“And you did not think of what my life would be, when you belonged to another. But perhaps you kept the name of Monsoreau from choice?” “Do you think so?” murmured Diana; “so much the better.” And her eyes filled with tears. Bussy walked up and down in great agitation. “I am to become once more a stranger to you,” said he. “Alas!” “Your silence says enough.” “I can only speak by my silence.” “At the Louvre you would not see me, and now you will not speak to me.” “At the Louvre I was watched by M. de Monsoreau, and he is jealous.” “Jealous! What does he want then? mon Dieu! whose happiness can he envy, when all the world is envying his?” “I tell you he is jealous; for the last two or three days he has seen some one wandering round our new abode.” “Then you have quitted the Rue St. Antoine?” “How!” cried Diana thoughtlessly, “then it was not you?” “Madame, since your marriage was publicly announced, since that evening at the Louvre, where you did not deign to look at me, I have been in bed, devoured by fever, so you see that your husband could not be jealous of me, at least.” “Well! M. le Comte, if it be true that you had any desire to see me, you must thank this unknown man; for knowing M. de Monsoreau as I know him, this man made me tremble for you, and I wished to see you and say to you, ‘Do not expose yourself so, M. le Comte; do not make me more unhappy than I am.’” “Reassure yourself, madame; it was not I.” “Now, let me finish what I have to say. In the fear of this man--whom I do not know, but whom M. de Monsoreau does perhaps--he exacts that I should leave Paris, so that,” said Diana, holding out her hand to Bussy, “you may look upon this as our last meeting, M. le Comte. To-morrow we start for Méridor.” “You are going, madame?” “There is no other way to reassure M. de Monsoreau; no other way for me to be at peace. Besides, I myself detest Paris, the world, the court, and the Louvre. I wish to be alone with my souvenirs of my happy past; perhaps a little of my former happiness will return to me there. My father will accompany me, and I shall find there M. and Madame de St. Luc, who expect me. Adieu, M. de Bussy.” Bussy hid his face in his hands. “All is over for me,” he murmured. “What do you say?” said Diana. “I say, madame, that this man exiles you, that he takes from me the only hope left to me, that of breathing the same air as yourself, of seeing you sometimes, of touching your dress as you pass. Oh! this man is my mortal enemy, and if I perish for it, I will destroy him with my own hands.” “Oh! M. le Comte!” “The wretch; it is not enough for him that you are his wife: you, the most beautiful and most charming of creatures, but he is still jealous. Jealous! The devouring monster would absorb the whole world!” “Oh! calm yourself, comte; mon Dieu; he is excusable, perhaps.” “He is excusable! you defend him, madame?” “Oh! if you knew!” cried Diana, covering her face with her hands.