Henri sat on his throne in the great hall, and around him was grouped an eager crowd. He looked pale and frowning.
“Sire,” said Quelus to the king, “do you know the name of the ambassador?”
“No; but what does it matter?”
“Sire, it is M. de Bussy; the insult is doubled.”
“I see no insult,” said the king, with affected sang-froid.
“Let him enter,” continued he. Bussy, with his hat in his hand, and his head erect, advanced straight to the king, and waited, with his usual look of pride, to be interrogated.
“You here, M. de Bussy!” said the king; “I thought you were in Anjou.”
“Sire, I was, but you see I have quitted it.”
“And what brings you here?”
“The desire of presenting my humble respects to your majesty.”
The king and courtiers looked astonished; they expected a different answer.
“And nothing else?” said the king.
“I will add, sire, the orders I received from the Duc d’Anjou to join his respects to mine.”
“And the duke said nothing else?”
“Only that he was on the point of returning with the queen-mother, and wished me to apprise your majesty of the return of one of your most faithful subjects.”
The king was choked with surprise.
“Good morning, M. de Bussy,” said Chicot.
Bussy turned, astonished to find a friend in that place.
“Good day, M. Chicot; I am delighted to see you.”
“Is that all you have to say, M. de Bussy?” asked the king.
“Yes, sire; anything that remains to be said, will be said by the duke himself.”
The king rose and went away, and Bussy continued to converse with Chicot, until the king called to him. As soon as Bussy was alone, Quelus approached him.
“Good morning, M. Quelus,” said Bussy graciously; “may I have the honor of asking how you are?”
“Very bad.”
“Oh, mon Dieu! what is the matter?”
“Something annoys me infinitely.”
“Something! And are you not powerful enough to get rid of it?”
“It is not something, but some one, that M. Quelus means,” said Maugiron, advancing.
“And whom I advise him to get rid of,” said Schomberg, coming forward on the other side.
“Ah, M. de Schomberg! I did not recognize you.”
“Perhaps not; is my face still blue?”
“Not so; you are very pale. Are you not well?”
“Yes, it is with anger.”
“Oh I then you have also some one who annoys you?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“And I also,” said Maugiron.
“Really, gentlemen, you all look very gloomy.”
“You forget me,” said D’Epernon, planting himself before Bussy.
“Pardon me, M. d’Epernon, you were behind the others, as usual, and I have so little the pleasure of knowing you, that it was not for me to speak first.”
It was strange to see Bussy smiling and calm among those four furious faces, whose eyes spoke with so terrible an eloquence, that he must have been blind or stupid not to have understood their language.
But Bussy never lost his smile.
“It seems to me that there is an echo in this room,” said he quietly.
“Look, gentlemen,” said Quelus, “how provincial M. de Bussy has become; he has a beard, and no knot to his sword; he has black boots and a gray hat.”
“It is an observation that I was just making to myself, my dear sir; seeing you so well dressed, I said to myself, ‘How much harm a few weeks’ absence does to a man; here am I, Louis de Clermont, forced to take a little Gascon gentleman as a model of taste.’ But let me pass; you are so near to me that you tread on my feet, and I feel it in spite of my boots.”
And turning away, he advanced towards St. Luc, whom he saw approaching.
“Incredible!” cried all the young men, “we insulted him; he took no notice.”
“There is something in it,” said Quelus.
“Well!” said the king, advancing, “what were you and M. de Bussy saying?”
“Do you wish to know what M. de Bussy said, sire?”
“Yes, I am curious.”
“Well, I trod on his foot, and insulted him, and he said nothing.”
“What, gentlemen,” cried Henri, feigning anger, “you dared to insult a gentleman in the Louvre!”
“Alas! yes, sire, and he said nothing.”
“Well! I am going to the queen.”
As the king went out of the great door, St. Luc reentered by a side one, and advanced towards the four gentlemen.
“Pardon, M. Quelus,” said he, “but do you still live in the Rue St. Honoré?”
“Yes, my dear friend; why do you ask?”
“I have two words to say to you.”
“Ah!”
“And you, M. de Schomberg?”
“Rue Béthisy,” said Schomberg, astonished.
“D’Epernon’s address I know.”
“Rue de Grenelle.”
“You are my neighbor. And you, Maugiron?”
“Near the Louvre. But I begin to understand; you come from M. de Bussy.”
“Never mind from whom I come; I have to speak to you, that is all.”
“To all four of us?”
“Yes.”
“Then if you cannot speak here, let us all go to Schomberg’s; it is close by.”
