ten paces off.

Angelique was up. She had not gone to bed that night, and sat feverishly
on the watch, expecting the arrival of La Corriveau.

She had counted the minutes of the silent hours of the night as they
passed by her in a terrible panorama. She pictured to her imagination
the successive scenes of the tragedy which was being accomplished at
Beaumanoir.

The hour of midnight culminated over her head, and looking out of her
window at the black, distant hills, in the recesses of which she knew
lay the Chateau, her agitation grew intense. She knew at that hour La
Corriveau must be in the presence of her victim. Would she kill her? Was
she about it now? The thought fastened on Angelique like a wild beast,
and would not let go. She thought of the Intendant, and was filled with
hope; she thought of the crime of murder and shrunk now that it was
being done.

It was in this mood she waited and watched for the return of her bloody
messenger. She heard the cautious foot on the stone steps. She knew by a
sure instinct whose it was, and rushed down to admit her.

They met at the door, and without a word spoken, one eager glance of
Angelique at the dark face of La Corriveau drank in the whole fatal
story. Caroline de St. Castin was dead! Her rival in the love of the
Intendant was beyond all power of rivalry now! The lofty doors of
ambitious hope stood open--what! to admit the queen of beauty and of
society? No! but a murderess, who would be forever haunted with the fear
of justice! It seemed at this moment as if the lights had all gone out
in the palaces and royal halls where her imagination had so long run
riot, and she saw only dark shadows, and heard inarticulate sounds of
strange voices babbling in her ear. It was the unspoken words of her own
troubled thoughts and the terrors newly awakened in her soul!

Angelique seized the hand of La Corriveau, not without a shudder. She
drew her hastily up to her chamber and thrust her into a chair. Placing
both hands upon the shoulders of La Corriveau, she looked wildly in her
face, exclaiming in a half exultant, half piteous tone, "Is it done? Is
it really done? I read it in your eyes! I know you have done the deed!
Oh, La Corriveau!"

The grim countenance of the woman relaxed into a half smile of scorn
and surprise at the unexpected weakness which she instantly noted in
Angelique's manner.

"Yes, it is done!" replied she, coldly, "and it is well done! But, by
the manna o