She had sounded his soul to try if he entertained a suspicion of
herself, but its depth was beyond her power to reach its bottomless
darkness, and to the last she could not resolve whether he suspected
her or not of complicity with the death of the unfortunate Caroline.
She never ceased to curse La Corriveau for that felon stroke of her
mad stiletto which changed what might have passed for a simple death
by heartbreak into a foul assassination.
The Intendant she knew must be well aware that Caroline had been
murdered; but he had never named it or given the least token of
consciousness that such a crime had been committed in his house.
It was in vain that she repeated, with a steadiness of face which
sometimes imposed even on Bigot, her request for a lettre de cachet,
or urged the banishment of her rival, until the Intendant one day,
with a look which for a moment annihilated her, told her that her
rival had gone from Beaumanoir and would never trouble her any more.
What did he mean? Angelique had noted every change of muscle, every
curve of lip and eyelash as he spake, and she felt more puzzled than
before.
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