“So be it.”
And the five gentlemen went out of the Louvre arm in arm.
Let us leave St. Luc a little while in Schomberg’s room, and see what had passed between him and Bussy.
Once out of the hall, St. Luc had stopped, and looked anxiously at his friend.
“Are you ill?” said he, “you are so pale; you look as though you were about to faint.”
“No, I am only choking with anger.”
“You do not surely mind those fellows?”
“You shall see.”
“Come, Bussy, be calm.”
“You are charming, really; be calm, indeed! if you had had half said to you that I have had, some one would have been dead before this.”
“Well, what do you want?”
“You are my friend; you have already given me a terrible proof of it.”
“Ah! my dear friend,” said St. Luc, who believed Monsoreau dead and buried, “do not thank me, it is not worth while; certainly the thrust was a good one, and succeeded admirably, but it was the king who showed it me, when he kept me here a prisoner at the Louvre.”
“Dear friend.”
“Never mind Monsoreau; tell me about Diana. Was she pleased at last? Does she pardon me? When will the wedding take place?”
“Oh! my dear friend, we must wait till Monsoreau is dead.”
“What!” cried St. Luc, starting back as though he had put his foot on a pointed nail.
“Yes; poppies are not such dangerous plants as you thought; he did not die from his fall on them, but is alive and more furious than ever.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and he talks of nothing but vengeance, and of killing you on the first occasion.”
“And I have announced his death to everyone; he will find his heirs in mourning. But he shall not give me the lie; I shall meet him again, and if he escapes me a second time——”
“Calm yourself, my dear St. Luc; really, I am better off than you would think; it is the duke whom he suspects, and of whom he is jealous. I am his dear Bussy—his precious friend. That is only natural, for it was that fool of a Rémy who cured him.
“What an idiot he must have been!”
“He has an idea that, as an honest man and a doctor, it is his duty to cure people. However, Monsoreau says he owes his life to me, and confides his wife to my care.”
“Ah! I understand that this makes you wait more patiently for his death. However, I am quite thunderstruck at the news.”
“But, now, my friend, let us leave Monsoreau.”
“Yes, let us enjoy life while he is still ill; but once he is well, I shall order myself a suit of mail, have new locks put on my doors, and you must ask the Duc d’Anjou if his mother has not given him some antidote against poison. Meanwhile, let us amuse ourselves.”
“Well, my dear friend, you see you have only rendered me half a service.”
“Do you wish me to finish it?”
“Yes, in another way.”
“Speak.”
“Are you great friends with those four gentlemen?”
“Ma foi! we are something like cats and dogs in the sun; as long as we an get the heat, we agree, but if one of us took the warmth from another, then I do not answer for the consequences.”
“Well, will you go for me to M. Quelus, first?”
“Ah!”
“And ask him what day it will please him that I should cut his throat, or he mine?”
“I will.”
“You do not mind it?”
“Not the least in the world. I will go at once if you wish it.”
“One moment; as you go, just call on M. Schomberg and make him the same proposal.”
“Schomberg too? Diable, how you go on! Well, as you wish.”
“Then, my dear St. Luc, as you are so amiable, go also to M. Maugiron, and ask him to join the party.”
“What, three! Bussy, you cannot mean it. I hope that is all.”
“No; from him go to D’Epernon.”
“Four!”
“Even so, my dear friend; I need not recommend to a man like you to proceed with courtesy and politeness towards these gentlemen. Let the thing be done in gallant fashion.”
“You shall be content, my friend. What are your conditions?”
“I make none; I accept theirs.”
“Your arms?”
“What they like.”
“The day, place, and hour?”
“Whatever suits them.”
“But——”
“Oh! never mind such trifles, but do it quickly; I will walk in the little garden of the Luxembourg; you will find me there when you have executed your commission.”
“You will wait, then?”
“Yes.”
“It may be long.”
“I have time.”
We know how St. Luc found the four young men, and accompanied them to Schomberg’s house. St. Luc remained in the ante-chamber, waiting until, according to the etiquette of the day, the four young men were installed in the saloon ready to receive him. Then an usher came and saluted St. Luc, who followed him to the threshold of the saloon, where he announced M. d’Espinay de St. Luc.
Schomberg then rose and saluted his visitor, who, to mark the character of the visit, instead of returning it, put on his hat. Schomberg then, turning towards Quelus, said,
“I have the honor to present to you M. Jacques de Levis, Comte de Quelus.”
