“Pray God you may never have reason to hear it again,” replied Dame Tremblay. “She it was who went to the mansion of Sieur Tourangeau and with her riding-whip lashed the mark of a red cross upon the forehead of his daughter, Cecile, scarring her forever, because she had presumed to smile kindly upon a young officer, a handsome fellow, Le Gardeur de Repentigny—whom any woman might be pardoned for admiring!” added the old dame, with a natural touch of the candor of her youth. “If Angélique takes a fancy to the Intendant, it will be dangerous for any other woman to stand in her way!”
Caroline gave a frightened look at the dame's description of a possible rival in the Intendant's love. “You know more of her, dame! Tell me all! Tell me the worst I have to learn!” pleaded the poor girl.
“The worst, my Lady! I fear no one can tell the worst of Angélique des Meloises,—at least, would not dare to, although I know nothing bad of her, except that she would like to have all the men to herself, and so spite all the women!”
“But she must regard that young officer with more than common affection, to have acted so savagely to Mademoiselle Tourangeau?” Caroline, with a woman's quickness, had caught at that gleam of hope through the darkness.
“Oh, yes, my Lady! All Quebec knows that Angélique loves the Seigneur de Repentigny, for nothing is a secret in Quebec if more than one person knows it, as I myself well recollect; for when I was the Charming Josephine, my very whispers were all over the city by the next dinner hour, and repeated at every table, as gentlemen cracked their almonds and drank their wine in toasts to the Charming Josephine.”
“Pshaw! dame! Tell me about the Seigneur de Repentigny! Does Angélique des Meloises love him, think you?” Caroline's eyes were fixed like stars upon the dame, awaiting her reply.
“It takes women to read women, they say,” replied the dame, “and every lady in Quebec would swear that Angélique loves the Seigneur de Repentigny; but I know that, if she can, she will marry the Intendant, whom she has fairly bewitched with her wit and beauty, and you know a clever woman can marry any man she pleases, if she only goes the right way about it: men are such fools!”
Caroline grew faint. Cold drops gathered on her brow. A veil of mist floated before her eyes. “Water! good dame water!” she articulated, after several efforts.
Dame Tremblay ran, and got her a drink of water and such restoratives as were at hand. The dame was profuse in words of sympathy: she had gone through life with a light, lively spirit, as became the Charming Josephine, but never lost the kindly heart that was natural to her.
Caroline rallied from her faintness. “Have you seen what you tell me, dame, or is it but the idle gossip of the city, no truth in it? Oh, say it is the idle gossip of the city! François Bigot is not going to marry this lady? He is not so faithless”—to me, she was about to add, but did not.