"Still, my looks condemn
me! The pale face of that dead girl is looking at me out of mine!
Bigot, if he sees me, will not fail to read the secret in my looks."
She glanced at the clock: the morning was far advanced towards noon;
visitors might soon arrive, Bigot himself might come, she dare not
deny herself to him. She would deny herself to no one to-day! She
would go everywhere and see everybody, and show the world, if talk
of it should arise, that she was wholly innocent of that girl's
blood.
She would wear her brightest looks, her gayest robe, her hat and
feathers, the newest from Paris. She would ride out into the city,--
go to the Cathedral,--show herself to all her friends, and make
every one say or think that Angelique des Meloises had not a care or
trouble in the world.
She rang for Fanchon, impatient to commence her toilet, for when
dressed she knew that she would feel like herself once more, cool
and defiant. The touch of her armor of fashionable attire would
restore her confidence in herself, and enable her to brave down any
suspicion in the mind of the Intendant,--at any rate it was her only
resource, and Angelique was not one to give up even a lost battle,
let alone one half gained through the death of her rival.
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