“I am mad,” thought he, “to torment myself about a person who disdains me. But why does she disdain me, or for whom? Not, surely, for that long, livid-looking skeleton, who, always by her side, covers her incessantly with his jealous glances. If I wished it, in a quarter of an hour I could hold him mute and cold under my knee with ten inches of steel in his heart, and if I cannot be loved, I could at least be terrible and hated. Oh, her hatred! Rather than her indifference. Yes, but to act thus would be to do what a Quelus or a Maugiron would do if they knew how to love. Better to resemble that hero of Plutarch whom I so much admired, the young Antiochus, dying of love and never avowing it, nor uttering a complaint. Am I not called the brave Bussy?” He went home, and threw himself on a chair. How long he remained there he did not know when a man approached him. “M. le Comte,” said he, “you are in a fever.” “Ah, is it you, Rémy?” “Yes, count. Go to bed,” Bussy obeyed, and all the next day Rémy watched by him, with refreshing drinks for his body and kind words for his mind. But on the day after Bussy missed him. “Poor lad!” thought he, “he was tired and wanted air; and then doubtless Gertrude expected him; she is but a femme de chambre, but she loves, and a femme de chambre who loves is better than a queen who does not.” The day passed, and Rémy did not return. Bussy was angry and impatient. “Oh!” cried he, “I, who still believed in gratitude and friendship, will henceforth believe in nothing.” Towards evening he heard voices in his ante-chamber, and a servant entered, saying, “It is Monseigneur the Duc d’Anjou.” “Let him enter,” said Bussy, frowning. The duke, on entering the room, which was without lights, said, “It is too dark here, Bussy.” Bussy did not answer; disgust closed his mouth. “Are you really ill,” said the duke, “that you do not answer?” “I am very ill.” “Then that is why I have not seen you for two days?” “Yes, monseigneur.” The prince, piqued at these short answers, began to examine the room. “You seem to me well lodged, Bussy,” said he. Bussy did not reply. “Bussy must be very ill,” said the duke to an attendant who stood by, “why was not Miron called? The king’s doctor is not too good for Bussy.” When the servant was gone, “Are you in grief, Bussy?” said the duke. “I do not know.” The duke approached, becoming more and more gracious as he was rebuffed. “Come, speak frankly, Bussy,” said he. “What am I to say, monseigneur?” “You are angry with me?” “I! for what? besides, it is no use to be angry with princes.” The duke was silent. “But,” said Bussy, “we are losing time in preambles; to the point, monseigneur. You have need of me, I suppose?” “Ah, M. de Bussy!” “Yes, doubtless; do you think I believe that you come here through friendship; you, who love no one?” “Oh, Bussy, to say such things to me!”