Bussy, who had been hidden behind a door, staggered, and almost fell at this unexpected blow. However, he darted a glance of contempt at the duke, towards whom he made a step, but he, in terror, shut his door, and Bussy heard the key turn in the lock. Feeling that if he stayed a moment longer he should betray before everyone the violence of his grief, he ran downstairs, got on his horse, and galloped to the Rue St. Antoine. The baron and Diana were eagerly waiting for him, and they saw him enter pale and trembling. “Madame,” cried he, “hate me, despise me; I believed I could do something and I can do nothing. Madame, you are now the recognized wife of M. de Monsoreau, and are to be presented this evening. I am a fool--a miserable dupe, or rather, as you said, M. le Baron, the duke is a coward and a villain.” And leaving the father and daughter overcome with grief, he rushed wildly away. CHAPTER XXXV. WHAT PASSED BETWEEN M. DE MONSOREAU AND THE DUKE. It is time to explain the duke’s sudden change of intention with regard to M. de Monsoreau. When he first received him, it was with dispositions entirely favorable to Bussy’s wishes. “Your highness sent for me?” said Monsoreau. “You have nothing to fear, you who have served me so well, and are so much attached to me. Often you have told me of the plots against me, have aided my enterprises forgetting your own interests, and exposing your life.” “Your highness----” “Even lately, in this last unlucky adventure----” “What adventure, monseigneur?” “This carrying off of Mademoiselle de Méridor--poor young creature!” “Alas!” murmured Monsoreau. “You pity her, do you not?” said the duke. “Does not your highness?” “I! you know how I have regretted this fatal caprice. And, indeed, it required all my friendship for you, and the remembrance of all your good services, to make me forget that without you I should not have carried off this young girl.” Monsoreau felt the blow. “Monseigneur,” said he, “your natural goodness leads you to exaggerate, you no more caused the death of this young girl than I did.” “How so?” “You did not intend to use violence to Mademoiselle de Méridor.” “Certainly not.” “Then the intention absolves you; it is a misfortune, nothing more.” “And besides,” said the duke, looking at him, “death has buried all in eternal silence.” The tone of his voice and his look struck Monsoreau. “Monseigneur,” said he, after a moment’s pause, “shall I speak frankly to you?” “Why should you hesitate?” said the prince, with astonishment mingled with hauteur. “Indeed, I do not know, but your highness has not thought fit to be frank with me.” “Really!” cried the duke, with an angry laugh. “Monseigneur, I know what your highness meant to say to me.” “Speak, then.” “Your highness wished to make me understand that perhaps Mademoiselle de Méridor was not dead, and that therefore those who believed themselves her murderers might be free from remorse.”