“Thanks, Mademoiselle,” said De Pean, hardly knowing whether her laugh was affirmative or negative; “but I envy Le Gardeur his precedence.”
Angélique's love for Le Gardeur was the only key which ever unlocked her real feelings. When the fox praised the raven's voice and prevailed on her to sing, he did not more surely make her drop the envied morsel out of her mouth than did Angélique drop the mystification she had worn so coquettishly before De Pean.
“Tell me, De Pean,” said she, “is it true or not that Le Gardeur de Repentigny is consoling himself among the woods of Tilly with a fair cousin of his, Héloise de Lotbinière?”
De Pean had his revenge, and he took it. “It is true; and no wonder,” said he. “They say Héloise is, without exception, the sweetest girl in New France, if not one of the handsomest.”
“Without exception!” echoed she, scornfully. “The women will not believe that, at any rate, Chevalier. I do not believe it, for one.” And she laughed in the consciousness of beauty. “Do you believe it?”
“No, that were impossible,” replied he, “while Angélique des Meloises chooses to contest the palm of beauty.”
“I contest no palm with her, Chevalier; but I give you this rosebud for your gallant speech. But tell me, what does Le Gardeur think of this wonderful beauty? Is there any talk of marriage?”
“There is, of course, much talk of an alliance.” De Pean lied, and the truth had been better for him.
Angélique started as if stung by a wasp. The dance ceased for her, and she hastened to a seat. “De Pean,” said she, “you promised to bring Le Gardeur forthwith back to the city; will you do it?”
“I will bring him back, dead or alive, if you desire it; but I must have time. That uncompromising Colonel Philibert is with him. His sister, too, clings to him like a good angel to the skirt of a sinner. Since you desire it,”—De Pean spoke it with bitterness,—“Le Gardeur shall come back, but I doubt if it will be for his benefit or yours, Mademoiselle.”