“Cadet! Cadet! out with it!” repeated a dozen voices. “Yes, out with it!” repeated Bigot. “We are all companions under the rose, and there are no secrets here about wine or women!” “Well, I would not give a filbert for all the women born since mother Eve!” said Cadet, flinging a nut-shell at the ceiling. “But this is a rare one, I must confess. Now stop! Don't cry out again 'Cadet! out with it!' and I will tell you! What think you of the fair, jolly Mademoiselle des Meloises?” “Angélique? Is De Repentigny in love with her?” Bigot looked quite interested now. “In love with her? He would go on all fours after her, if she wanted him! He does almost, as it is.” Bigot placed a finger on his brow and pondered for a moment. “You say well, Cadet; if De Repentigny has fallen in love with that girl, he is ours forever! Angélique des Meloises never lets go her ox until she offers him up as a burnt offering! The Honnêtes Gens will lose one of the best trout in their stream if Angélique has the tickling of him!” Bigot did not seem to be quite pleased with Cadet's information. He rose from his seat somewhat flushed and excited by this talk respecting Angélique des Meloises. He walked up and down the room a few turns, recovered his composure, and sat down again. “Come, gentlemen,” said he; “too much care will kill a cat! Let us change our talk to a merrier tune; fill up, and we will drink to the loves of De Repentigny and the fair Angélique! I am much mistaken if we do not find in her the dea ex machinâ to help us out of our trouble with the Honnêtes Gens!” The glasses were filled and emptied. Cards and dice were then called for. The company drew their chairs into a closer circle round the table; deep play, and deeper drinking, set in. The Palais resounded with revelry until the morning sun looked into the great window, blushing red at the scene of drunken riot that had become habitual in the Palace of the Intendant. CHAPTER XV. THE CHARMING JOSEPHINE. The few words of sympathy dropped by Bigot in the secret chamber had fallen like manna on the famine of Caroline's starving affections as she remained on the sofa, where she had half fallen, pressing her bosom with her hands as if a new-born thought lay there. “I am sure he meant it!” repeated she to herself. “I feel that his words were true, and for the moment his look and tone were those of my happy maiden days in Acadia! I was too proud then of my fancied power, and thought Bigot's love deserved the surrender of my very conscience to his keeping. I forgot God in my love for him; and, alas for me! that now is part of my punishment! I feel not the sin of loving him! My penitence is not sincere when I can still rejoice in his smile! Woe is me! Bigot! Bigot! unworthy as thou art, I cannot forsake thee! I would willingly die at thy feet, only spurn me not away, nor give to another the love that belongs to me, and for which I have paid the price of my immortal soul!”