“Par bleu! yes, I insisted upon their doing so; not, however, till they had gone through the Castle of St. Louis. They apologized to me for finding nothing. What did they expect to find, think you?”
“The lady, to be sure! Oh, Bigot,” continued she, tapping him with her fan, “if they would send a commission of women to search for her, the secret could not remain hid.”
“No, truly, Angélique! If you were on such a commission to search for the secret of her.”
“Well, Bigot, I would never betray it, if I knew it,” answered she, promptly.
“You swear to that, Angélique?” asked he, looking full in her eyes, which did not flinch under his gaze.
“Yes; on my book of hours, as you did!” said she.
“Well, there is my hand upon it, Angélique. I have no secret to tell respecting her. She has gone, I cannot tell WHITHER.”
Angélique gave him her hand on the lie. She knew he was playing with her, as she with him, a game of mutual deception, which both knew to be such. And yet they must, circumstanced as they were, play it out to the end, which end, she hoped, would be her marriage with this arch-deceiver. A breach of their alliance was as dangerous as it would be unprofitable to both.
Bigot rose to depart with an air of gay regret at leaving the company of Angélique to make room for De Pean, “who,” he said, “would pull every hair out of his horse's mane if he waited much longer.”
“Your visit is no pleasure to you, Bigot,” said she, looking hard at him. “You are discontented with me, and would rather go than stay!”