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Updated: June 9, 2025
Her straight figure and black eyes having drawn a second glance from the Sieur Corriveau, a rich habitan of St. Valier, who was looking for a servant among the crowd of paysannes who had just arrived from France, he could not escape from the power of their fascination.
A quick, unconscious twitching of the fingers accompanied her thoughts, as if this weird woman was playing a game of mora with the evil genius that waited on her. Her grandsire Exili had the same nervous twitching of his fingers, and the vulgar accused him of playing at mora with the Devil, who ever accompanied him, they believed. The lips of La Corriveau moved in unison with her thoughts.
If the death of this girl be the elixir of life to you, it shall be the touchstone of fortune forever to La Corriveau!" Mere Malheur was next day despatched on a visit to her old gossip, Dame Tremblay. She had been well tutored on every point, what to say and how to demean herself.
But when La Corriveau, coldly and with a bitter spite at her softness, described with a sudden gesticulation and eyes piercing her through and through, the strokes of the poniard upon the lifeless body of her victim, Angelique sprang up, clasped her hands together, and, with a cry of woe, fell senseless upon the floor.
And La Corriveau did not again visit the house of Angelique. She had received from her precise information respecting the movements of the Intendant. He had gone to the Trois Rivieres on urgent affairs, and might be absent for a week.
Caroline came still nearer, with a sudden change of thought, and clutching the dress of La Corriveau, cried out, "O woman, is this all true? How can you know all this to be true of me, and you a stranger?" "I know it of a certainty, and I am come to help you.
It became the popular belief that a beautiful woman, the mistress of the powerful Intendant Bigot, had been murdered and buried in the Chateau of Beaumanoir. It was long before Angelique 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.
People used to shake their heads and cross themselves when speaking of her, as they do now when speaking of Aunt Josephte, whom they call La Corriveau; but they tremble when she looks at them with her black, evil eye, as they call it. She is a terrible woman, is Aunt Josephte! but oh, Mademoiselle, she can tell you things past, present, and to come!
"You may go now," said Angelique. "Here is money for you. Give this piece of gold to La Corriveau as an earnest that I want her. The canotiers of the St. Lawrence will also require double fare for bringing La Corriveau over the ferry." "No, they rarely venture to charge her anything at all, my Lady," replied Fanchon; "to be sure it is not for love, but they are afraid of her.
"Yes, it was that and more than that I summoned you for. Can you not guess? You are wise, La Corriveau, you know a woman's desire better than she dare avow it to herself!" "Ah!" replied La Corriveau, returning her scrutiny with the eyes of a basilisk; a green light flashed out of their dark depths. "You have a lover, and you have a rival, too!
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