ere is death in the pot!" the crone muttered as she went out,--"La
Corriveau comes not here on her own errand either! That girl is too
beautiful to live, and to some one her death is worth gold! It will go
hard, but La Corriveau shall share with me the reward of the work of
tomorrow night!"

In the long gallery she encountered Dame Tremblay "ready to eat her up,"
as she told La Corriveau afterwards, in the eagerness of her curiosity
to learn the result of her interview with Caroline.

Mere Malheur was wary, and accustomed to fence with words. It was
necessary to tell a long tale of circumstances to Dame Tremblay, but not
necessary nor desirable to tell the truth. The old crone therefore, as
soon as she had seated herself in the easy chair of the housekeeper and
refreshed herself by twice accepting the dame's pressing invitation to
tea and cognac, related with uplifted hands and shaking head a narrative
of bold lies regarding what had really passed during her interview with
Caroline.

"But who is she, Mere Malheur? Did she tell you her name? Did she show
you her palm?"

"Both, dame, both! She is a girl of Ville Marie who has run away from
her parents for love of the gallant Intendant, and is in hiding from
them. They wanted to put her into the Convent to cure her of love. The
Convent always cures love, dame, beyond the power of philtres to revive
it!" and the old crone laughed inwardly to herself, as if she doubted
her own saying.

Eager to return to La Corriveau with the account of her successful
interview with Caroline, she bade Dame Tremblay a hasty but formal
farewell, and with her crutched stick in her hand trudged stoutly back
to the city.

Mere Malheur, while the sun was yet high, reached her cottage under the
rock, where La Corriveau was eagerly expecting her at the window. The
moment she entered, the masculine voice of La Corriveau was heard asking
loudly,--

"Have you seen her, Mere Malheur? Did you give her the letter? Never
mind your hat! tell me before you take it off!" The old crone was
tugging at the strings, and La Corriveau came to help her.

"Yes! she took your letter," replied she, impatiently. "She took my
story like spring water. Go at the stroke of twelve to-morrow night and
she will let you in, Dame Dodier; but will she let you out again, eh?"
The crone stood with her hat in her hand, and looked with a wicked
glance at La Corriveau.

"If she will let me in, I shall let myself out, Mere