“Nay, but there is always something stirring in the city; somebody born, married, or dead; somebody courted, won, lost, or undone; somebody's name up, somebody's reputation down! Tell me all you know, Mère Malheur! and then I will tell you something that will make you glad you came to Beaumanoir to-day. Take another sip of cognac and begin!”
“Ay, dame, that is indeed a temptation!” She took two deep sips, and holding her glass in her hand, began with loose tongue to relate the current gossip of the city, which was already known to Dame Tremblay; but an ill-natured version of it from the lips of her visitor seemed to give it a fresh seasoning and a relish which it had not previously possessed.
“Now, Mère Malheur! I have a secret to tell you,” said Dame Tremblay, in a low, confidential tone, “a dead secret, mind you, which you had better be burnt than reveal. There is a lady, a real lady if I ever saw one, living in the Château here in the greatest privacy. I and the Intendant only see her. She is beautiful and full of sorrow as the picture of the blessed Madonna. What she is, I may guess; but who she is, I cannot conjecture, and would give my little finger to know!”
“Tut, dame!” replied Mère Malheur, with a touch of confidence, “I will not believe any woman could keep a secret from you! But this is news, indeed, you tell me! A lady in concealment here, and you say you cannot find her out, Dame Tremblay!”
“In truth, I cannot; I have tried every artifice, but she passes all my wit and skill. If she were a man, I would have drawn her very teeth out with less difficulty than I have tried to extract the name of this lady. When I was the Charming Josephine of Lake Beauport, I could wind men like a thread around which finger I liked; but this is a tangled knot which drives me to despair to unravel it.”
“What do you know about her, dame? Tell me all you suspect!” said Mère Malheur.
“Truly,” replied the dame, without the least asperity, “I suspect the poor thing, like the rest of us, is no better than she should be; and the Intendant knows it, and Mademoiselle des Meloises knows it too; and, to judge by her constant prayers and penitence, she knows it herself but too well, and will not say it to me!”
“Ay, dame! but this is great news you tell me!” replied Mère Malheur, eagerly clutching at the opportunity thus offered for the desired interview. “But what help do you expect from me in the matter?”
Mère Malheur looked very expectant at her friend, who continued, “I want you to see that lady under promise of secrecy, mark you!—and look at her hands, and tell me who and what she is.”
Dame Tremblay had an unlimited faith in the superstitions of her age.