“If I knew! Oh! madame, I know one thing; he who is your husband is wrong to think of the rest of the world.” “But!” cried Diana, in a broken voice, “if you were wrong, M. le Comte, and if he were not.” And the young woman, touching with her cold hand the burning ones of Bussy, rose and fled among the somber alleys of the garden, seized Gertrude’s arm and dragged her away, before Bussy, astonished and overwhelmed with delight, had time to stretch out his arms to retain her. He uttered a cry and tottered; Rémy arrived in time to catch him in his arms and make him sit down on the bench that Diana had just quitted. CHAPTER XLIV. HOW D’EPERNON HAD HIS DOUBLET TORN, AND HOW CHOMBERG WAS STAINED BLUE. While M. la Hurière piled signature upon signature, while Chicot consigned Gorenflot to the Corne d’Abondance, while Bussy returned to life in the happy little garden full of perfume and love, the king, annoyed at all he had seen in the city, and furious against his brother, whom he had seen pass in the Rue St. Honoré, accompanied by MM. de Guise and Monsoreau, and followed by a whole train of gentlemen, re-entered the Louvre, accompanied by Maugiron and Quelus. He had gone out with all four of his friends, but, at some steps from the Louvre, Schomberg and D’Epernon had profited by the first crush to disappear, counting on some adventures in such a turbulent night. Before they had gone one hundred yards D’Epernon had passed his sword-sheath between the legs of a citizen who was running, and who tumbled down in consequence, and Schomberg had pulled the cap off the head of a young and pretty woman. But both had badly chosen their day for attacking these good Parisians, generally so patient; for a spirit of revolt was prevalent in the streets, and the bourgeois rose, crying out for aid, and the husband of the young woman launched his apprentices on Schomberg. He was brave; therefore he stopped, put his hand on his sword, and spoke in a high tone. D’Epernon was prudent; he fled. Henri had entered his room at the Louvre, and, seated in his great armchair, was trembling with impatience, and seeking a good pretext for getting into a passion. Maugiron was playing with Narcissus, the large greyhound, and Quelus was sitting near. “They go on!” cried Henri, “their plot advances; sometimes tigers, sometimes serpents; when they do not spring they glide.” “Oh, sire!” said Quelus, “are there not always plots in a kingdom? What the devil could all the sons, brothers, and cousins of kings do if they did not plot?” And Quelus irreverently turned his back to the king. “Hear, Maugiron,” said the king, “with what nonsense he tries to put me off.” “Well, sire, look at Narcissus; he is a good dog, but when you pull his ears, he growls, and when you tread on his toes he bites.” “Here is the other comparing me to my dog!” “Not so, sire; I place Narcissus far above you, for he knows how to defend himself, and you do not.” And he also turned his back.