“Then they will send your messenger to the Bastile.” “I will give him a letter, and not let him know what he is carrying.” “On the contrary, give him no letter, and let him know.” “Then no one will go.” “Oh! I know some one.” “Who?” “I, myself.” “You!” “Yes, I like difficult negotiations.” “Bussy, my dear Bussy, if you will do that, I shall be eternally grateful.” Bussy smiled. The duke thought he hesitated. “And I will give you ten thousand crowns for your journey,” added he. “Thanks, monseigneur, but these things cannot be paid for.” “Then you will go?” “Yes.” “When?” “Whenever you like.” “The sooner the better.” “This evening if you wish it.” “Dear Bussy.” “You know I would do anything for your highness. I will go to-night; you stay here and enjoy yourself, and get me something good from the queen-mother.” “I will not forget.” Bussy then prepared to depart as soon as the signal arrived from Méridor. It did not come till the next morning, for the count had felt himself so feeble that he had been forced to take a night’s rest. But early in the morning a messenger came to announce to Bussy that the count had set off for Paris in a litter, followed on horseback by Rémy, Diana, and Gertrude. Bussy jumped on his horse, and took the same road. CHAPTER LXXI. WHAT TEMPER THE KING WAS IN WHEN ST. LUC REAPPEARED AT THE LOUVRE. Since the departure of Catherine, Henri, however, confident in his ambassador, had thought only of arming himself against the attacks of his brother. He amused, or rather ennuyéd, himself by drawing up long lists of proscriptions, in which were inscribed in alphabetical order all who had not shown themselves zealous for his cause. The lists became longer every day, and at the S---- and the L----, that is to say, twice over, was inscribed the name of M. de St. Luc. Chicot, in the midst of all this, was, little by little, and man by man, enrolling an army for his master. One evening Chicot entered the room where the king sat at supper. “What is it?” asked the king. “M. de St. Luc.” “M. de St. Luc?” “Yes.” “At Paris?” “Yes.” “At the Louvre?” “Yes.” The king rose, red and agitated. “What has he come for? The traitor!” “Who knows?” “He comes, I am sure, as deputy from the states of Anjou--as an envoy from my rebellious brother. He makes use of the rebellion as a safe conduct to come here and insult me.” “Who knows?” “Or perhaps he comes to ask me for his property, of which I have kept back the revenues, which may have been rather an abuse of power, as, after all, he has committed no crime.” “Who knows?” “Ah, you repeat eternally the same thing; mort de ma vie! you tire my patience out with your eternal ‘Who knows?’” “Eh! mordieu! do you think you are very amusing with your eternal questions?” “At least you might reply something.” “And what should I reply? Do you take me for an ancient oracle? It is you who are tiresome with your foolish suppositions.” “M. Chicot?” “M. Henri.”