Bigot was not impenetrable to that low voice so full of pathos and love. But he was at a loss what to reply: strange influences were flowing round him, carrying him out of himself. He kissed the gentle head that reclined on his bosom. “Caroline,” said he, “your advice is wise and good as yourself. I will think of it for your sake, if not for my own. Adieu, darling! Go, and take rest: these cruel vigils are killing you, and I want you to live in hope of brighter days.” “I will,” replied she, looking up with ineffable tenderness. “I am sure I shall rest after your kind words, François. No dew of Heaven was ever more refreshing than the balm they bring to my weary soul. Thanks, O my François, for them!” She kissed his lips, and Bigot left the secret chamber a sadder and for the moment a better man than he had ever been before. Caroline, overcome by her emotions, threw herself on a couch, invoking blessings upon the head of the man by whom she had been so cruelly betrayed. But such is woman's heart--full of mercy, compassion, and pardon for every wrong, when love pleads for forgiveness. “Ha! ha!” said Cadet, as the Intendant re-entered the great hall, which was filled with bacchanalian frenzy. “Ha! ha! His Excellency has proposed and been rejected! The fair lady has a will of her own and won't obey! Why, the Intendant looks as if he had come from Quintin Corentin, where nobody gets anything he wants!” “Silence, Cadet! don't be a fool!” replied Bigot, impatiently, although in the Intendant's usual mood nothing too gross or too bad could be said in his presence but he could cap it with something worse. “Fool, Bigot! It is you who have been the fool of a woman!” Cadet was privileged to say anything, and he never stinted his speech. “Confess, your Excellency! she is splay-footed as St. Pedauque of Dijon! She dare not trip over our carpet for fear of showing her big feet!” Cadet's coarse remark excited the mirth of the Intendant. The influences of the great hall were more powerful than those of the secret chamber. He replied curtly, however,--“I have excused the lady from coming, Cadet. She is ill, or she does not please to come, or she has a private fancy of her own to nurse--any reason is enough to excuse a lady, or for a gentleman to cease pressing her.” “Dear me!” muttered Cadet, “the wind blows fresh from a new quarter! It is easterly, and betokens a storm!” and with drunken gravity he commenced singing a hunting refrain of Louis XIV.: “'Sitot qu'il voit sa Chienne Il quitte tout pour elle.”' Bigot burst out into immoderate laughter. “Cadet,” said he, “you are, when drunk, the greatest ruffian in Christendom, and the biggest knave when sober. Let the lady sleep in peace, while we drink ourselves blind in her honor. Bring in brandy, valets, and we will not look for day until midnight booms on the old clock of the Château.”