e bishop's palace, a modest enough edifice, and from my
window at the back I could look on the house of Philibert, popularly
known as "Le Chien d'Or," from the curious carving over the door,
hinting at some tragedy of patient waiting and revenge.

Immediately above was a bright little cul-de-sac, dignified by the
name of la rue du Parloir--the theatre of many of the social doings
of Quebec; behind this, on the one side, rose the simple apse of
the Cathedral, and on the other the white walls and glistening
roofs of the Seminary.

It was not long before I learned the gossip of the town from
Angelique, who had already made her first triumphs in society, in
which she rejoiced so frankly that I felt like a girl again as she
chattered of her pleasures.

"It might not seem much to you, Marguerite, after Paris, but to me
it is splendid, and we have all sorts of men here."

"No doubt, cherie. And you find them all charming?"

"Well, they all try to please me, even the bad ones."

"You have bad ones too, ma mie?"

"Indeed we have, Marguerite, as bad as you ever saw in Paris. You
needn't laugh."

"Heaven forbid! I never found them amusing in Paris, or else where."

"Oh, but I do! There is M. Bigot, the Intendant. He is wicked, if
you like! He is ugly too; but his manner!--it is simply enchanting.
He dresses to perfection; and when he plays with a lady, he loses
to her like a nobleman. I don't care what they say about him, c'est
un galant homme! and the place would be very dull without him."

"But he is not the only man, Angelique?"

"Dear no! And he wouldn't be so bad, I am sure, if it were not for
that odious Mme. Pean; I am sure she is dreadful, and so pretty
too! But there are other men; there is M. de Bougainville, who is
young, and has le bel air, but is too serious. M. Poulariez, tall
and gallant-looking--he is colonel of the Royal Rouissillon; there
is Major Joannes--he remembers you on the yacht--he is the little
officer who provided the wine for the toasts; then there is M. de
Roquemaure and M. de la Rochebeaucourt, and, best of all, there is
M. de Maxwell--M. le Chevalier de Maxwell de Kirkconnel--he is a
countryman of your own, Marguerite;" and she paused and looked at
me as if awaiting an answer.

"Yes, and what of him?" I asked, with a good shew of composure.

"Simply that he is the only man I have ever seen that I could fall
in love with. That shocks you, I suppose? Well, don't be afraid.
I am not ne