"Every woman is a despot," thought he, "and has no mercy upon
pretenders to her throne."
"That lady," replied he, "is neither wife nor mistress, Mademoiselle:
she sought the shelter of my roof with a claim upon the hospitality
of Beaumanoir.
"No doubt"--Angelique's nostril quivered with a fine disdain--"the
hospitality of Beaumanoir is as broad and comprehensive as its
master's admiration for our sex!" said she.
Bigot was not angry. He gave a loud laugh. "You women are
merciless upon each other, Mademoiselle!" said he.
"Men are more merciless to women when they beguile us with insincere
professions," replied she, rising up in well-affected indignation.
"Not so, Mademoiselle!" Bigot began to feel annoyed. "That lady is
nothing to me," said he, without rising as she had done. He kept
his seat.
"But she has been! you have loved her at some time or other! and she
is now living on the scraps and leavings of former affection. I am
never deceived, Chevalier!" continued she, glancing down at him, a
wild light playing under her long eyelashes like the illumined
under-edge of a thundercloud.
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