“But M. de Guise must draw up the agreement.” “It is already drawn-here it is;” and Monsoreau drew a paper from his pocket: it was a full adhesion to the scheme. The duke read it though, growing more and more pale as he did so. “Here is the pen, monseigneur.” “Then I must sign?” “If you wish to do so; no one forces you.” “Yes, they do, since they menace me with assassination.” “I do not menace you, monseigneur--I only warn you.” “Give me the pen.” And, snatching it eagerly, he signed the paper. Monsoreau watched him with an eye full of hatred and hope, and no sooner had the duke finished than, exclaiming “Ah!” he seized the paper, buttoned it into his doublet, and wrapped his cloak over it. François looked at him with astonishment, for a flash of ferocious joy played over his face. “And now, monseigneur, be prudent,” said he. “How so?” “Do not run about the streets with Aurilly, as you did just now.” “What do you mean?” “I mean that, this evening, you pursued with your love a woman whom her husband adores, and whom he is jealous of, enough to kill any one who approaches her without permission.” “Is it of you and your wife that you are speaking?” “Yes, monseigneur. I have married Diana de Méridor; she is mine, and no one shall have her while I live--not even a prince; I swear it by my name and on this poniard!” and he touched with his poniard the breast of the prince, who started back. “Monsieur, you menace me!” cried François, pale with rage. “No, monseigneur; once more, I say, I only warn you.” “Of what?” “That no one shall make love to my wife.” “And I warn you that you are too late, and that some one makes love to her already.” Monsoreau uttered a terrible cry. “Is it you?” cried he. “You are mad, count!” “No, I am not; prove your words.” “Who was hidden this evening, twenty steps from your door, with a musket?” “I.” “Well, comte, during that time there was a man with your wife.” “You saw him go in?” “I saw him come out.” “By the door?” “No, by the window.” “Did you recognize him?” “Yes.” “Name him, monseigneur, or I do not answer for myself.” The duke half smiled. “M. le Comte,” said he, “on my faith as a prince, on my soul, within a week I will tell you his name.” “You swear it.” “I swear it.” “Well, monseigneur, you have a week; but----” said he, touching the paper in his breast. “Come back in eight days.” “Good! in eight days I shall have regained all my strength, ready for vengeance.” CHAPTER LXXXII. A PROMENADE AT THE TOURNELLES.