Angélique quitted his arm and stood confronting him, flaming with indignation. She did not let him finish his sentence: “If it were my case, Bigot! as if that could ever be my case, and you alive to speak of it!”
Bigot stepped backwards. He was not sure but a poniard glittered in the clenched hand of Angélique. It was but the flash of her diamond rings as she lifted it suddenly. She almost struck him.
“Do not blame me for infidelities committed before I knew you, Angélique!” said he, seizing her hand, which he held forcibly in his, in spite of her efforts to wrench it away.
“It is my nature to worship beauty at every shrine. I have ever done so until I found the concentration of all my divinities in you. I could not, if I would, be unfaithful to you, Angélique des Meloises!” Bigot was a firm believer in the classical faith that Jove laughs at lovers' perjuries.
“You mock me, Bigot!” replied she. “You are the only man who has ever dared to do so twice.”
“When did I mock you twice, Angélique?” asked he, with an air of injured innocence.
“Now! and when you pledged yourself to remove the lady of Beaumanoir from your house! I admire your courage, Bigot, in playing false with me and still hoping to win! But never speak to me more of love while that pale spectre haunts the secret chambers of the Château!”
“She shall be removed, Angélique, since you insist upon it,” replied he, secretly irritated; “but where is the harm? I pledge my faith she shall not stand in the way of my love for you.”
“Better she were dead than do so!” whispered Angélique to herself. “It is my due, Bigot!” replied she aloud, “you know what I have given up for your sake!”
“Yes! I know you have banished Le Gardeur de Repentigny when it had been better to keep him securely in the ranks of the Grand Company. Why did you refuse to marry him, Angélique?”