“Yes! she took your letter,” replied she, impatiently. “She took my story like spring water. Go at the stroke of twelve to-morrow night and she will let you in, Dame Dodier; but will she let you out again, eh?” The crone stood with her hat in her hand, and looked with a wicked glance at La Corriveau.
“If she will let me in, I shall let myself out, Mère Malheur,” replied Corriveau in a low tone. “But why do you ask that?”
“Because I read mischief in your eye and see it twitching in your thumb, and you do not ask me to share your secret! Is it so bad as that, Dame Dodier?”
“Pshaw! you are sharing it! wait and you will see your share of it! But tell me, Mère Malheur, how does she look, this mysterious lady of the Château?” La Corriveau sat down, and placed her long, thin hand on the arm of the old crone.
“Like one doomed to die, because she is too good to live. Sorrow is a bad pasture for a young creature like her to feed on, Dame Dodier!” was the answer, but it did not change a muscle on the face of La Corriveau.
“Ay! but there are worse pastures than sorrow for young creatures like her, and she has found one of them,” she replied, coldly.
“Well! as we make our bed so must we lie on it, Dame Dodier,—that is what I always tell the silly young things who come to me asking their fortunes; and the proverb pleases them. They always think the bridal bed must be soft and well made, at any rate.”
“They are fools! better make their death-bed than their bridal bed! But I must see this piece of perfection of yours to-morrow night, dame! The Intendant returns in two days, and he might remove her. Did she tell you about him?”
“No! Bigot is a devil more powerful than the one we serve, dame. I fear him!”
“Tut! I fear neither devil nor man. It was to be at the hour of twelve! Did you not say at the hour of twelve, Mère Malheur?”