“How, Mademoiselle? you put the death-mark upon one you do not know?”
“I do not know her name. Nevertheless, La Corriveau, that gold, and ten times as much, are yours, if you relieve me of the torment of knowing that the secret chamber of Beaumanoir contains a woman whose life is death to all my hopes, and disappointment to all my plans.”
The mention of Beaumanoir startled La Corriveau.
“The lady of Beaumanoir!” she exclaimed, “whom the Abenaquis brought in from Acadia? I saw that lady in the woods of St. Valier, when I was gathering mandrakes one summer day. She asked me for some water in God's name. I cursed her silently, but I gave her milk. I had no water. She thanked me. Oh, how she thanked me! nobody ever before thanked La Corriveau so sweetly as she did! I, even I, bade her a good journey, when she started on afresh with her Indian guides, after asking me the distance and direction of Beaumanoir.”
This unexpected touch of sympathy surprised and revolted Angélique a little.
“You know her then! That is rare fortune, La Corriveau,” said she; “she will remember you, you will have less difficulty in gaining access to her and winning her confidence.”
La Corriveau clapped her hands, laughing a strange laugh, that sounded as if it came from a deep well.
“Know her? That is all I know; she thanked me sweetly. I said so, did I not? but I cursed her in my heart when she was gone. I saw she was both beautiful and good,—two things I hate.”
“Do you call her beautiful? I care not whether she be good, that will avail nothing with him; but is she beautiful, La Corriveau? Is she fairer than I, think you?”
La Corriveau looked at Angélique intently and laughed. “Fairer than you? Listen! It was as if I had seen a vision. She was very beautiful, and very sad. I could wish it were another than she, for oh, she spoke to me the sweetest I was ever spoken to since I came into the world.”