“As I told you before, I dare not grant that, Angélique; anything else—”
“You dare not! You, the boldest Intendant ever sent to New France, and say you dare not! A man who is worth the name dare do anything in the world for a woman if he loves her, and for such a man a true woman will kiss the ground he walks on, and die at his feet if need be!” Angélique's thoughts reverted for a moment to Le Gardeur, not to Bigot, as she said this, and thought how he would do it for her sake if she asked him.
“My God, Angélique, you drive this matter hard, but I like you better so than when you are in your silkiest humor.”
“Bigot, it were better you had granted my request.” Angélique clenched her fingers hard together, and a cruel expression lit her eyes for a moment. It was like the glance of a lynx seeking a hidden treasure in the ground: it penetrated the thick walls of Beaumanoir! She suppressed her anger, however, lest Bigot should guess the dark imaginings and half-formed resolution which brooded in her mind.
With her inimitable power of transformation she put on her air of gaiety again and exclaimed,—“Pshaw! let it go, Bigot. I am really no politician, as you say; I am only a woman almost stifled with the heat and closeness of this horrid ballroom. Thank God, day is dawning in the great eastern window yonder; the dancers are beginning to depart! My brother is waiting for me, I see, so I must leave you, Chevalier.”
“Do not depart just now, Angélique! Wait until breakfast, which will be prepared for the latest guests.”
“Thanks, Chevalier,” said she, “I cannot wait. It has been a gay and delightful ball—to them who enjoyed it.”
“Among whom you were one, I hope,” replied Bigot.
“Yes, I only wanted one thing to be perfectly happy, and that I could not get, so I must console myself,” said she, with an air of mock resignation.
Bigot looked at her and laughed, but he would not ask what it was she lacked. He did not want a scene, and feared to excite her wrath by mention again of the lettre de cachet.