“I cannot endure the heat of the ballroom, Bigot!” said Angélique; “I will dance no more to-night! I would rather sit and catch fireflies on the terrace than chase forever without overtaking it the bird that has escaped from my bosom!” The Intendant, ever attentive to her wishes, offered his arm to lead her into the pleached walks of the illuminated garden. Angélique rose, gathered up her rich train, and with an air of royal coquetry took his arm and accompanied the Intendant on a promenade down the grand alley of roses. “What favorite bird has escaped from your bosom, Angélique?” asked the Intendant, who had, however, a shrewd guess of the meaning of her metaphor. “The pleasure I had in anticipation of this ball! The bird has flown, I know not where or how. I have no pleasure here at all!” exclaimed she, petulantly, although she knew the ball had been really got up mainly for her own pleasure. “And yet Momus himself might have been your father, and Euphrosyne your mother, Angélique,” replied Bigot, “to judge by your gaiety to-night. If you have no pleasure, it is because you have given it all away to others! But I have caught the bird you lost, let me restore it to your bosom pray!” He laid his hand lightly and caressingly upon her arm. Her bosom was beating wildly; she removed his hand, and held it firmly grasped in her own. “Chevalier!” said she, “the pleasure of a king is in the loyalty of his subjects, the pleasure of a woman in the fidelity of her lover!” She was going to say more, but stopped. But she gave him a glance which insinuated more than all she left unsaid. Bigot smiled to himself. “Angélique is jealous!” thought he, but he only remarked, “That is an aphorism which I believe with all my heart! If the pleasure of a woman be in the fidelity of her lover, I know no one who should be more happy than Angélique des Meloises! No lady in New France has a right to claim greater devotion from a lover, and no one receives it!” “But I have no faith in the fidelity of my lover! and I am not happy, Chevalier! far from it!” replied she, with one of those impulsive speeches that seemed frankness itself, but in this woman were artful to a degree. “Why so?” replied he; “pleasure will never leave you, Angélique, unless you wilfully chase it away from your side! All women envy your beauty, all men struggle to obtain your smiles. For myself, I would gather all the joys and treasures of the world, and lay them at your feet, would you let me! “I do not hinder you, Chevalier!” she replied, with a laugh of incredulity, “but you do not do it! It is only your politeness to say that. I have told you that the pleasure of a woman is in the fidelity of her lover; tell me now, Chevalier, what is the highest pleasure of a man?” “The beauty and condescension of his mistress,--at least, I know none greater.” Bigot looked at her as if his speech ought to receive acknowledgement on the spot.