“It is possible; but I shall keep my wife.” The next day they went to the old house; Diana took her old room, with the bed of white and gold damask. A corridor only separated it from that of the count. Bussy tore his hair with rage. CHAPTER LXXIX. A VISIT TO THE HOUSE AT LES TOURNELLES. The duke became more and more in love with Diana, as she seemed always to escape him, and with his love for her, his hatred of Monsoreau increased. On the other side he had not renounced his political hopes, but had recommenced his underhand machinations. The moment was favorable, for many wavering conspirators had been encouraged by the kind of triumph which the weakness of the king, and the cunning of Catherine, had given to the duke; however, he no longer confided his projects to Bussy, and showed him only a hypocritical friendship. He was vaguely uneasy at seeing him at Monsoreau’s house, and envious of the confidence that Monsoreau, so suspicious of himself, placed in him. He was frightened also at the joy and happiness which shone in Diana’s face. He knew that flowers only bloom in the light of the sun, and women in that of love. She was visibly happy, and this annoyed him. Determined to use his power, both for love and vengeance, he thought it would be absurd to be stayed in this purpose by such ridiculous obstacles as the jealousy of a husband, and the repugnance of a wife. One day he ordered his equipages, intending to visit Monsoreau. He was told that he had moved to his house in the Rue St. Antoine. “Let us go there,” said he to Bussy. Soon the place was in commotion at the arrival of the twenty-four handsome cavaliers, each with two lackeys, who formed the prince’s suite. Both Bussy and the prince knew the house well; they both went in, but while the prince entered the room, Bussy remained on the staircase. It resulted from this arrangement that the duke was received by Monsoreau alone, while Bussy was received by Diana, while Gertrude kept watch. Monsoreau, always pale, grew livid at sight of the prince. “Monseigneur, here! really it is too much honor for my poor house!” cried he, with a visible irony. The prince smiled. “Wherever a suffering friend goes, I follow him,” replied he. “How are you?” “Oh, much better; I can already walk about, and in a week I shall be quite well.” “Was it your doctor who prescribed for you the air of the Bastile?” asked the prince, with the most innocent air possible. “Yes, monseigneur.” “Did you not like the Rue des Petits-Pères?” “No, monseigneur; I had too much company there--they made too much noise.” “But you have no garden here.” “I did not like the garden.” The prince bit his lips. “Do you know, comte,” said he, “that many people are asking the king for your place?” “On what pretext, monseigneur?” “They say you are dead.” “Monseigneur, you can answer for it that I am not.” “I answer for nothing; you bury yourself as though you were dead.” It was Monsoreau’s turn to bite his lips.