It awaited, and awaits
still, the judgment of the final day of account.
Angelique had intrigued and sinned in vain. She feared Bigot knew
more than he really did, in reference to the death of Caroline, and
oft, while laughing in his face, she trembled in her heart, when he
played and equivocated with her earnest appeals to marry her.
Wearied out at length with waiting for his decisive yes or no,
Angelique, mortified by wounded pride and stung by the scorn of Le
Gardeur on his return to the Colony, suddenly accepted the hand of
the Chevalier de Pean, and as a result became the recognized
mistress of the Intendant,--imitating as far as she was able the
splendor and the guilt of La Pompadour, and making the Palace of
Bigot as corrupt, if not as brilliant, as that of Versailles.
Angelique lived thenceforth a life of splendid sin. She clothed
herself in purple and fine linen, while the noblest ladies of the
land were reduced by the war to rags and beggary. She fared
sumptuously, while men and women died of hunger in the streets of
Quebec.
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