onored wife of Le Gardeur de Repentigny, the sister
of the beauteous Amelie, the niece of the noble Lady de Tilly, was a
piece of fortune to have satisfied, until recently, both her heart and
her ambition. But now Angelique was the dupe of dreams and fancies. The
Royal Intendant was at her feet. France and its courtly splendors
and court intrigues opened vistas of grandeur to her aspiring and
unscrupulous ambition. She could not forego them, and would not! She
knew that, all the time her heart was melting beneath the passionate
eyes of Le Gardeur.

"I have spoken to Amelie, and promised to take her your answer
to-night," said he, in a tone that thrilled every fibre of her better
nature. "She is ready to embrace you as her sister. Will you be my wife,
Angelique?"

Angelique sat silent; she dared not look up at him. If she had, she
knew her hard resolution would melt. She felt his gaze upon her without
seeing it. She grew pale and tried to answer no, but could not; and she
would not answer yes.

The vision she had so wickedly revelled in flashed again upon her at
this supreme moment. She saw, in a panorama of a few seconds, the gilded
halls of Versailles pass before her, and with the vision came the old
temptation.

"Angelique!" repeated he, in a tone full of passionate entreaty, "will
you be my wife, loved as no woman ever was,--loved as alone Le Gardeur
de Repentigny can love you?"

She knew that. As she weakened under his pleading and grasped both his
hands tight in hers, she strove to frame a reply which should say yes
while it meant no; and say no which he should interpret yes.

"All New France will honor you as the Chatelaine de Repentigny! There
will be none higher, as there will be none fairer, than my bride!" Poor
Le Gardeur! He had a dim suspicion that Angelique was looking to France
as a fitting theatre for her beauty and talents.

She still sat mute, and grew paler every moment. Words formed themselves
upon her lips, but she feared to say them, so terrible was the
earnestness of this man's love, and no less vivid the consciousness of
her own. Her face assumed the hardness of marble, pale as Parian and as
rigid; a trembling of her white lips showed the strife going on within
her; she covered her eyes with her hand, that he might not see the tears
she felt quivering under the full lids, but she remained mute.

"Angelique!" exclaimed he, divining her unexpressed refusal; "why do you
turn away from me? Y