So again were dashed the
ardent expectations of Angelique.
She listened to the gallant and gay speeches of Bigot, which seemed
to flutter like birds round her, but never lit on the ground where
she had spread her net like a crafty fowler as she was, until she
went almost mad with suppressed anger and passionate excitement.
But she kept on replying with badinage light as his own, and with
laughter so soft and silvery that it seemed a gentle dew from
Heaven, instead of the drift and flying foam of the storm that was
raging in her bosom.
She read and re-read glimpses of his hidden thoughts that went and
came like faces in a dream, and she saw in her imagination the dark,
pleading eyes and pale face of the lady of Beaumanoir. It came now
like a revelation, confirming a thousand suspicions that Bigot loved
that pale, sad face too well ever to marry Angelique des Meloises
while its possessor lived at Beaumanoir,--or while she lived at all!
And it came to that! In this walk with Bigot round the glorious
garden, with God's flowers shedding fragrance around them; with
God's stars shining overhead above all the glitter and illusion of
the thousand lamps, Angelique repeated to herself the terrific
words, "Bigot loves that pale, sad face too well ever to marry me
while its possessor lives at Beaumanoir--or while she lives at all!"
The thought haunted her! It would not leave her! She leaned
heavily upon his arm as she swept like a queen of Cyprus through the
flower-bordered walks, brushing the roses and lilies with her proud
train, and treading, with as dainty a foot as ever bewitched human
eye, the white paths that led back to the grand terrace of the
Palace.
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