“Rémy, I fear that that wretch will make a great scene at Méridor. I ought to have gone with him when he asked me.” “What for?” “To sustain Diana.” “Oh, she will sustain herself. Besides, you ought not to be out; we agreed you were too ill.” “I could not help it, Rémy, I was so unquiet.” Rémy carried him off, and made him sit down to a good breakfast. M. de Monsoreau wished to see if it were chance or habit that had led Roland to the park wall; therefore he left the bridle on his neck. Roland took precisely the same road as on the previous day, and before very long M. de Monsoreau found himself in the same spot as before. Only now the place was solitary, and no horse was there. The count climbed the wall again, but no one was to be seen; therefore, judging that it was useless to watch for people on their guard, he went on to the park gates. The baron, seeing his son-in-law coming over the drawbridge, advanced ceremoniously to meet him. Diana, seated under a magnificent sycamore, was reading poetry, while Gertrude was embroidering at her side. The count, seeing them, got off his horse, and approached them. “Madame,” said he, “will you grant me the favor of an interview?” “Willingly, monsieur.” “What calm, or rather what perfidy!” thought the count. “Do you do us the honor of remaining at the chat?” asked the baron. “Yes, monsieur, until to-morrow, at least.” The baron went away to give orders, and Diana reseated herself, while Monsoreau took Gertrude’s chair, and, with a look sufficient to intimidate most people, said: “Madame, who was in the park with you yesterday?” “At what time?” said Diana, in a firm voice. “At six.” “Where?” “Near the copse.” “It must have been some one else, it was not I.” “It was you, madame.” “What do you know about it?” “Tell me the man’s name!” cried Monsoreau, furiously. “What man?” “The man who was walking with you.” “I cannot tell, if it was some other woman.” “It was you, I tell you.” “You are wrong, monsieur.” “How dare you deny it? I saw you.” “You, monsieur?” “Yes, madame, myself. And there is no other lady here.” “You are wrong again; there is Jeanne de Brissac.” “Madame de St. Luc?” “Yes, my friend.” “And M. de St. Luc?” “Never leaves her; theirs was a love-match; you must have seen them.” “It was not them; it was you, with some man whom I do not know, but whom I will know, I swear. I heard your cry.” “When you are more reasonable, monsieur, I shall be ready to hear you; at present I will retire.” “No, madame, you shall stay.” “Monsieur, here are M. and Madame de St. Luc, I trust you will contain yourself.”