"Water the roses well, Mademoiselle," said she; "in three days I
shall be here for a bouquet, and in less than thrice three days I
promise you there shall be a dirge sung for the lady of Beaumanoir."
"Only let it be done soon and surely," replied Angelique,--her very
tone grew harsh,--"but talk no more of it; your voice sounds like a
cry from a dark gallery that leads to hell. Would it were done! I
could then shut up the memory of it in a tomb of silence, forever,
forever, and wash my hands of a deed done by you, not me!"
"A deed done by you, not me!" She repeated the words, as if
repeating them made them true. She would shut up the memory of her
crime forever; she reflected not that the guilt is in the evil
intent, and the sin the same before God even if the deed be never
done.
Angelique was already an eager sophist. She knew better than the
wretched creature whom she had bribed with money, how intensely
wicked was the thing she was tempting her to do; but her jealousy
maddened her, and her ambition could not let her halt in her course.
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