“As sure as I can be. Here is a letter from St. Luc, announcing it; and I have sent Rémy, my doctor, to present my condolences to the old baron.” “Oh, Monsoreau!” cried the prince, with his malignant smile. “Why monseigneur, one would say you hated the poor count.” “No, it was you.” “Of course I did; did he not humiliate me through you?” “You remember it still.” “But you, monseigneur, whose friend and tool he was----” “Well, well, get my horse saddled, Bussy.” “What for?” “To go to Méridor; I wish to pay a visit to Madame Monsoreau. I have been projecting one for some time, and I do not know why it has not taken place sooner.” “Now Monsoreau is dead,” thought Bussy, “I do not care; I will protect Diana. I will go with him, and see her.” A quarter of an hour after, the prince, Bussy, and ten gentlemen rode to Méridor, with that pleasure which fine weather, turf, and youth always inspire in men on horseback. The porter at the château came to ask the names of the visitors. “The Duc d’Anjou,” replied the prince. The porter blew his horn, and soon windows were opened, and they heard the noise of bolts and bars as the door was unfastened, and the old baron appeared on the threshold, holding in his hand a bunch of keys. Immediately behind him stood a lady. “Ah, there is the beautiful Diana!” cried the duke; “do you see her, Bussy?” Diana, indeed, came out of the house, and behind her came a litter, on which lay Monsoreau, his eyes shining with fever and jealousy as he was carried along. “What does this mean?” cried the duke to his companion, who had turned whiter than the handkerchief with which he was trying to hide his emotion. “Long live the Duc d’Anjou!” cried Monsoreau, raising his hand in the air by a violent effort. “Take care, you will hurt yourself,” said a voice behind him. It was Rémy. Surprise does not last long at court, so, with a smile, the duke said, “Oh, my dear count, what a happy surprise! Do you know we heard you were dead?” “Come near, monseigneur, and let me kiss your hand. Thank God, not only I am not dead, but I shall live; I hope to serve you with more ardor than ever.” As for Bussy, he felt stunned, and scarcely dared to look at Diana. This treasure, twice lost to him, belonged still to his rival. “And you, M. de Bussy,” said Monsoreau, “receive my thanks, for it is almost to you that I owe my life.” “To me!” stammered the young man, who thought the count was mocking him. “Yes, indirectly, it is true, for here is my saviour,” said he, turning to Rémy, who would willingly have sunk into the earth. Then, in spite of his signs, which he took for precautions to himself, he recounted the care and skill which the young doctor had exhibited towards him. The duke frowned, and Bussy looked thunders. The poor fellow raised his hands to heaven.