s under such circumstances that the beautiful, highborn Caroline de
St. Castin became an inmate of Beaumanoir. She had passed the night of
this wild debauch in a vigil of prayers, tears, and lamentations over
her sad lot and over the degradation of Bigot by the life which she now
knew he led. Sometimes her maddened fancy was ready to accuse Providence
itself of cruelty and injustice; sometimes, magnifying her own sin, she
was ready to think all earthly punishment upon herself as too light, and
invoked death and judgment as alone adequate to her fault. All night she
had knelt before the altar, asking for mercy and forgiveness,--sometimes
starting to her feet in terror, as a fresh burst of revelry came rushing
from the great hall above, and shook the door of her secret chamber.
But no one came to her help, no one looked in upon her desolation. She
deemed herself utterly forgotten and forsaken of God and man.

Occasionally she fancied she could distinguish the voice of the
Intendant amid the drunken uproar, and she shuddered at the infatuation
which bound her very soul to this man; and yet when she questioned her
heart, she knew that, base as he was, all she had done and suffered for
him she would infallibly do again. Were her life to live over, she would
repeat the fault of loving this false, ungrateful man. The promise
of marriage had been equivalent to marriage in her trust of him, and
nothing but death could now divorce her from him.

Hour after hour passed by, each seeming an age of suffering. Her
feelings were worked up to frenzy: she fancied she heard her father's
angry voice calling her by name, or she heard accusing angels jeering
at her fall. She sank prostrate at last, in the abandonment of despair,
calling upon God to put an end to her miserable life.

Bigot raised her from the floor, with words of pity and sympathy. She
turned on him a look of gratitude which, had he been of stone, he must
have felt. But Bigot's words meant less than she fancied. He was still
too intoxicated to reflect, or to feel shame of his present errand.

"Caroline!" said he, "what do you here? This is the time to make
merry--not to pray! The honorable company in the great hall desire to
pay their respects to the lady of Beaumanoir--come with me!"

He drew her hand through his arm with a courtly grace that seldom
forsook him, even in his worst moments. Caroline looked at him in a
dazed manner, not comprehending his request. "Go with yo