Have you
discovered the hidden place of your fair fugitive yet?" She said this
just as he turned to depart. It was the feminine postscript to their
interview.

Bigot's avoidance of any allusion to the death of Caroline was a
terrible mark of suspicion; less in reality, however, than it seemed.

Bigot, although suspicious, could find no clue to the real perpetrators
of the murder. He knew it had not been Angelique herself in person. He
had never heard her speak of La Corriveau. Not the smallest ray of light
penetrated the dark mystery.

"I do not believe she has left Beaumanoir, Bigot," continued Angelique;
"or if she has, you know her hiding-place. Will you swear on my book of
hours that you know not where she is to be found?"

He looked fixedly at Angelique for a moment, trying to read her
thoughts, but she had rehearsed her part too often and too well to look
pale or confused. She felt her eyebrow twitch, but she pressed it with
her fingers, believing Bigot did not observe it, but he did.

"I will swear and curse both, if you wish it, Angelique," replied he.
"Which shall it be?"

"Well, do both,--swear at me and curse the day that I banished Le
Gardeur de Repentigny for your sake, Francois Bigot! If the lady be
gone, where is your promise?"

Bigot burst into a wild laugh, as was his wont when hard-pressed. He
had not, to be sure, made any definite promise to Angelique, but he had
flattered her with hopes of marriage never intended to be realized.

"I keep my promises to ladies as if I had sworn by St. Dorothy," replied
he.

"But your promise to me, Bigot! Will you keep it, or do worse?" asked
she, impatiently.

"Keep it or do worse! What mean you, Angelique?" He looked up in genuine
surprise. This was not the usual tone of women towards him.

"I mean that nothing will be better for Francois Bigot than to keep his
promise, nor worse than to break it, to Angelique des Meloises!" replied
she, with a stamp of her foot, as was her manner when excited.

She thought it safe to use an implied threat, which at any rate might
reach the thought that lay under his heart like a centipede under a
stone which some chance foot turns over.

But Bigot minded not the implied threat. He was immovable in the
direction she wished him to move. He understood her allusion, but would
not appear to understand it, lest worse than she meant should come of
it.

"Forgive me, Angelique!" said he, with a sudden change from frigidit