon it, “it is
true! I never trampled upon the heart of Le Gardeur; I could kiss his
hands, his feet, with true affection as ever loving woman gave to man;
but my duty, my troth, my fate, were in the hands of another!”
Angélique felt a degree of pleasure in the confession to Amélie of her
love for her brother. It was the next thing to confessing it to himself,
which had been once the joy of her life, but it changed not one jot her
determination to wed only the Intendant, unless--yes, her busy mind had
to-day called up a thousand possible and impossible contingencies that
might spring up out of the unexpected use of the stiletto by Corriveau.
What if the Intendant, suspecting her complicity in the murder of
Caroline, should refuse to marry her? Were it not well in that desperate
case to have Le Gardeur to fall back upon?
Amélie watched nervously the changing countenance of Angélique. She
knew it was a beautiful mask covering impenetrable deceit, and that no
principle of right kept her from wrong when wrong was either pleasant or
profitable.
The conviction came upon Amélie like a flash of inspiration that she
was wrong in seeking to save Le Gardeur by seconding his wild offer
of marriage to Angélique. A union with this false and capricious woman
would only make his ruin more complete and his latter end worse than the
first. She would not urge it, she thought.
“Angélique,” said she, “if you love Le Gardeur, you will not refuse your
help to rescue him from the Palace. You cannot wish to see him degraded
as a gentleman because he has been rejected by you as a lover.”
“Who says I wish to see him degraded as a gentleman? and I did not
reject him as a lover! not finally--that is, I did not wholly mean
it. When I sent to invite his return from Tilly it was out of
friendship,--love, if you will, Amélie, but from no desire that he
should plunge into fresh dissipation.”
“I believe you, Angélique! You could not, if you had the heart of
a woman loving him ever so little, desire to see him fall into the
clutches of men who, with the wine-cup in one hand and the dice-box in
the other, will never rest until they ruin him, body, soul, and estate.”
“Before God, I never desired it, and to prove it, I have cursed De Pean
to his face, and erased Lantagnac from my list of friends, for coming
to show me the money he had won from Le Gardeur while intoxicated.
Lantagnac brought me a set of pearls which he had purchased out of his
winnings. I threw them into the fire and would have thrown him after
them, had I been a man! 'fore God, I would, Amélie! I may have wounded
Le Gardeur, but no other man or woman shall injure him with my consent.”
Angélique spoke this in a tone of sincerity that touched somewhat the
heart of Amélie, although the aberrations and inconsistencies of this
strange girl perplexed her to the utmost to understand what she really
felt.
“I think I may trust you, Angélique, to help me to rescue him from
association with the Palace?” said Amélie, gently, almost submissively,
as if she half feared a refusal.
“I desire nothing more,” replied Angélique. “You have little faith in
me, I see that,”--Angélique wiped her eyes, in which a shade of moisture
could be seen,--“but I am sincere in my friendship for Le Gardeur. The
Virgin be my witness, I never wished his injury, even when I injured him
most. He sought me in marriage, and I was bound to another.”
“You are to marry the Intendant, they say. I do not wonder, and yet I do
wonder, at your refusing my brother, even for him.”
“Marry the Intendant! Yes, it is what fools and some wise people say. I
never said it myself, Amélie.”
“But you mean it, nevertheless; and for no other would you have thrown
over Le Gardeur de Repentigny.”
“I did not throw him over,” she answered, indignantly. “But why dispute?
I cannot, Amélie, say more, even to you! I am distraught with cares and
anxieties, and know not which way to turn.”
“Turn here, where I turn in my troubles, Angélique!” replied Amélie,
moving closer to the altar. “Let us pray for Le Gardeur.” Angélique
obeyed mechanically, and the two girls prayed silently for a few
moments, but how differently in spirit and feeling! The one prayed for
her brother,--the other tried to pray, but it was more for herself, for
safety in her crime and success in her deep-laid scheming. A prayer for
Le Gardeur mingled with Angélique's devotions, giving them a color of
virtue. Her desire for his welfare was sincere enough, and she thought
it disinterested of herself to pray for him.
Suddenly Angélique started up as if stung by a wasp. “I must take leave
of you, my Amélie,” said she; “I am glad I met you here. I trust you
understand me now, and will rely on my being as a sister to Le Gardeur,
to do what I can to restore him perfect to you and the good Lady de
Tilly.”
Amélie was touched. She embraced Angélique and kissed her; yet so cold
and impassive she felt her to be, a shiver ran through her as she did
so. It was as if she had touched the dead, and she long afterwards
thought of it. There was a mystery in this strange girl that Amélie
could not fathom nor guess the meaning of. They left the Cathedral
together. It was now quite empty, save of a lingering penitent or two
kneeling at the shrines. Angélique and Amélie parted at the door, the
one eastward, the other westward, and, carried away by the divergent
currents of their lives, they never met again.