When he finally left Acadia a conquered province in the hands of the English, he also left behind him the one true, loving heart that believed in his honor and still prayed for his happiness.

The days of Caroline's disillusion soon came; she could not conceal from herself that she had been basely deceived and abandoned by the man she loved so ardently. She learned that Bigot had been elevated to the high office of Intendant of New France, but felt herself as utterly forgotten by him as the rose that had bloomed and withered in her garden two summers ago.

Her father had been summoned to France on the loss of the Colony; and fearing to face him on his return, Caroline suddenly left her home and sought refuge in the forest among her far-off kindred, the red Abenaquais.

The Indians welcomed her with joy and unbounded respect, recognizing her right to their devotion and obedience. They put upon her feet the moccasins of their tribe, and sent her, with a trusty escort, through the wilderness to Quebec, where she hoped to find the Intendant, not to reproach him for his perfidy,--her gentle heart was too much subdued for that,--but to claim his protection, and if refused, to die at his door.

It was under such circumstances that the beautiful, highborn Caroline de St. Castin became an inmate of Beaumanoir. She had passed the night of this wild debauch in a vigil of prayers, tears, and lamentations over her sad lot and over the degradation of Bigot by the life which she now knew he led. Sometimes her maddened fancy was ready to accuse Providence itself of cruelty and injustice; sometimes, magnifying her own sin, she was ready to think all earthly punishment upon herself as too light, and invoked death and judgment as alone adequate to her fault. All night she had knelt before the altar, asking for mercy and forgiveness,--sometimes starting to her feet in terror, as a fresh burst of revelry came rushing from the great hall above, and shook the door of her secret chamber.

But no one came to her help, no one looked in upon her desolation. She deemed herself utterly forgotten and forsaken of God and man.

Occasionally she fancied she could distinguish the voice of the Intendant amid the drunken uproar, and she shuddered at the infatuation which bound her very soul to this man; and yet when she questioned her heart, she knew that, base as he was, all she had done and suffered for him she would infallibly do again. Were her life to live over, she would repeat the fault of loving this false, ungrateful man. The promise of marriage had been equivalent to marriage in her trust of him, and nothing but death could now divorce her from him.

Hour after hour passed by, each seeming an age of suffering. Her feelings were worked up to frenzy: she fancied she heard her father's angry voice calling her by name, or she heard accusing angels jeering at her fall. She sank prostrate at last, in the abandonment of despair, calling upon God to put an end to her miserable life.

Bigot raised her from the floor, with words of pity and sympathy. She turned on him a look of gratitude which, had he been of stone, he must have felt. But Bigot's words meant less than she fancied. He was still too intoxicated to reflect, or to feel shame of his present errand.

"Caroline!" said he, "what do you here? This is the time to make merry--not to pray! The honorable company in the great hall desire to pay their respects to the lady of Beaumanoir--come with me!"

He drew her hand through his arm with a courtly grace that seldom forsook him, even in his worst moments. Caroline looked at him in a dazed manner, not comprehending his request. "Go with you, Francois? You know I will, but where?"

"To the great hall," repeated he; "my worthy guests desire to see you, and to pay their respects to the fair lady of Beaumanoir."

It flashed upon her mind what he wanted. Her womanly pride was outraged as it had never been before; she withdrew her hand from his arm with shame and terror stamped on every feature.

"Go up there! Go to show myself to your guests!" exclaimed she, with choking accents, as she stepped back a pace from him. "Oh, Francois Bigot, spare me that shame and humiliation! I am, I know, contemptible beyond human respect, but still--God help me!--I am not so vile as to be made a spectacle of infamy to those drunken men whom I hear clamoring for me, even now."

"Pshaw! You think too much of the proprieties, Caroline!" Bigot felt sensibly perplexed at the attitude she assumed. "Why! The fairest dames of Paris, dressed as Hebes and Ganymedes, thought it a fine jest to wait on the Regent Duke of Orleans and the Cardinal du Bois in the gay days of the King's bachelorhood, and they do the same now when the King gets up one of his great feasts at Choisy; so come, sweetheart--come!" He drew her towards the door.

"Spare me, Francois!" Caroline knelt at his feet, clasping his hand, and bathing it in tears--"Spare me!" cried she. "Oh, would to God I had died ere you came to command me to do what I cannot and will not do, Francois!" added she, clasping hard the hand of the Intendant, which she fancied relaxed somewhat of its iron hardness.

"I did not come to command you, Caroline, but to bear the request of my guests. No, I do not even ask you on my account to go up to the great hall: it is to please my guests only." Her tears and heartrending appeal began to sober him. Bigot had not counted on such a scene as this.

