“But you can be cruel to me, Bigot, and will be, unless you exercise the power which I know is placed in your hands by the King himself.” “What is that? to confiscate her lands and goods if she had any?” “No, to confiscate her person! Issue a lettre de cachet and send her over sea to the Bastile.” Bigot was irritated at this suggestion, and his irritation was narrowly watched by Angélique. “I would rather go to the Bastile myself!” exclaimed he; “besides, the King alone issues lettres de cachet: it is a royal prerogative, only to be used in matters of State.” “And matters of love, Bigot, which are matters of State in France! Pshaw! as if I did not know that the King delegates his authority, and gives lettres de cachet in blank to his trusted courtiers, and even to the ladies of his Court. Did not the Marquise de Pompadour send Mademoiselle Vaubernier to the Bastile for only smiling upon the King? It is a small thing I ask of you, Bigot, to test your fidelity,--you cannot refuse me, come!” added she, with a wondrous transformation of look and manner from storm and gloom to warmth and sunshine. “I cannot and will not do it. Hark you, Angélique, I dare not do it! Powerful as I may seem, the family of that lady is too potent to risk the experiment upon. I would fain oblige you in this matter, but it would be the height of madness to do so.” “Well, then, Bigot, do this, if you will not do that! Place her in the Convent of the Ursulines: it will suit her and me both,--no better place in the world to tame an unruly spirit. She is one of the pious souls who will be at home there, with plenty of prayers and penances, and plenty of sins to pray for every day.” “But I cannot force her to enter the Convent, Angélique. She will think herself not good enough to go there; besides, the nuns themselves would have scruples to receive her.” “Not if YOU request her admission of Mère de la Nativité: the Lady Superior will refuse no application of yours, Bigot.” “Won't she! but she will! The Mère de la Nativité considers me a sad reprobate, and has already, when I visited her parlor, read me a couple of sharpest homilies on my evil ways, as she called them. The venerable Mère de la Nativité will not carry coals, I assure you, Angélique.” “As if I did not know her!” she replied impatiently. “Why, she screens with all her authority that wild nephew of hers, the Sieur Varin! Nothing irritates her like hearing a bad report of him, and although she knows all that is said of him to be true as her breviary, she will not admit it. The soeurs converses in the laundry were put on bread and water with prayers for a week, only for repeating some gossip they had heard concerning him.” “Ay! that is because the venerable Mère Superior is touchy on the point of family,--but I am not her nephew, voilà la différance!” as the song says.