theart, who, coming with some stolen
sweetmeats to Mere Malheur, told her, who in turn was not long in
imparting what she had heard to La Corriveau.

La Corriveau did not fail to see that, should Angelique discover that
her rival was to be searched for, and taken to France if found, she
would at once change her mind, and Caroline would be got rid of without
need of her interference. But La Corriveau had got her hand in the dish.
She was not one to lose her promised reward or miss the chance of so
cursed a deed by any untimely avowal of what she knew.

So Angelique was doomed to remain in ignorance until too late. She
became the dupe of her own passions and the dupe of La Corriveau, who
carefully concealed from her a secret so important.

Bigot's denial in the Council weighed nothing with her. She felt certain
that the lady was no other than Caroline de St. Castin. Angelique
was acute enough to perceive that Bigot's bold assertion that he knew
nothing of her bound him in a chain of obligation never to confess
afterwards aught to the contrary. She eagerly persuaded herself that he
would not regret to hear that Caroline had died by some sudden and, to
appearance, natural death, and thus relieved him of a danger, and her of
an obstacle to her marriage.

Without making a full confidant of Mere Malheur, La Corriveau resolved
to make use of her in carrying out her diabolical scheme. Mere Malheur
had once been a servant at Beaumanoir. She knew the house, and in her
heyday of youth and levity had often smuggled herself in and out by the
subterranean passage which connected the solitary watchtower with the
vaults of the Chateau. Mere Malheur knew Dame Tremblay, who, as the
Charming Josephine, had often consulted her upon the perplexities of a
heart divided among too many lovers.

The memory of that fragrant period of her life was the freshest and
pleasantest of all Dame Tremblay's experience. It was like the odor of
new-mown hay, telling of early summer and frolics in the green fields.
She liked nothing better than to talk it all over in her snug room with
Mere Malheur, as they sat opposite one another at her little table,
each with a cup of tea in her hand, well laced with brandy, which was a
favorite weakness of them both.

Dame Tremblay was, in private, neither nice nor squeamish as to the
nature of her gossip. She and the old fortune-teller, when out of sight
of the rest of the servants, had always a dish of the choices