The two gentlemen bowed, and then the same ceremony was gone through with the others. This done, the four friends sat down, but St. Luc remained standing and said to Quelus,
“M. le Comte, you have insulted M. le Comte Louis de Clermont d’Amboise, Seigneur de Bussy, who presents to you his compliments, and calls you to single combat on any day and hour, and with such arms as may please you. Do you accept?”
“Certainly; M. de Bussy does me much honor.”
“Your day and hour, M. le Comte?”
“To-morrow morning at seven o’clock.”
“Your arms?”
“Rapier and dagger, if that suits M. de Bussy.”
St. Luc bowed. Then he addressed the same questions to the others, and received the same answers.
“If we all choose the same day and hour, M. de Bussy will be rather embarrassed,” said Schomberg.
“Certainly,” replied St. Luc, “M. de Bussy may be embarrassed, but he says that the circumstance would not be new to him, as it has already happened at the Tournelles.”
“And he would fight us all four?”
“All four.”
“Separately?”
“Separately, or at once.”
The four young men looked at each other; then Quelus, red with anger, said:
“It is very fine of M. de Bussy, but however little we may be worth, we can each do our own work; we will accept, therefore, the count’s proposal, fighting separately, or rather, which will be still better, as we do not seek to assassinate a gallant man, chance shall decide which of us shall fight M. de Bussy.”
“And the three others?”
“Oh! M. de Bussy has too many friends, and we too many enemies, for them to remain with folded arms. Do you agree to this, gentlemen?”
“Yes!” cried all.
“If MM. Ribeirac, Antragues, and Livarot would join the party, it would be complete.”
“Gentlemen,” said St. Luc, “I will transmit your desires to M. de Bussy, and I believe I may promise that he is too courteous not to agree to your wishes. It therefore only remains for me to thank you in his name.”
Then he took his leave, after throwing his purse to the four lackeys, whom he found outside, to drink to their masters’ healths.
St. Luc returned, proud of having executed his commission so well. Bussy thanked him, but looked sad, which was not natural to him.
“Have I done badly?” said St. Luc.
“Ma foi, my dear friend, I only regret you did not say, ‘at once.’”
“Why! what is the hurry?”
“I wish to die as soon as possible.”
St. Luc looked at him in astonishment.
“Die! at your age, with your name, and Diana!”
“Yes, I shall kill them, I know, but I shall receive some good blow which will tranquilize me forever.”
“What black ideas, Bussy!”
“A husband whom I thought dead, and who has returned to life; a wife who can scarcely quit the bedside of the pretended dying man. Not to see her, smile on her, touch her hand. Mon Dieu!——”
St. Luc interrupted him with a burst of laughter. “Oh!” cried he, “the innocent man. Why, no lover can be more fortunate than you.”
“Prove that to me.”
“You are the friend of M. de Monsoreau.”
“Yes, I am ashamed to say, he calls me his friend.”
“Well! be his friend.”
“Oh! and abuse this title!”
“Is he really your friend?”
“He says so.”
“No; for he makes you unhappy. Now the end of friendship is to make one another happy. At least, so his majesty says, and he is learned in friendship. So, if he makes you unhappy, he is not your friend; therefore you may treat him either as a stranger, and take his wife from him, or as an enemy, and kill him if he murmurs.”
“In fact, I hate him. But do you not think he loves me?”
“Diable! Take away his wife and see.”
“I must continue to be a man of honor.”
“And let Madame de Monsoreau cure her husband both physically and morally. For it is certain that if you get yourself killed, she will attach herself to the only man who remains to her.”
Bussy frowned.
“But,” added St. Luc, “here is my wife; she always gives good advice. She has been picking herself a bouquet in the gardens of the queen-mother, and will be in a good humor. Listen to her; she speaks gold.”
Jeanne arrived radiant, full of happiness and fun. Bussy saluted her in a friendly manner, and she held out her hand to him, saying, with a smile, “How go on the love affairs?”
“They are dying.”
“They are wounded and fainting; perhaps you can restore them, Jeanne?”
“Let me see; show me the wound.”
“In two words, this is it: M. de Bussy does not like smiling on M. de Monsoreau, and he thinks of retiring.”
“And leaving Diana to him?”
“Oh! madame, St. Luc does not tell you that I wish to die.”
“Poor Diana!” murmured Jeanne, “decidedly men are ungrateful.”
“Good! this is the conclusion my wife draws.”
“I, ungrateful!” cried Bussy, “because I fear to render my love vile, by practising a disgraceful hypocrisy?”
