Luc and young Philibert like a couple of
staghounds in full cry at our heels about that business at the
Chateau. They must be thrown off that scent, come what will,
Bigot!"
The pressure of time and circumstance was drawing a narrower circle
around the Intendant. The advent of peace would, he believed,
inaugurate a personal war against himself. The murder of Caroline
was a hard blow, and the necessity of concealing it irritated him
with a sense of fear foreign to his character.
His suspicion of Angelique tormented him day and night. He had
loved Angelique in a sensual, admiring way, without one grain of
real respect. He worshipped her one moment as the Aphrodite of his
fancy; he was ready to strip and scourge her the next as the
possible murderess of Caroline. But Bigot had fettered himself with
a lie, and had to hide his thoughts under degrading concealments.
He knew the Marquise de Pompadour was jealously watching him from
afar. The sharpest intellects and most untiring men in the Colony
were commissioned to find out the truth regarding the fate of
Caroline.
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