“I do, your Excellency. I know the very one can do it,” replied De Pean confidently.
“You do! Why do you hesitate then? Have you any arrière pensée that keeps you from telling her name at once?” asked the Intendant impatiently.
“It is Mademoiselle des Meloises. She can do it, and no other woman in New France need try!” replied De Pean.
“Why, she is a clipper, certainly! Bright eyes like hers rule the world of fools—and of wise men, too,” added Bigot in a parenthesis. “However, all the world is caught by that bird-lime. I confess I never made a fool of myself but a woman was at the bottom of it. But for one who has tripped me up, I have taken sweet revenge on a thousand. If Le Gardeur be entangled in Nerea's hair, he is safe in our toils. Do you think Angélique is at home, De Pean?”
The Intendant looked up at the clock. It was the usual hour for morning calls in Quebec.
“Doubtless she is at home at this hour, your Excellency,” replied De Pean. “But she likes her bed, as other pretty women do, and is practising for the petite levée, like a duchess. I don't suppose she is up!”
“I don't know that,” replied Bigot. “A greater runagate in petticoats there is not in the whole city! I never pass through the streets but I see her.”
“Ay, that is because she intends to meet your Excellency!” Bigot looked sharply at De Pean. A new thought flashed in his eyes.
“What! think you she makes a point of it, De Pean?”
“I think she would not go out of the way of your Excellency.” De Pean shuffled among his papers, but his slight agitation was noticed by the Intendant.