Golden Dog

Kirby, William

• Publisher: pubOne.info
• Year: 2010
• ISBN:
  9782819942863
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Historical Fiction
• Index: Literature

pubOne.info present you this new edition. TO THE PUBLIC: In the year 1877 the first edition of "e;The Golden Dog"e; (Le Chien d'Or) was brought out in the United States, entirely without my knowledge or sanction. Owing to the inadequacy of the then existing copyright laws, I have been powerless to prevent its continued publication, which I understand to have been a successful and profitable undertaking for all concerned, except the author, the book having gone through many editions.

CHAPTER XLIII. SILK GLOVES OVER BLOODY HANDS.

It was long before Angélique came to herself from the swoon in which she had been left lying on the floor by La Corriveau. Fortunately for her it was without discovery. None of the servants happened to come to her room during its continuance, else a weakness so strange to her usual hardihood would have become the city's talk before night, and set all its idle tongues conjecturing or inventing a reason for it. It would have reached the ears of Bigot, as every spray of gossip did, and set him thinking, too, more savagely than he was yet doing, as to the causes and occasions of the murder of Caroline.

All the way back to the Palace, Bigot had scarcely spoken a word to Cadet. His mind was in a tumult of the wildest conjectures, and his thoughts ran to and fro like hounds in a thick brake darting in every direction to find the scent of the game they were in search of. When they reached the Palace, Bigot, without speaking to any one, passed through the anterooms to his own apartment, and threw himself, dressed and booted as he was, upon a couch, where he lay like a man stricken down by a mace from some unseen hand.

Cadet had coarser ways of relieving himself from the late unusual strain upon his rough feelings. He went down to the billiard-room, and joining recklessly in the game that was still kept up by De Pean, Le Gardeur, and a number of wild associates, strove to drown all recollections of the past night at Beaumanoir by drinking and gambling with more than usual violence until far on in the day.

Bigot neither slept nor wished to sleep. The image of the murdered girl lying in her rude grave was ever before him, with a vividness so terrible that it seemed he could never sleep again. His thoughts ran round and round like a mill-wheel, without advancing a step towards a solution of the mystery of her death.

He summoned up his recollections of every man and woman he knew in the Colony, and asked himself regarding each one, the question, “Is it he who has done this? Is it she who has prompted it? And who could have had a motive, and who not, to perpetrate such a bloody deed? ”

One image came again and again before his mind's eye as he reviewed the list of his friends and enemies. The figure of Angélique appeared and reappeared, intruding itself between every third or fourth personage which his memory called up, until his thoughts fixed upon her with the maddening inquiry, “Could Angélique des Meloises have been guilty of this terrible deed? ”

He remembered her passionate denunciation of the lady of Beaumanoir, her fierce demand for her banishment by a lettre de cachet. He knew her ambition and recklessness, but still, versed as he was in all the ways of wickedness, and knowing the inexorable bitterness of envy, and the cruelty of jealousy in the female breast, — at least in such women as he had for the most part had experience of, — Bigot could hardly admit the thought that one so fair as Angélique, one who held him in a golden net of fascination, and to whom he had been more than once on the point of yielding, could have committed so great a crime.

He struggled with his thoughts like a man amid tossing waves, groping about in the dark for a plank to float upon, but could find none. Still, in spite of himself, in spite of his violent asseverations that “it was IMPOSSIBLE; ” in spite of Cadet's plausible theory of robbers, — which Bigot at first seized upon as the likeliest explanation of the mystery, — the thought of Angélique ever returned back upon him like a fresh accusation.

He could not accuse her yet, though something told him he might have to do so at last. He grew angry at the ever-recurring thought of her, and turning his face to the wall, like a man trying to shut out the light, resolved to force disbelief in her guilt until clearer testimony than his own suspicions should convict her of the death of Caroline. And yet in his secret soul he dreaded a discovery that might turn out as he feared. But he pushed the black thoughts aside; he would wait and watch for what he feared to find.

The fact of Caroline's concealment at Beaumanoir, and her murder at the very moment when the search was about to be made for her, placed Bigot in the cruelest dilemma. Whatever his suspicions might be, he dared not, by word or sign, avow any knowledge of Caroline's presence, still less of her mysterious murder, in his Château. Her grave had been dug; she had been secretly buried out of human sight, and he was under bonds as for his very life never to let the dreadful mystery be discovered.

So Bigot lay on his couch, for once a weak and frightened man, registering vain vows of vengeance against persons unknown, vows which he knew at the moment were empty as bubbles, because he dared not move hand or foot in the matter to carry them out, or make open accusation against any one of the foul crime. What thoughts came to Bigot's subtle mind were best known to himself, but something was suggested by the mocking devil who was never far from him, and he caught and held fast the wicked suggestion with a bitter laugh. He then grew suddenly still and said to himself, “I will sleep on it! ” and pillowing his head quietly, not in sleep, but in thoughts deeper than sleep, he lay till day.

