“I hear,” continued the count, “that Rémy one day found you dying, as he found me. It is a tie of friendship between us, M. de Bussy, and when Monsoreau loves, he loves well; it is true that when he hates, it is also with all his heart.” “Come, then,” said the duke, getting off his horse, “deign, beautiful Diana, to do us the honors of the house, which we thought to find in grief, but which we find still the abode of joy. As for you, Monsoreau, rest--you require it.” “Monseigneur!” said the count, “it shall never be said that Monsoreau, while he lived, allowed another to do the honors of his house to you; my servants will carry me, and wherever you go, I shall follow.” Bussy approached Diana, and Monsoreau smiled; he took her hand, and he smiled again. It was only the duke he feared. “Here is a great change, M. le Comte,” said Diana. “Alas! why is it not greater!” CHAPTER LXX. THE INCONVENIENCE OF LARGE LITTERS AND NARROW DOORS. Bussy did not quit Diana; the smiles of Monsoreau gave him a liberty which he was only too glad to make use of. “Madame,” said he to Diana, “I am in truth the most miserable of men. On the news of his death, I advised the prince to return to Paris, and to come to terms with his mother; he did so, and now you remain in Anjou.” “Oh, Louis,” replied she, “we dare not say that we are unhappy; so many happy days, so many joys--do you forget them all?” “I forget nothing, madame; on the contrary, I remember but too much, and that is why I suffer as I do at losing this happiness. What shall I do if I return to Paris, a hundred leagues from you? My heart sinks at the thought, Diana.” Diana looked at him, and saw so much grief in his eyes, that she said, “Well, if you go to Paris, I will go also.” “How! will you quit M. de Monsoreau?” “No, he would not allow me to do so; he must come with us.” “Wounded, ill as he is? Impossible!” “He will come, I tell you.” And, leaving Bussy, she went to the prince. The count frowned dreadfully. “Monseigneur,” said she, “they say your highness is fond of flowers; if you will come with me, I will show you the most beautiful in Anjou.” The duke offered her his hand. “Where are you about to take monseigneur?” asked Monsoreau uneasily. “Into the greenhouse.” “Ah! well, carry me there.” “Ma foi!” thought Rémy, “I was right not to kill him, for he will soon kill himself.” Diana smiled on Bussy, and said to him, in a low voice, “Do not let M. de Monsoreau suspect that you are about to leave Anjou, and I will manage all.” “Good!” said Bussy, and approaching the prince, he whispered, “Do not let Monsoreau know that we intend to make peace.” “Why not?” “Because he might tell the queen-mother, to make a friend of her.” “You suspect him, then?” “Yes, I do.” “Well, so do I; I believe he only counterfeited death to deceive us.”