“Oh! monsieur, that is only a pretext. If you were really in love, you would fear but one thing—not to be loved in return.”
“But, madame, there are sacrifices——”
“Not another word. Confess that you love Diana no longer; it will be more worthy of a gallant man.”
Bussy grew pale.
“You do not dare to tell her; well, I will.”
“Madame! madame!”
“You are rich, you men, with your sacrifices. And does she make none? What! expose herself to be massacred by that tiger of a Monsoreau, preserve her position only by employing a strength of will of which Samson or Hannibal would have been incapable. Oh! I swear, Diana is sublime, I could not do a quarter of what she does every day.”
“Thank you!” said St. Luc.
“And he hesitates!” continued she, “he does not fall on his knees and say his mea culpa.”
“You are right,” said Bussy, “I am but a man, that is to say, an imperfect creature, inferior to the most commonplace woman.”
“It is lucky you are convinced of it.”
“What do you order me?”
“To go at once and pay it visit——”
“To M. de Monsoreau?”
“Who speaks of him?—to Diana.”
“But he never leaves her.”
“When you went so often to see Madame de Barbezieux, had she not always near her that great ape who bit you because he was jealous?”
Bussy began to laugh, and St. Luc and Jeanne followed his example.
“Madame,” then said Bussy, “I am going to M. de Monsoreau’s house; adieu.”
He went there, and found the count in bed; he was delighted to see him, and told him that Rémy promised that his wound would be cured in three weeks. Bussy recounted to him the commission with which he had been charged, and his visit to the court.
“The duke has still projects on foot, has he not?”
“I believe so.”
“Do not compromise yourself for that bad man; I know him: he is perfidious, and will not hesitate to betray you.”
“I know it.”
“You are my friend, and I wish to put you on your guard.”
“You must sleep after the dressing of your wound,” said Rémy.
“Yes, my dear doctor. My friend, take a turn in the garden with Madame de Monsoreau.”
“I am at your orders,” replied Bussy.
St. Luc was right, and Jeanne was right, and Bussy soon acknowledged it. As for Diana, she gave herself up to the two instincts that Figaro recognizes as inborn in mankind, to love and to deceive. M. de Monsoreau grew better and better. He had escaped from fever, thanks to the application of cold water, that new remedy which Providence had discovered to Ambrose Paré, when all at once he received a great shock at hearing of the arrival in Paris of the duke with the queen-mother. The day after his arrival, the duke, under the pretext of asking after him, presented himself at his hotel, and it was impossible to close his door against a prince who showed so much interest in him. M. de Monsoreau therefore was obliged to receive the prince, who was most amiable to him and to his wife. As soon as he was gone, M. de Monsoreau took Diana’s arm, and in spite of Rémy’s remonstrances walked three times round his armchair; and, from his satisfied air, Diana was sure he was meditating on some project.
The next day the duke came again, and this time Monsoreau walked round his room. That evening Diana warned Bussy that her husband had certainly some project in his head. A few minutes after, when Bussy and Monsoreau were alone, “When I think,” said Monsoreau, “that this prince, who smiles on me, is my mortal enemy, and tried to have me assassinated by M. de St. Luc——”
“Oh, assassinated! take care, M. le Comte. St. Luc is a gentleman, and you confess yourself that you provoked him, drew the sword first, and received your wound in fair fight.”
“Certainly; but it is not the less true that he obeyed the wishes of M. d’Anjou.”
“Listen! I know M. de St. Luc, and I can assure you he is devoted to the king, and hates the duke. If your wound had come from Antragues, Livarot, or Ribeirac, it might be so; but not from St. Luc.”
“You do not know,” replied Monsoreau, obstinate in his opinion. At last he was able to go down into the garden. “That will do,” said he; “now we will move.”
“Why move?” said Rémy. “The air is good here, and there is plenty of amusement.”
“Too much; M. d’Anjou fatigues me with his visits, and he always brings with him a crowd of gentlemen, and the noise of their spurs destroys my nerves.”
“But where are you going?”
“I have ordered them to get ready my little house at the Tournelles.”
Bussy and Diana exchanged a look of loving remembrance.
“What, that little place?” cried Rémy, imprudently.
“What! do you know it?”
“Who does not know the houses of the chief huntsman? particularly I, who lived in the Rue Beautrellis.”
“Yes, yes, I will go there. It is a fortress, and one can see from the window, three hundred yards off, who is coming to visit you, and avoid them if you like, particularly when you are well!”
