“Then you think a man entered here?” “I think so.” “And I do more than think,” said St. Luc, “for I saw him.” “You saw a man in the park?” “Yes.” “When?” “Yesterday.” “Alone?” “With Madame de Monsoreau.” “Where?” “Just here to the left.” And as they had walked down to the old copse, St. Luc pointed out the spot where Bussy always came over. “Ah!” continued he, “here is a wall in a bad state; I must warn the baron.” “Whom do you suspect?” “Of what?” “Of climbing over here to talk to my wife.” St. Luc seemed to reflect. “Diable!” said he, “it could only have been----” “Whom?” “Why, yourself.” “Are you joking, M. de St. Luc?” “Ma foi, no; when I was first married I did such things.” “Come! you are trying to put me off; but do not fear, I have courage. Help me to seek, you will do me an immense favor.” St. Luc shook his head. “It must have been you,” said he. “Do not jest, I beg of you; the thing is serious.” “Do you think so?” “I am sure of it.” “Oh! and how does this man come?” “Secretly.” “Often?” “I fear so; look at the marks in the wall.” “Well, I suspected it, but I always fancied it was you.” “But I tell you, no!” “Oh, I believe you, my dear sir.” “Well, then----” “It must have been some one else.” Monsoreau began to look black, but St. Luc preserved his easy nonchalance. “I have an idea,” said he. “Tell me.” “If it were----” “Well!” “But, no.” “Pray speak.” “The Duc d’Anjou.” “I thought so at first, but I have made inquiries, and it could not have been he.” “Oh! he is very cunning.” “Yes, but it was not he.” “Wait, then.” “Well!” “I have another idea; if it was neither you nor the duke, it must have been I.” “You?” “Why not?” “You to come on horseback to the outside of the park, when you live inside!” “Oh, mon Dieu! I am such a capricious being.” “You, who fled away when you saw me!” “Oh! any one would do that.” “Then you were doing wrong,” cried the count, no longer able to keep in his anger. “I do not say so.” “You are mocking me,” cried the count, growing very pale, “and have been doing so for a quarter of an hour.” “You are wrong, monsieur,” said St. Luc, drawing out his watch, and looking steadily at him; “it has been twenty minutes.” “You insult me.” “And you insult me with your questions like a constable.” “Ah! now I see clearly.” “How wonderful, at ten o’clock in the morning. But what do you see?” “I see that you act in concert with the traitor, the coward, whom I saw yesterday.” “I should think so; he is my friend.” “Then I will kill you in his place.” “Bah! in your own house, and without crying, gare. Ah! M. de Monsoreau, how badly you have been brought up, and how living among beasts spoils the manners.” “Do you not see that I am furious?” howled the count. “Yes, indeed, I do see it, and it does not become you at all; you look frightful.” The count drew his sword. “Ah!” said St. Luc, “you try to provoke me; you see I am perfectly calm.”