e Vaudreuil. "Your friend, Herr Kalm, has left us, fortunately,
before he could record in his book, for all Europe to read, that men are
murdered in New France to sate the vengeance of a Royal Intendant and
fill the purses of the greatest company of thieves that ever plundered a
nation."

"Hark, Rigaud! do not say such things," interrupted the Governor; "I
trust it is not so bad as that; but it shall be seen into, if I remain
Governor of New France. The blood of the noble Bourgeois shall be
requited at the hands of all concerned in his assassination. The blame
of it shall not rest wholly upon that unhappy Le Gardeur. We will trace
it up to its very origin and fountain-head."

"Right, Count; you are true as steel. But mark me! if you begin to trace
this assassination up to its origin and fountain-head, your letters of
recall will be despatched by the first ship that leaves France after the
news reaches Versailles." Rigaud looked fixedly at the Count as he said
this.

"It may be so, Rigaud," replied the Count, sadly; "strange things take
place under the regime of the strange women who now rule the Court.
Nevertheless, while I am here my whole duty shall be done. In this
matter justice shall be meted out with a firm and impartial hand, no
matter who shall be incriminated!"

The Count de la Galissoniere at once summoned a number of his most
trusted and most sagacious councillors together--the Intendant was not
one of those summoned--to consider what steps it behooved them to take
to provide for the public safety and to ensure the ends of justice in
this lamentable tragedy.

CHAPTER LI. EVIL NEWS RIDES POST.

The sunbeams never shone more golden through the casement of a lady's
bower than on that same morning of St. Martin's through the window of
the chamber of Amelie de Repentigny, as she sat in the midst of a group
of young ladies holding earnest council over the dresses and adornments
of herself and companions, who were to be her bridesmaids on her
marriage with Pierre Philibert.

Amelie had risen from pleasant dreams. The tender flush of yesterday's
walk on the banks of the Lairet lingered on her cheek all night long,
like the rosy tint of a midsummer's sunset. The loving words of Pierre
floated through her memory like a strain of divine music, with the sweet
accompaniment of her own modest confessions of love, which she had so
frankly expressed.

Amelie's chamber was vocal with gaiety and laughter; for w