Bussy bit his lips; he feared a time might come when Monsoreau might avoid him. Diana thought of the time when she had seen Bussy in that house, lying fainting on the bed.
“You cannot do it,” said Rémy.
“Why not, if you please, monsieur?”
“Because the chief huntsman of France must hold receptions—must keep valets and equipages. Let him have a palace for his dogs, if he likes, but not a dog-kennel for himself.”
“It is true, but——”
“But I am the doctor of the mind as of the body; it is not your residence here that displeases you.”
“What then?”
“That of madame; therefore send her away.”
“Separate?” cried Monsoreau, fixing on Diana a look, more of anger than love.
“Then give up your place—send in your resignation. I believe it would be wise; if you do not do your duty, you will displease the king, and if you do——”
“I will do anything but quit the countess,” said Monsoreau, with closely-shut teeth. As he spoke, they heard in the courtyard a noise of voices and horses’ feet.
“The duke again!” cried he.
“Yes,” said Rémy.
Immediately after the prince entered, and Monsoreau saw his first glance given to Diana. He brought to her, as a present, one of those masterpieces, of which the artists of that day were in the habit of producing two or three in the course of a lifetime. It was a poniard, with a handle of chased gold. This handle was a smelling-bottle, and on the blade a chase was carved with admirable skill; horses, dogs, trees, game, and hunters, mingled together in an harmonious pêle-mêle, on this blade of azure and gold.
“Let me see,” cried Monsoreau, who feared there was a note hidden in the handle.
The prince separated the two parts. “To you, who are a hunter,” said he, “I give the blade: to the countess, the handle. Good-morning, Bussy, you are then a friend of the count’s, now?”
Diana reddened, but Bussy said:
“Your highness forgets that you asked me to inquire after M. de Monsoreau.”
“It is true.”
The prince sat down, and began to talk to Diana. In a few minutes he said, “Count, it is dreadfully warm in your rooms. I see the countess is stifling. I will give her my arm for a turn in the garden.”
The husband looked furious.
“Give me an arm,” said he to Bussy, and he got up and followed his wife.
“Ah!” said the duke, “it seems you are better.”
“Yes, monseigneur, and I hope soon to be able to accompany Madame de Monsoreau wherever she goes.”
“Good; but meanwhile, do not fatigue yourself.”
Monsoreau was obliged to sit down, but he kept them in view.
“Count,” said he to Bussy, “will you be amiable enough to escort Madame de Monsoreau this evening to my house at the Tournelles?”
“You cannot do that, monsieur,” said Rémy.
“Why not?”
“Because M. d’Anjou would never forgive you if you helped to play him such a trick.”
Bussy was about to cry, “What do I care?” but a glance from Rémy stopped him.
“Rémy is right,” said Monsoreau, “it would injure you; to-morrow I will go myself.”
“You will lose your place.”
“It is possible; but I shall keep my wife.”
The next day they went to the old house; Diana took her old room, with the bed of white and gold damask. A corridor only separated it from that of the count. Bussy tore his hair with rage.
The duke became more and more in love with Diana, as she seemed always to escape him, and with his love for her, his hatred of Monsoreau increased. On the other side he had not renounced his political hopes, but had recommenced his underhand machinations. The moment was favorable, for many wavering conspirators had been encouraged by the kind of triumph which the weakness of the king, and the cunning of Catherine, had given to the duke; however, he no longer confided his projects to Bussy, and showed him only a hypocritical friendship. He was vaguely uneasy at seeing him at Monsoreau’s house, and envious of the confidence that Monsoreau, so suspicious of himself, placed in him. He was frightened also at the joy and happiness which shone in Diana’s face. He knew that flowers only bloom in the light of the sun, and women in that of love. She was visibly happy, and this annoyed him. Determined to use his power, both for love and vengeance, he thought it would be absurd to be stayed in this purpose by such ridiculous obstacles as the jealousy of a husband, and the repugnance of a wife. One day he ordered his equipages, intending to visit Monsoreau. He was told that he had moved to his house in the Rue St. Antoine.
“Let us go there,” said he to Bussy. Soon the place was in commotion at the arrival of the twenty-four handsome cavaliers, each with two lackeys, who formed the prince’s suite. Both Bussy and the prince knew the house well; they both went in, but while the prince entered the room, Bussy remained on the staircase. It resulted from this arrangement that the duke was received by Monsoreau alone, while Bussy was received by Diana, while Gertrude kept watch. Monsoreau, always pale, grew livid at sight of the prince.
