“Admit the Intendant and show him into the garden, Lizette. Now!” said she, “I shall end my doubts about that lady! I will test the Intendant's sincerity,--cold, calculating woman-slayer that he is! It shames me to contrast his half-heartedness with the perfect adoration of my handsome Le Gardeur de Repentigny!” The Intendant entered the garden. Angélique, with that complete self-control which distinguishes a woman of half a heart or no heart at all, changed her whole demeanor in a moment from gravity to gayety. Her eyes flashed out pleasure, and her dimples went and came, as she welcomed the Intendant to her arbor. “A friend is never so welcome as when he comes of his own accord!” said she, presenting her hand to the Intendant, who took it with empressement. She made room for him on the seat beside her, dashing her skirts aside somewhat ostentatiously. Bigot looked at her admiringly. He thought he had never seen, in painting, statuary, or living form, a more beautiful and fascinating woman. Angélique accepted his admiration as her due, feeling no thanks, but looking many. “The Chevalier Bigot does not lose his politeness, however long he absents himself!” said she, with a glance like a Parthian arrow well aimed to strike home. “I have been hunting at Beaumanoir,” replied he extenuatingly; “that must explain, not excuse, my apparent neglect.” Bigot felt that he had really been a loser by his absence. “Hunting! indeed!” Angélique affected a touch of surprise, as if she had not known every tittle of gossip about the gay party and all their doings at the Château. “They say game is growing scarce near the city, Chevalier,” continued she nonchalantly, “and that a hunting party at Beaumanoir is but a pretty menotomy for a party of pleasure is that true?” “Quite true, mademoiselle,” replied he, laughing. “The two things are perfectly compatible,--like a brace of lovers, all the better for being made one.” “Very gallantly said!” retorted she, with a ripple of dangerous laughter. “I will carry the comparison no farther. Still, I wager, Chevalier, that the game is not worth the hunt.” “The play is always worth the candle, in my fancy,” said he, with a glance of meaning; “but there is really good game yet in Beaumanoir, as you will confess, Mademoiselle, if you will honor our party some day with your presence.” “Come now, Chevalier,” replied she, fixing him mischievously with her eyes, “tell me, what game do you find in the forest of Beaumanoir?” “Oh! rabbits, hares, and deer, with now and then a rough bear to try the mettle of our chasseurs.” “What! no foxes to cheat foolish crows? no wolves to devour pretty Red Riding Hoods straying in the forest? Come, Chevalier, there is better game than all that,” said she. “Oh, yes!” he half surmised she was rallying him now--“plenty, but we don't wind horns after them.”