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 Chateau. 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.

Angelique, 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
Angelique 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 Angelique'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 th