whether she be good, that will
avail nothing with him; but is she beautiful, La Corriveau? Is she
fairer than I, think you?"

La Corriveau looked at Angelique intently and laughed. "Fairer than you?
Listen! It was as if I had seen a vision. She was very beautiful, and
very sad. I could wish it were another than she, for oh, she spoke to me
the sweetest I was ever spoken to since I came into the world."

Angelique ground her teeth with anger. "What did you do, La Corriveau?
Did you not wish her dead? Did you think the Intendant or any man could
not help loving her to the rejection of any other woman in the world?
What did you do?"

"Do? I went on picking my mandrakes in the forest, and waited for you
to send for La Corriveau. You desire to punish the Intendant for his
treachery in forsaking you for one more beautiful and better!"

It was but a bold guess of La Corriveau, but she had divined the truth.
The Intendant Bigot was the man who was playing false with Angelique.

Her words filled up the measure of Angelique's jealous hate, and
confirmed her terrible resolution. Jealousy is never so omnipotent as
when its rank suspicions are fed and watered by the tales of others.

"There can be but one life between her and me!" replied the vehement
girl; "Angelique des Meloises would die a thousand deaths rather than
live to feed on the crumbs of any man's love while another woman feasts
at his table. I sent for you, La Corriveau, to take my gold and kill
that woman!"

"Kill that woman! It is easily said, Mademoiselle; but I will not
forsake you, were she the Madonna herself! I hate her for her goodness,
as you hate her for her beauty. Lay another purse by the side of this,
and in thrice three days there shall be weeping in the Chateau of
Beaumanoir, and no one shall know who has killed the cuckquean of the
Chevalier Intendant!"

Angelique sprang up with a cry of exultation, like a pantheress seizing
her prey. She clasped La Corriveau in her arms and kissed her dark,
withered cheek, exclaiming, "Yes, that is her name! His cuckquean she
is; his wife she is not and never shall be!--Thanks, a million golden
thanks, La Corriveau, if you fulfil your prophecy! In thrice three days
from this hour, was it not that you said?"

"Understand me!" said La Corriveau, "I serve you for your money, not
for your liking! but I have my own joy in making my hand felt in a world
which I hate and which hates me!" La Corriveau held out her han