Angélique, who had never in her life swooned before, felt, when she awoke, like one returning to life from death. She opened her eyes wondering where she was, and half remembering the things she had heard as things she had seen, looked anxiously around the room for La Corriveau. She rose up with a start when she saw she was gone, for Angélique recollected suddenly that La Corriveau now held the terrible secret which concerned her life and peace for evermore.

The thing she had so long wished for, and prayed for, was at last done! Her rival was out of the way! But she also felt that if the murder was discovered her own life was forfeit to the law, and the secret was in the keeping of the vilest of women.

A mountain, not of remorse, but of apprehension, overwhelmed her for a time. But Angélique's mind was too intensely selfish, hard, and superficial, to give way to the remorse of a deeper nature.

She was angry at her own cowardice, but she feared the suspicions of Bigot. There was ever something in his dark nature which she could not fathom, and deep and crafty as she knew herself to be, she feared that he was more deep and more crafty than herself.

What if he should discover her hand in this bloody business? The thought drove her frantic, until she fancied she repented of the deed.

Had it brought a certainty, this crime, then— why, then— she had found a compensation for the risk she was running, for the pain she was enduring, which she tried to believe was regret and pity for her victim. Her anxiety redoubled when it occurred to her that Bigot, remembering her passionate appeals to him for the removal of Caroline, might suspect her of the murder as the one alone having a palpable interest in it.

“But Bigot shall never believe it even if he suspect it! ” exclaimed she at last, shaking off her fears. “I have made fools of many men for my pleasure, I can surely blind one for my safety; and, after all, whose fault is it but Bigot's? He would not grant me the lettre de cachet nor keep his promise for her removal. He even gave me her life! But he lied; he did not mean it. He loved her too well, and meant to deceive me and marry her, and I have deceived him and shall marry him, that is all! ” and Angélique laughed a hysterical laugh, such as Dives in his torments may sometimes give way to.

“La Corriveau has betrayed her trust in one terrible point, ” continued she, "she promised a death so easy that all men would say the lady of Beaumanoir died of heartbreak only, or by God's visitation! A natural death! The foul witch has used her stiletto and made a murder of that which, without it, had been none! Bigot will know it, must know it even if he dare not reveal it! for how in the name of all the saints is it to be concealed?

“But, my God! this will never do! ” continued she, starting up, “I look like very guilt! ” She stared fiercely in the mirror at her hollow eyes, pale cheeks, and white lips. She scarcely recognized herself. Her bloom and brightness had vanished for the time.

“What if I have inhaled some of the poisoned odor of those cursed roses? ” thought she, shuddering at the supposition; but she reassured herself that it could not be. “Still, my looks condemn me! The pale face of that dead girl is looking at me out of mine! Bigot, if he sees me, will not fail to read the secret in my looks. ”

She glanced at the clock: the morning was far advanced towards noon; visitors might soon arrive, Bigot himself might come, she dare not deny herself to him. She would deny herself to no one to-day! She would go everywhere and see everybody, and show the world, if talk of it should arise, that she was wholly innocent of that girl's blood.

She would wear her brightest looks, her gayest robe, her hat and feathers, the newest from Paris. She would ride out into the city, — go to the Cathedral, — show herself to all her friends, and make every one say or think that Angélique des Meloises had not a care or trouble in the world.

She rang for Fanchon, impatient to commence her toilet, for when dressed she knew that she would feel like herself once more, cool and defiant. The touch of her armor of fashionable attire would restore her confidence in herself, and enable her to brave down any suspicion in the mind of the Intendant, — at any rate it was her only resource, and Angélique was not one to give up even a lost battle, let alone one half gained through the death of her rival.

Fanchon came in haste at the summons of her mistress. She had long waited to hear the bell, and began to fear she was sick or in one of those wild moods which had come over her occasionally since the night of her last interview with Le Gardeur.

The girl started at sight of the pale face and paler lips of her mistress. She uttered an exclamation of surprise, but Angélique, anticipating all questions, told her she was unwell, but would dress and take a ride out in the fresh air and sunshine to recruit.

“But had you not better see the physician, my Lady? — you do look so pale to-day, you are really not well! ”

“No, but I will ride out; ” and she added in her old way, “perhaps, Fanchon, I may meet some one who will be better company than the physician. Qui sait? ” And she laughed with an appearance of gaiety which she was far from feeling, and which only half imposed on the quick-witted maid who waited upon her.

“Where is your aunt, Fanchon? When did you see Dame Dodier? ” asked she, really anxious to learn what had become of La Corriveau.

