“Well, then, for the safety of our happiness, we must guard our secret. Madame de St. Luc knows it, and her husband soon will. I have written him a line this morning, asking him for an interview at Angers, and when he comes I will make him promise never to breathe a word of this. It is the more important, dear Diana, as doubtless they are seeking me everywhere. Things looked grave when I left Paris. “You are right; and then my father is so scrupulous that, in spite of his love for me, he is capable of denouncing me to M. de Monsoreau.” “Let us hide ourselves well, then; I fear some evil spirit, jealous of our happiness.” “Say adieu to me, then; and do not ride so fast--your horse frightens me.” “Fear nothing; he knows the way, and is the gentlest and safest horse I ever rode. When I return to the city, buried in sweet thoughts, he takes the way without my touching the bridle.” At last the sound of the returning chase was heard, the horns playing an air agreed upon with Jeanne, and Bussy left. As he approached the city, he remarked that the time was approaching when the gates of the city would be closed. He was preparing to ride on quickly, when he heard behind him the gallop of horses. For a lover who wishes to remain concealed, as for a robber, everything seems a menace. Bussy asked himself whether he should ride on or draw up and let them pass, but their course was so rapid that they were up to him in a moment. There were two. “Here is the city,” said one, with a Gascon accent; “three hundred more blows with the whip, and one hundred with the spur; courage and vigor!” “The beast has no more breath--he shivers and totters; he will not go on; and yet I would give a hundred horses to be in my city before nightfall.” “It is some Angers man out late,” thought Bussy. “But look, the horse is falling; take care, monsieur,” cried he; “quit your horse--he is about to fall.” Indeed, as he spoke the animal fell heavily on his side, shook his legs convulsively, then suddenly his breath stopped, his eyes grew dim, and he was dead. “Monsieur!” cried the cavalier to Bussy, “three hundred pistoles for your horse!” “Ah, mon Dieu!” cried Bussy, drawing near. “Do you hear me, monsieur? I am in haste.” “Ah! my prince, take it for nothing,” cried Bussy, who had recognized the Duc d’Anjou. At the same moment they heard the click of a pistol, which was cocked by the duke’s companion. “Stop, M. d’Aubigné,” cried the duke, “it is Bussy, I believe.” “Oh! yes, my prince, it is I. But what, in Heaven’s name are you doing, killing horses on the road at this hour?” “Ah! is it M. de Bussy?” said D’Aubigné, “then you do not want me any more. Permit me to return to him who sent me?” “Not without receiving my sincere thanks and the promise of a lasting friendship.” “I accept it, monseigneur, and will recall your words to you some day.” “M. D’Aubigné! I am in the clouds,” murmured Bussy.