The sharp gallop of a horse clattered on the stony pavement, and stopped suddenly at the door. A light step and the clink of a scabbard rang on the steps. A familiar rap followed. Angélique, with the infallible intuition of a woman who recognizes the knock and footstep of her lover from ten thousand others, sprang up and met Le Gardeur de Repentigny as he entered the boudoir. She received him with warmth, even fondness, for she was proud of Le Gardeur and loved him in her secret heart beyond all the rest of her admirers. “Welcome, Le Gardeur!” exclaimed she, giving both hands in his: “I knew you would come; you are welcome as the returned prodigal!” “Dear Angélique!” repeated he, after kissing her hands with fervor, “the prodigal was sure to return, he could not live longer on the dry husks of mere recollections.” “So he rose, and came to the house that is full and overflowing with welcome for him! It is good of you to come, Le Gardeur! why have you stayed so long away?” Angélique in the joy of his presence forgot for the moment her meditated infidelity. A swift stroke of her hand swept aside her flowing skirts to clear a place for him upon the sofa, where he sat down beside her. “This is kind of you, Angélique,” said he, “I did not expect so much condescension after my petulance at the Governor's ball; I was wicked that night--forgive me.” “The fault was more mine, I doubt, Le Gardeur.” Angélique recollected how she had tormented him on that occasion by capricious slights, while bounteous of her smiles to others. “I was angry with you because of your too great devotion to Cecile Tourangeau.” This was not true, but Angélique had no scruple to lie to a lover. She knew well that it was only from his vexation at her conduct that Le Gardeur had pretended to renew some long intermitted coquetries with the fair Cecile. “But why were you wicked at all that night?” inquired she, with a look of sudden interest, as she caught a red cast in his eye, that spoke of much dissipation. “You have been ill, Le Gardeur!” But she knew he had been drinking deep and long, to drown vexation, perhaps, over her conduct. “I have not been ill,” replied he; “shall I tell you the truth, Angélique?” “Always, and all of it! The whole truth and nothing but the truth!” Her hand rested fondly on his; no word of equivocation was possible under that mode of putting her lover to the question. “Tell me why you were wicked that night!” “Because I loved you to madness, Angélique; and I saw myself thrust from the first place in your heart, and a new idol set up in my stead. That is the truth?” “That is not the truth!” exclaimed she vehemently; “and never will be the truth if I know myself and you. But you don't know women, Le Gardeur,” added she, with a smile; “you don't know me, the one woman you ought to know better than that!”