These were his thoughts, but in words he replied, “The lady of Beaumanoir is not my wife, perhaps never will be.” Angélique's eager question fell on very unproductive ground.
Angélique repeated the word superciliously. “'Perhaps!' 'Perhaps' in the mouth of a woman is consent half won; in the mouth of a man I know it has a laxer meaning. Love has nothing to say to 'perhaps': it is will or shall, and takes no 'perhaps' though a thousand times repeated!
“And you intend to marry this treasure trove of the forest—perhaps?” continued Angélique, tapping the ground with a daintier foot than the Intendant had ever seen before.
“It depends much on you, Mademoiselle des Meloises,” said he. “Had you been my treasure-trove, there had been no 'perhaps' about it.” Bigot spoke bluntly, and to Angélique it sounded like sincerity. Her dreams were accomplished. She trembled with the intensity of her gratification, and felt no repugnance at his familiar address.
The Intendant held out his hand as he uttered the dulcet flattery, and she placed her hand in his, but it was cold and passionless. Her heart did not send the blood leaping into her finger-ends as when they were held in the loving grasp of Le Gardeur.
“Angélique!” said he. It was the first time the Intendant had called her by her name. She started. It was the unlocking of his heart she thought, and she looked at him with a smile which she had practised with infallible effect upon many a foolish admirer.
“Angélique, I have seen no woman like you, in New France or in Old; you are fit to adorn a Court, and I predict you will—if—if—”
“If what, Chevalier?” Her eyes fairly blazed with vanity and pleasure. “Cannot one adorn Courts, at least French Courts, without if's?”
“You can, if you choose to do so,” replied he, looking at her admiringly; for her whole countenance flashed intense pleasure at his remark.
“If I choose to do so? I do choose to do so! But who is to show me the way to the Court, Chevalier? It is a long and weary distance from New France.”