The passion of her soul was avarice; her
wickedness took its direction from the love of money, and scrupled
at no iniquity for the sake of it.
She placed the purse carefully in her bosom, and took up the roses,
regarding them with a strange look of admiration as she muttered,
"They are beautiful and they are sweet! men would call them
innocent! they are like her who sent them, fair without as yet; like
her who is to receive them, fair within." She stood reflecting for
a few moments, and exclaimed as she laid the bouquet upon the
table,--
"Angelique des Meloises, you send your gold and your roses to me
because you believe me to be a worse demon than yourself, but you
are worthy to be crowned tonight with these roses as queen of hell
and mistress of all the witches that ever met in Grand Sabbat at the
palace of Galienne, where Satan sits on a throne of gold!"
La Corriveau looked out of the window and saw a corner of the rock
lit up with the last ray of the setting sun. She knew it was time
to prepare for her journey. She loosened her long black and gray
elfin locks, and let them fall dishevelled over her shoulders.
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