er, Angelique," replied Bigot, "to judge by your gaiety to-night.
If you have no pleasure, it is because you have given it all away to
others! But I have caught the bird you lost, let me restore it to your
bosom pray!" He laid his hand lightly and caressingly upon her arm.
Her bosom was beating wildly; she removed his hand, and held it firmly
grasped in her own.

"Chevalier!" said she, "the pleasure of a king is in the loyalty of his
subjects, the pleasure of a woman in the fidelity of her lover!" She
was going to say more, but stopped. But she gave him a glance which
insinuated more than all she left unsaid.

Bigot smiled to himself. "Angelique is jealous!" thought he, but he only
remarked, "That is an aphorism which I believe with all my heart! If the
pleasure of a woman be in the fidelity of her lover, I know no one who
should be more happy than Angelique des Meloises! No lady in New France
has a right to claim greater devotion from a lover, and no one receives
it!"

"But I have no faith in the fidelity of my lover! and I am not happy,
Chevalier! far from it!" replied she, with one of those impulsive
speeches that seemed frankness itself, but in this woman were artful to
a degree.

"Why so?" replied he; "pleasure will never leave you, Angelique, unless
you wilfully chase it away from your side! All women envy your beauty,
all men struggle to obtain your smiles. For myself, I would gather all
the joys and treasures of the world, and lay them at your feet, would
you let me!

"I do not hinder you, Chevalier!" she replied, with a laugh of
incredulity, "but you do not do it! It is only your politeness to say
that. I have told you that the pleasure of a woman is in the fidelity
of her lover; tell me now, Chevalier, what is the highest pleasure of a
man?"

"The beauty and condescension of his mistress,--at least, I know
none greater." Bigot looked at her as if his speech ought to receive
acknowledgement on the spot.

"And it is your politeness to say that, also, Chevalier!" replied she
very coolly.

"I wish I could say of your condescension, Angelique, what I have said
of your beauty: Francois Bigot would then feel the highest pleasure of a
man." The Intendant only half knew the woman he was seeking to deceive.
She got angry.

Angelique looked up with a scornful flash. "My condescension, Chevalier?
to what have I not condescended on the faith of your solemn promise that
the lady of Beaumanoir should not remain