"Who in heaven's name is
this lady of Beaumanoir of whom you are so careful or so afraid?"
"I cannot tell you, Angelique," said he, quite irritated. "She may
be a runaway nun, or the wife of the man in the iron mask, or--"
"Or any other fiction you please to tell me in the stead of truth,
and which proves your love to be the greatest fiction of all!"
"Do not be so angry, Angelique," said he, soothingly, seeing the
need of calming down this impetuous spirit, which he was driving
beyond all bounds. But he had carelessly dropped a word which she
picked up eagerly and treasured in her bosom. "Her life! He said
he would give me her life! Did he mean it?" thought she, absorbed
in this new idea.
Angelique had clutched the word with a feeling of terrible import.
It was not the first time the thought had flashed its lurid light
across her mind. It had seemed of comparatively light import when
it was only the suggestion of her own wild resentment. It seemed a
word of terrible power heard from the lips of Bigot, yet Angelique
knew well he did not in the least seriously mean what he said.
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