," muttered she, "either
to save myself OR to make sure of my work on another. Beatrice Spara
was the daughter of a Sicilian bravo, and she liked this poignard better
than even the poisoned chalice."

La Corriveau rose up now, well satisfied with her foresight and
preparation. She placed the ebony casket carefully in her bosom,
cherishing it like an only child, as she walked out of the room with her
quiet, tiger-like tread. Her look into the future was pleasant to her at
this moment. There was the prospect of an ample reward for her trouble
and risk, and the anticipated pleasure of practising her skill upon one
whose position she regarded as similar to that of the great dames of the
Court, whom Exili and La Voisin had poisoned during the high carnival of
death, in the days of Louis XIV.

She was now ready, and waited impatiently to depart.

The goodman Dodier brought the caleche to the door. It was a
substantial, two-wheeled vehicle, with a curious arrangement of springs,
made out of the elastic wood of the hickory. The horse, a stout Norman
pony, well harnessed, sleek and glossy, was lightly held by the hand
of the goodman, who patted it kindly as an old friend; and the pony,
in some sort, after an equine fashion, returned the affection of its
master.

La Corriveau, with an agility hardly to be expected from her years,
seated herself beside Fanchon in the caleche, and giving her willing
horse a sharp cut with the lash for spite, not for need,--goodman Dodier
said, only to anger him,--they set off at a rapid pace, and were soon
out of sight at the turn of the dark pine-woods, on their way to the
city of Quebec.

Angelique des Meloises had remained all day in her house, counting the
hours as they flew by, laden with the fate of her unsuspecting rival at
Beaumanoir.

Night had now closed in; the lamps were lit, the fire again burned red
upon the hearth. Her door was inexorably shut against all visitors.
Lizette had been sent away until the morrow; Angelique sat alone and
expectant of the arrival of La Corriveau.

The gay dress in which she had outshone all her sex at the ball on the
previous night lay still in a heap upon the floor, where last night she
had thrown it aside, like the robe of innocence which once invested her.
Her face was beautiful, but cruel, and in its expression terrible as
Medea's brooding over her vengeance sworn against Creusa for her sin
with Jason. She sat in a careless dishabille, with on