The gayest of the gay to all outward appearance, Angélique missed sorely the presence of Le Gardeur, and she resented his absence from the ball as a slight and a wrong to her sovereignty, which never released a lover from his allegiance.
The fair demoiselles at the ball, less resolutely ambitious than Angélique, found by degrees, in the devotion of other cavaliers, ample compensation for only so much of the Intendant's favor as he liberally bestowed on all the sex; but that did not content Angélique: she looked with sharpest eyes of inquisition upon the bright glances which now and then shot across the room where she sat by the side of Bigot, apparently steeped in happiness, but with a serpent biting at her heart, for she felt that Bigot was really unimpressible as a stone under her most subtle manipulation.
Her thoughts ran in a round of ceaseless repetition of the question: “Why can I not subdue François Bigot as I have subdued every other man who exposed his weak side to my power?” and Angélique pressed her foot hard upon the floor as the answer returned ever the same: “The heart of the Intendant is away at Beaumanoir! That pale, pensive lady” (Angélique used a more coarse and emphatic word) “stands between him and me like a spectre as she is, and obstructs the path I have sacrificed so much to enter!”
“I cannot endure the heat of the ballroom, Bigot!” said Angélique; “I will dance no more to-night! I would rather sit and catch fireflies on the terrace than chase forever without overtaking it the bird that has escaped from my bosom!”
The Intendant, ever attentive to her wishes, offered his arm to lead her into the pleached walks of the illuminated garden. Angélique rose, gathered up her rich train, and with an air of royal coquetry took his arm and accompanied the Intendant on a promenade down the grand alley of roses.
“What favorite bird has escaped from your bosom, Angélique?” asked the Intendant, who had, however, a shrewd guess of the meaning of her metaphor.
“The pleasure I had in anticipation of this ball! The bird has flown, I know not where or how. I have no pleasure here at all!” exclaimed she, petulantly, although she knew the ball had been really got up mainly for her own pleasure.
“And yet Momus himself might have been your father, and Euphrosyne your mother, Angélique,” replied Bigot, “to judge by your gaiety to-night. If you have no pleasure, it is because you have given it all away to others! But I have caught the bird you lost, let me restore it to your bosom pray!” He laid his hand lightly and caressingly upon her arm. Her bosom was beating wildly; she removed his hand, and held it firmly grasped in her own.
“Chevalier!” said she, “the pleasure of a king is in the loyalty of his subjects, the pleasure of a woman in the fidelity of her lover!” She was going to say more, but stopped. But she gave him a glance which insinuated more than all she left unsaid.
Bigot smiled to himself. “Angélique is jealous!” thought he, but he only remarked, “That is an aphorism which I believe with all my heart! If the pleasure of a woman be in the fidelity of her lover, I know no one who should be more happy than Angélique des Meloises! No lady in New France has a right to claim greater devotion from a lover, and no one receives it!”