“She returned home this morning, my Lady! I had not seen her for days before, but supposed she had already gone back to St. Valier, — but Aunt Dodier is a strange woman, and tells no one her business. ”

“She has, perhaps, other lost jewels to look after besides mine, ” replied Angélique mechanically, yet feeling easier upon learning the departure of La Corriveau.

“Perhaps so, my Lady. I am glad she is gone home. I shall never wish to see her again. ”

“Why? ” asked Angélique, sharply, wondering if Fanchon had conjectured anything of her aunt's business.

“They say she has dealings with that horrid Mère Malheur, and I believe it, ” replied Fanchon, with a shrug of disgust.

“Ah! do you think Mère Malheur knows her business or any of your aunt's secrets, Fanchon? ” asked Angélique, thoroughly roused.

“I think she does, my Lady, — you cannot live in a chimney with another without both getting black alike, and Mère Malheur is a black witch as sure as my aunt is a white one, ” was Fanchon's reply.

“What said your aunt on leaving? ” asked her mistress.

“I did not see her leave, my Lady; I only learned from Ambroise Gariepy that she had crossed the river this morning to return to St. Valier. ”

“And who is Ambroise Gariepy, Fanchon? You have a wide circle of acquaintance for a young girl, I think! ” Angélique knew the dangers of gossiping too well not to fear Fanchon's imprudences.

“Yes, my Lady, ” replied Fanchon with affected simplicity, “Ambroise Gariepy keeps the Lion Vert and the ferry upon the south shore; he brings me news and sometimes a little present from the pack of the Basque pedlers, — he brought me this comb, my Lady! ” Fanchon turned her head to show her mistress a superb comb in her thick black hair, and in her delight of talking of Ambroise Gariepy, the little inn of the ferry, and the cross that leaned like a failing memory over the grave of his former wife, Fanchon quite forgot to ease her mind further on the subject of La Corriveau, nor did Angélique resume the dangerous topic.

Fanchon's easy, shallow way of talking of her lover touched a sympathetic chord in the breast of her mistress. Grand passions were grand follies in Angélique's estimation, which she was less capable of appreciating than even her maid; but flirtation and coquetry, skin-deep only, she could understand, and relished beyond all other enjoyments. It was just now like medicine to her racking thoughts to listen to Fanchon's shallow gossip.

She had done what she had done, she reflected, and it could not be undone! why should she give way to regret, and lose the prize for which she had staked so heavily? She would not do it! No, par Dieu! She had thrown Le Gardeur to the fishes for the sake of the Intendant, and had done that other deed! She shied off from the thought of it as from an uncouth thing in the dark, and began to feel shame of her weakness at having fainted at the tale of La Corriveau.

The light talk of Fanchon while dressing the long golden hair of her mistress and assisting her to put on a new riding-dress and the plumed hat fresh from Paris, which she had not yet displayed in public, did much to restore her equanimity.

Her face had, however, not recovered from its strange pallor. Her eager maid, anxious for the looks of her mistress, insisted on a little rouge, which Angélique's natural bloom had never before needed. She submitted, for she intended to look her best to-day, she said. “Who knows whom I shall fall in with? ”

“That is right, my Lady, ” exclaimed Fanchon admiringly, “no one could be dressed perfectly as you are and be sick! I pity the gentleman you meet to-day, that is all! There is murder in your eye, my Lady! ”

Poor Fanchon believed she was only complimenting her mistress, and at other times her remark would only have called forth a joyous laugh; now the word seemed like a sharp knife: it cut, and Angélique did not laugh. She pushed her maid forcibly away from her, and was on the point of breaking out into some violent exclamation when, recalled by the amazed look of Fanchon, she turned the subject adroitly, and asked, “Where is my brother? ”

“Gone with the Chevalier de Pean to the Palace, my Lady! ” replied Fanchon, trembling all over, and wondering how she had angered her mistress.

“How know you that, Fanchon? ” asked Angélique, recovering her usual careless tone.

“I overheard them speaking together, my Lady. The Chevalier de Pean said that the Intendant was sick, and would see no one this morning. ”

“Yes, what then? ” Angélique was struck with a sudden consciousness of danger in the wind. “Are you sure they said the Intendant was sick? ” asked she.

“Yes, my Lady! and the Chevalier de Pean said that he was less sick than mad, and out of humor to a degree he had never seen him before! ”

“Did they give a reason for it? that is, for the Intendant's sickness or madness? ” Angélique's eyes were fixed keenly upon her maid, to draw out a full confession.

“None, my Lady, only the Chevalier des Meloises said he supposed it was the news from France which sat so ill on his stomach. ”

“And what then, Fanchon? you are so long of answering! ” Angélique stamped her foot with impatience.

