La Corriveau reached the city in the gray of the morning; a thick
fog lay like a winding-sheet upon the face of nature. The broad
river, the lofty rocks, every object, great and small, was hidden
from view.
To the intense satisfaction of La Corriveau, the fog concealed her
return to the house of Mere Malheur, whence, after a brief repose,
and with a command to the old crone to ask no questions yet, she
sallied forth again to carry to Angelique the welcome news that her
rival was dead.
No one observed La Corriveau as she passed, in her peasant dress,
through the misty streets, which did not admit of an object being
discerned ten paces off.
Angelique was up. She had not gone to bed that night, and sat
feverishly on the watch, expecting the arrival of La Corriveau.
She had counted the minutes of the silent hours of the night as
they passed by her in a terrible panorama. She pictured to her
imagination the successive scenes of the tragedy which was being
accomplished at Beaumanoir.
The hour of midnight culminated over her head, and looking out of
her window at the black, distant hills, in the recesses of which she
knew lay the Chateau, her agitation grew intense.
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