“But I ask it, nevertheless!” replied the wilful, passionate girl. “There is no merit in your love if it fears risk or brooks denial! You ask me to make sacrifices, and will not lift your finger to remove that stumbling-block out of my way! A fig for such love, Chevalier Bigot! If I were a man, there is nothing in earth, heaven, or hell I would not do for the woman I loved!”
Angélique fixed her blazing eyes full upon him, but magnetic as was their fire, they drew no satisfying reply. “Who in heaven's name is this lady of Beaumanoir of whom you are so careful or so afraid?”
“I cannot tell you, Angélique,” said he, quite irritated. “She may be a runaway nun, or the wife of the man in the iron mask, or—”
“Or any other fiction you please to tell me in the stead of truth, and which proves your love to be the greatest fiction of all!”
“Do not be so angry, Angélique,” said he, soothingly, seeing the need of calming down this impetuous spirit, which he was driving beyond all bounds. But he had carelessly dropped a word which she picked up eagerly and treasured in her bosom. “Her life! He said he would give me her life! Did he mean it?” thought she, absorbed in this new idea.
Angélique had clutched the word with a feeling of terrible import. It was not the first time the thought had flashed its lurid light across her mind. It had seemed of comparatively light import when it was only the suggestion of her own wild resentment. It seemed a word of terrible power heard from the lips of Bigot, yet Angélique knew well he did not in the least seriously mean what he said.
“It is but his deceit and flattery,” she said to herself, “an idle phrase to cozen a woman. I will not ask him to explain it, I shall interpret it in my own way! Bigot has said words he understood not himself; it is for me to give them form and meaning.”
She grew quiet under these reflections, and bent her head in seeming acquiescence to the Intendant's decision. The calmness was apparent only.
“You are a true woman, Angélique,” said he, “but no politician: you have never heard thunder at Versailles. Would that I dared to grant your request. I offer you my homage and all else I have to give you to half my kingdom.”
Angélique's eyes flashed fire. “It is a fairy tale after all!” exclaimed she; “you will not grant the lettre de cachet?”