“Monseigneur, here! really it is too much honor for my poor house!” cried he, with a visible irony.
The prince smiled. “Wherever a suffering friend goes, I follow him,” replied he. “How are you?”
“Oh, much better; I can already walk about, and in a week I shall be quite well.”
“Was it your doctor who prescribed for you the air of the Bastile?” asked the prince, with the most innocent air possible.
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Did you not like the Rue des Petits-Pères?”
“No, monseigneur; I had too much company there—they made too much noise.”
“But you have no garden here.”
“I did not like the garden.”
The prince bit his lips. “Do you know, comte,” said he, “that many people are asking the king for your place?”
“On what pretext, monseigneur?”
“They say you are dead.”
“Monseigneur, you can answer for it that I am not.”
“I answer for nothing; you bury yourself as though you were dead.”
It was Monsoreau’s turn to bite his lips.
“Well, then, I must lose my place,” said he.
“Really?”
“Yes; there are things I prefer to it.”
“You are very disinterested.”
“It is my character, monseigneur.”
“Then of course you will not mind the king’s knowing your character?”
“Who will tell him?”
“Diable! if he asks me about you, I must repeat our conversation.”
“Ma foi! monseigneur, if all they say in Paris were reported to the king, his two ears would not be enough to listen with.”
“What do they say at Paris, monsieur?” asked the prince sharply.
Monsoreau tried to calm himself. “How should a poor invalid, as I am, know?” said he. “If the king is angry at seeing his work badly done, he is wrong.”
“How so?”
“Because, doubtless, my accident proceeds, to some extent, from him.”
“Explain yourself.”
“M. de St. Luc, who wounded me, is a dear friend of the king’s. It was the king who taught him the thrust by which he wounded me, and it might have been the king who prompted him.”
“You are right; but still the king is the king.”
“Until he is so no longer.”
The duke trembled. “Is not Madame de Monsoreau here?” said he.
“Monseigneur, she is ill, or she would have come to present her respects to you.”
“Ill! poor woman! it must be grief at seeing you suffer.”
“Yes, and the fatigue of moving.”
“Let us hope it will be a short indisposition. You have so skilful a doctor.”
“Yes, that dear Rémy——”
“Why, he is Bussy’s doctor.”
“He has lent him to me.”
“You are, then, great friends?”
“He is my best, I might say my only, friend.”
“Adieu, come!”
As the duke raised the tapestry, he fancied he saw the skirt of a dress disappear into the next room, and immediately Bussy appeared at his post in the middle of the corridor. Suspicion grew stronger with the duke.
“We are going,” said he to Bussy, who ran down-stairs without replying; while the duke, left alone, tried to penetrate the corridor where he had seen the silk dress vanish. But, turning, he saw that Monsoreau had followed, and was standing at the door.
“Your highness mistakes your way,” said he.
“True,” said the duke, “thank you.” And he went down with rage in his heart. When he returned home, Aurilly glided into his room.
“Well,” said the duke, “I am baffled by the husband!”
“And, perhaps, also by the lover, monseigneur.”
“What do you say?”
“The truth.”
“Speak, then.”
“I hope your highness will pardon me—it was in your service.”
“I pardon you in advance. Go on.”
“After your highness had gone up-stairs, I watched under a shed in the courtyard.”
“Ah! What did you see?”
“I saw a woman’s dress; I saw this woman lean forward, and then I heard the sound of along and tender kiss.”
“But who was the man?”
“I cannot recognize arms.”
“No, but you might gloves.”
“Indeed, it seemed to me——”
“That you recognized them?”
“It was only a guess.”
“Never mind.”
“Well, monseigneur, they looked like the gloves of M. de Bussy.”
“Buff, embroidered with gold, were they not?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Ah! Bussy! yes, it was Bussy. Oh, I was blind and yet not blind; but I could not believe in so much audacity.”
“But your highness must not believe it too lightly; might there not have been a man hidden in her room?”
“Yes, doubtless, but Bussy, who was in the corridor, would have seen him.”
“That is true.”
“And then the gloves——”
“Yes, and besides the kiss, I heard——”
“What?”
“Three words, ‘Till to-morrow evening.’”
“Oh! mon Dieu!”
“So that, if you like, we can make sure.”
“Aurilly, we will go.”
“Your highness knows I am at your orders.”
“Ah! Bussy, a traitor! Bussy, the honest man—Bussy, who does not wish me to be King of France;” and the duke, smiling with an infernal joy, dismissed Aurilly.