Fanchon looked up at the reproof so little merited, and replied quickly, “The Chevalier de Pean said it must be that, for he knew of nothing else. The gentlemen then went out and I heard no more. ”

Angélique was relieved by this turn of conversation. She felt certain that if Bigot discovered the murder he would not fail to reveal it to the Chevalier de Pean, who was understood to be the depository of all his secrets. She began to cheer up under the belief that Bigot would never dare accuse any one of a deed which would be the means of proclaiming his own falseness an...

Table of contents

• THE GOLDEN DOG.
• AUTHOR'S PREFATORY NOTE.
• THE GOLDEN DOG.
• CHAPTER II. THE WALLS OF QUEBEC.
• CHAPTER III. A CHATELAINE OF NEW FRANCE.
• CHAPTER IV. CONFIDENCES.
• CHAPTER V. THE ITINERANT NOTARY.
• CHAPTER VI. BEAUMANOIR.
• CHAPTER VII. THE INTENDANT BIGOT.
• CHAPTER VIII. CAROLINE DE ST. CASTIN.
• CHAPTER IX. PIERRE PHILIBERT.
• CHAPTER X. AMÉLIE DE REPENTIGNY.
• CHAPTER XI. THE SOLDIER'S WELCOME.
• CHAPTER XII. THE CASTLE OF ST. LOUIS.
• CHAPTER XIII. THE CHIEN D'OR.
• CHAPTER XIV. THE COUNCIL OF WAR.
• CHAPTER XV. THE CHARMING JOSEPHINE.
• CHAPTER XVI. ANGÉLIQUE DES MELOISES.
• CHAPTER XVII. SPLENDIDE MENDAX.
• CHAPTER XVIII. THE MEROVINGIAN PRINCESS.
• CHAPTER XIX. PUT MONEY IN THY PURSE.
• CHAPTER XX. BELMONT.
• CHAPTER XXI. SIC ITUR AD ASTRA.
• CHAPTER XXII. SO GLOZED THE TEMPTER.
• CHAPTER XXIII. SEALS OF LOVE, BUT SEALED IN VAIN.
• CHAPTER XXIV. THE HURRIED QUESTION OF DESPAIR.
• CHAPTER XXV. BETWIXT THE LAST VIOLET AND THE EARLIEST ROSE.
• CHAPTER XXVI. THE CANADIAN BOAT-SONG.
• CHAPTER XXVII. CHEERFUL YESTERDAYS AND CONFIDENT TO-MORROWS.
• CHAPTER XXVIII. A DAY AT THE MANOR HOUSE.
• CHAPTER XXIX. FELICES TER ET AMPLIUS.
• CHAPTER XXX. “NO SPEECH OF SILK WILL SERVE YOUR TURN.”
• CHAPTER XXXI. THE BALL AT THE INTENDANT'S PALACE.
• CHAPTER XXXII. “ON WITH THE DANCE.”
• CHAPTER XXXIII. LA CORRIVEAU.
• CHAPTER XXXIV. WEIRD SISTERS.
• CHAPTER XXXV. “FLASKETS OF DRUGS, FULL TO THEIR WICKED LIPS.”
• CHAPTER XXXVI. THE BROAD, BLACK GATEWAY OF A LIE.
• CHAPTER XXXVII. ARRIVAL OF PIERRE PHILIBERT.
• CHAPTER XXXVIII. A WILD NIGHT INDOORS AND OUT.
• CHAPTER XXXIX. MÈRE MALHEUR.
• CHAPTER XL. QUOTH THE RAVEN, “NEVERMORE!”
• CHAPTER XLI. A DEED WITHOUT A NAME.
• CHAPTER XLII. “LET'S TALK OF GRAVES AND WORMS AND EPITAPHS.”
• CHAPTER XLIII. SILK GLOVES OVER BLOODY HANDS.
• CHAPTER XLIV. THE INTENDANT'S DILEMMA.
• CHAPTER XLV. “I WILL FEED FAT THE ANCIENT GRUDGE I BEAR HIM.”
• CHAPTER XLVI. THE BOURGEOIS PHILIBERT.
• CHAPTER XLVII. A DRAWN GAME.
• CHAPTER XLVIII. “IN GOLD CLASPS LOCKS IN THE GOLDEN STORY.”
• CHAPTER XLIX. THE MARKET-PLACE ON ST. MARTIN'S DAY.
• CHAPTER L. “BLESSED THEY WHO DIE DOING THY WILL.”
• CHAPTER LI. EVIL NEWS RIDES POST.
• CHAPTER LII. THE LAMP OF REPENTIGNY.
• CHAPTER LIII. “LOVELY IN DEATH THE BEAUTEOUS RUIN LAY.”
• CHAPTER LIV. “THE MILLS OF GOD GRIND SLOWLY.”
• Copyright