"Oh, thanks, Francois, for that word! You did not come to command my obedience in such a shameful thing: you had some small regard left for the unfortunate Caroline. Say you will not command me to go up there,"

added she, looking at him with eyes of pitiful pleading, such as no Italian art ever portrayed on the face of the sorrowing Madonna.

"No," he replied, impatiently. "It was not I proposed it: it was Cadet.

He is always a fool when the wine overflows, as I am too, or I would not have hearkened to him! Still, Caroline, I have promised, and my guests will jeer me finely if I return without you." He thought she hesitated a moment in her resolve at this suggestion. "Come, for my sake, Caroline!

Do up that disordered hair; I shall be proud of you, my Caroline; there is not a lady in New France can match you when you look yourself, my pretty Caroline!"

"Francois," said she, with a sad smile, "it is long since you flattered me thus! But I will arrange my hair for you alone," added she, blushing, as with deft fingers she twisted her raven locks into a coronal about her head. "I would once have gone with you to the end of the world to hear you say you were proud of me. Alas! you can never be proud of me any more, as in the old happy days at Grand Pre. Those few brief days of love and joy can never return--never, never!"

Bigot stood silent, not knowing what to say or do. The change from the bacchanalian riot in the great hall to the solemn pathos and woe of the secret chamber sobered him rapidly. Even his obduracy gave way at last.

"Caroline," said he, taking both her hands in his, "I will not urge you longer. I am called bad, and you think me so; but I am not brutal. It was a promise made over the wine. Varin, the drunken beast, called you Queen Vashti, and challenged me to show your beauty to them; and I swore not one of their toasted beauties could match my fair Acadienne."

"Did the Sieur Varin call me Queen Vashti? Alas! he was a truer prophet than he knew," replied she, with ineffable sadness. "Queen Vashti refused to obey even her king, when commanded to unveil her face to the drunken nobles. She was deposed, and another raised to her place. Such may be my fate, Francois."

"Then you will not go, Caroline?"

"No; kill me if you like, and bear my dead body into the hall, but living, I can never show my face again before men--hardly before you, Francois," added she, blushing, as she hid her tearful eyes on his shoulder.

"Well then, Caroline," replied, he, really admiring her spirit and resolution, "they shall finish their carouse without seeing you. The wine has flowed to-night in rivers, but they shall swim in it without you."

"And tears have flowed down here," said she, sadly,--"oh, so bitter! May you never taste their bitterness, Francois!"

Bigot paced the chamber with steadier steps than he had entered it. The fumes were clearing from his brain; the song that had caught the ear of Colonel Philibert as he approached the Chateau was resounding at this moment. As it ceased Bigot heard the loud impatient knocking of Philibert at the outer door.

"Darling!" said he, "lie down now, and compose yourself. Francois Bigot is not unmindful of your sacrifices for his sake. I must return to my guests, who are clamoring for me, or rather for you, Caroline!"

He kissed her cheek and turned to leave her, but she clung to his hand as if wanting to say something more ere he went. She trembled visibly as her low plaintive tones struck his ear.

"Francois! if you would forsake the companionship of those men and purify your table of such excess, God's blessing would yet descend upon you, and the people's love follow you! It is in your power to be as good as you are great! I have many days wished to say this to you, but alas, I feared you too much. I do not fear you to-day, Francois, after your kind words to me."

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, Francois. No dew of Heaven was ever more refreshing than the balm they bring to my weary soul. Thanks, O my Francois, 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 Chateau."

The loud knocking of Philibert in the great hall reverberated again and again through the house. Bigot bade the valets go see who disturbed the Chateau in that bold style.

"Let no one in!" added he "'tis against the rule to open the doors when the Grand Company are met for business! Take whips, valets, and scourge the insolent beggars away. Some miserable habitans, I warrant, whining for the loss of their eggs and bacon taken by the King's purveyors!"

A servant returned with a card on a silver salver. "An officer in uniform waits to see your Excellency: he brings orders from the Governor," said he to the Intendant.

Bigot looked at the card with knitted brows; fire sparkled in his eyes as he read the name.

"Colonel Philibert!" exclaimed he, "Aide-de-Camp of the Governor! What the fiend brings HIM at such a time? Do you hear?" continued he, turning to Varin. "It is your friend from Louisbourg, who was going to put you in irons, and send you to France for trial when the mutinous garrison threatened to surrender the place if we did not pay them."

Varin was not so intoxicated but the name of Philibert roused his anger.