"To kill a woman or a man were of itself a pleasure even without the profit," replied La Corriveau, doggedly. "But why should I run myself into danger for you, Mademoiselle des Meloises? Have you gold enough to balance the risk?"
Angelique had now fairly overleaped all barriers of reserve. "I will give you more than your eyes ever beheld, if you will serve me in this matter, Dame Dodier!"
"Perhaps so, but I am getting old and trust neither man nor woman.
Give a pledge of your good faith, before you speak one word farther to me on this business, Mademoiselle des Meloises." La Corriveau held out her double hands significantly.
"A pledge? that is gold you want!" replied Angelique. "Yes, La Corriveau; I will bind you to me with chains of gold; you shall have it uncounted, as I get it,--gold enough to make you the richest woman in St. Valier, the richest peasant-woman in New France."
"I am no peasant-woman," replied La Corriveau, with a touch of pride, "I come of a race ancient and terrible as the Roman Caesars!
But pshaw! what have you to do with that? Give me the pledge of your good faith and I will help you."
Angelique rose instantly, and, opening the drawer of an escritoire, took out a long silken purse filled with louis d'or, which peeped and glittered through the interstices of the net-work. She gave it with the air of one who cared nothing for money.
La Corriveau extended both hands eagerly, clutching as with the claws of a harpy. She pressed the purse to her thin bloodless lips, and touched with the ends of her bony fingers the edges of the bright coin visible through the silken net.
"This is indeed a rare earnest-penny!" exclaimed La Corriveau. "I will do your whole bidding, Mademoiselle; only I must do it in my own way. I have guessed aright the nature of your trouble and the remedy you seek. But I cannot guess the name of your false lover, nor that of the woman whose doom is sealed from this hour."
"I will not tell you the name of my lover," replied Angelique. She was reluctant to mention the name of Bigot as her lover. The idea was hateful to her. "The name of the woman I cannot tell you, even if I would," added she.
"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 Angelique 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."
