“It is not nice to say that, Aunt Marie!” exclaimed Fanchon, coming forward and embracing La Corriveau, who gave a start on seeing her niece so unexpectedly before her. “It is not nice, and it is not true!”
“But it is true, Fanchon Dodier! if it be not nice. There is nothing nice to be said of our sex, except by foolish men! Women know one another better! But,” continued she, scrutinizing her niece with her keen black eyes, which seemed to pierce her through and through, “what ill wind or Satan's errand has brought you to St. Valier to-day, Fanchon?”
“No ill wind, nor ill errand either, I hope, aunt. I come by command of my mistress to ask you to go to the city: she is biting her nails off with impatience to see you on some business.”
“And who is your mistress, who dares to ask La Corriveau to go to the city at her bidding?”
“Do not be angry, aunt,” replied Fanchon, soothingly. “It was I counselled her to send for you, and I offered to fetch you. My mistress is a high lady, who expects to be still higher,—Mademoiselle des Meloises!
“Mademoiselle Angélique des Meloises,—one hears enough of her! a high lady indeed! who will be low enough at last! A minx as vain as she is pretty, who would marry all the men in New France, and kill all the women, if she could have her way! What in the name of the Sabbat does she want with La Corriveau?”
“She did not call you names, aunt, and please do not say such things of her, for you will frighten me away before I tell my errand. Mademoiselle Angélique sent this piece of gold as earnest-money to prove that she wants your counsel and advice in an important matter.”
Fanchon untied the corner of her handkerchief, and took from it a broad shining louis d'or. She placed it in the hand of La Corriveau, whose long fingers clutched it like the talons of a harpy. Of all the evil passions of this woman, the greed for money was the most ravenous.
“It is long since I got a piece of gold like that to cross my hand with, Fanchon!” said she, looking at it admiringly and spitting on it for good luck.
“There are plenty more where it came from, aunt,” replied Fanchon. “Mademoiselle could fill your apron with gold every day of the week if she would: she is to marry the Intendant!”