Catherine had, as we have seen, had the worst of the argument. She was surprised, and began to wonder if her son were really as decided as he appeared to be, when a slight event changed the aspect of affairs. Bussy had been, as we said, encouraging the prince secretly at every word that he thought dangerous to his cause. Now his cause was war at any price, for he wished to stay in Anjou, watch M. de Monsoreau, and visit his wife. The duke feared Bussy, and was guided by him. Suddenly, however, Bussy felt himself pulled by his cloak; he turned and saw Rémy, who drew him gently towards him. “What is it, Rémy?” said he impatiently. “Why disturb me at such a moment?” “A letter.” “And for a letter you take me from this important conversation.” “It is from Méridor.” “Oh! thank you, my good Rémy.” “Then I was not wrong?” “Oh, no; where is it?” “That is what made me think it of importance; the messenger would only give it to you yourself.” “Is he here?” “Yes.” “Bring him in.” Rémy opened the door, and a servant entered. “Here is M. de Bussy,” said Rémy. “Oh, I know him well,” said the man, giving the letter. “Did she give it to you?” “No; M. de St. Luc.” As Bussy read, he grew first pale, then crimson. Rémy dismissed the servant, and Bussy, with a bewildered look, held out the letter to him. “See,” said he, “what St. Luc has done for me.” “Well,” said Rémy, “this appears to me to be very good and St. Luc is a gallant fellow.” “It is incredible!” cried Bussy. “Certainly; but that is nothing. Here is our position quite changed; I shall have a Comtesse de Bussy for a patient.” “Yes, she shall be my wife. So he is dead.” “So, you see, it is written.” “Oh, it seems like a dream, Rémy. What! shall I see no more that specter, always coming between me and happiness? It cannot be true.” “It is true; read again, ‘he died there.’” “But Diana cannot stay at Méridor--I do not wish it; she must go where she will forget him.” “Paris will be best; people soon forget at Paris.” “You are right; we will return to the little house in the Rue des Tournelles, and she shall pass there her months of widowhood in obscurity.” “But to go to Paris you must have----” “What?” “Peace in Anjou.” “True; oh, mon Dieu! what time lost.” “That means that you are going at once to Méridor.” “No, not I, but you; I must stay here; besides, she might not like my presence just now.” “How shall I see her? Shall I go to the castle?” “No; go first to the old copse and see if she is there; if she is not then go to the castle.” “What shall I say to her?” “Say that I am half mad.” And pressing the young man’s hand, he returned to his place behind the tapes try. Catherine had been trying to regain her ground. “My son,” she had said, “it seemed to me that a mother and son could not fail to understand each other.” “Yet you see that happens sometimes.” “Never when she wishes it.”