girl has the
spirit of a war-horse; she would carry any man round the world. I wish
she would carry me. I would rule Versailles in six weeks, with that
woman, Bigot!"

"The same thought has occurred to me, Cadet, and I might have been
entrapped by it had not this cursed affair happened. La Pompadour is a
simpleton beside Angelique des Meloises! My difficulty is to believe her
so mad as to have ventured on this bold deed."

"'Tis not the boldness, only the uselessness of it, would stop
Angelique!" answered Cadet, shutting one eye with an air of lazy
comfort.

"But the deceitfulness of it, Cadet! A girl like her could not be so
gay last night with such a bloody purpose on her soul. Could she, think
you?"

"Couldn't she? Tut! Deceit is every woman's nature! Her wardrobe is not
complete unless it contains as many lies for her occasions as ribbons
for her adornment!"

"You believe she did it then? What makes you think so, Cadet?" asked
Bigot eagerly, drawing near his companion.

"Why, she and you are the only persons on earth who had an interest in
that girl's death. She to get a dangerous rival out of the way,--you to
hide her from the search-warrants sent out by La Pompadour. You did
not do it, I know: ergo, she did! Can any logic be plainer? That is the
reason I think so, Bigot."

"But how has it been accomplished, Cadet? Have you any theory? SHE can
not have done it with her own hand."

"Why, there is only one way that I can see. We know she did not do the
murder herself, therefore she has done it by the hand of another.
Here is proof of a confederate, Bigot,--I picked this up in the secret
chamber." Cadet drew out of his pocket the fragment of the letter torn
in pieces by La Corriveau. "Is this the handwriting of Angelique?" asked
he.

Bigot seized the scrap of paper, read it, turned it over and scrutinized
it, striving to find resemblances between the writing and that of every
one known to him. His scrutiny was in vain.

"This writing is not Angelique's," said he. "It is utterly unknown to
me. It is a woman's hand, but certainly not the hand of any woman of my
acquaintance, and I have letters and billets from almost every lady in
Quebec. It is proof of a confederate, however, for listen, Cadet! It
arranges for an interview with Caroline, poor girl! It was thus she was
betrayed to her death. It is torn, but enough remains to make the sense
clear,--listen: 'At the arched door about midnight--if she pleased