At this moment Bigot, who had waited for the conclusion of a game of cards, rejoined the group where she sat.
Angélique drew in her robe and made room for him beside her, and was presently laughing and talking as free from care, apparently, as an oriole warbling on a summer spray. De Pean courteously withdrew, leaving her alone with the Intendant.
Bigot was charmed for the moment into oblivion of the lady who sat in her secluded chamber at Beaumanoir. He forgot his late quarrel with Angélique in admiration of her beauty. The pleasure he took in her presence shed a livelier glow of light across his features. She observed it, and a renewed hope of triumph lifted her into still higher flights of gaiety.
“Angélique,” said he, offering his arm to conduct her to the gorgeous buffet, which stood loaded with golden dishes of fruit, vases of flowers, and the choicest confectionery, with wine fit for a feast of Cyprus, “you are happy to-night, are you not? But perfect bliss is only obtained by a judicious mixture of earth and heaven: pledge me gaily now in this golden wine, Angélique, and ask me what favor you will.”
“And you will grant it?” asked she, turning her eyes upon him eagerly.
“Like the king in the fairy tale, even to my daughter and half of my kingdom,” replied he, gaily.
“Thanks for half the kingdom, Chevalier,” laughed she, “but I would prefer the father to the daughter.” Angélique gave him a look of ineffable meaning. “I do not desire a king to-night, however. Grant me the lettre de cachet, and then—”
“And then what, Angélique?” He ventured to take her hand, which seemed to tempt the approach of his.
“You shall have your reward. I ask you for a lettre de cachet, that is all.” She suffered her hand to remain in his.
“I cannot,” he replied sharply to her urgent repetition. “Ask her banishment from Beaumanoir, her life if you like, but a lettre de cachet to send her to the Bastile I cannot and will not give!”