“No, sire, he will not fight,” said St. Luc; “and that is why I ask, not for vengeance--I was wrong to call it so--but for justice. I love my king, and am, above all things, jealous of his honor, and I think that it is a deplorable service which they have rendered to your majesty by killing M. de Bussy.” The Duc d’Anjou had just entered, and St. Luc’s words had enlightened the king as to the service his brother had boasted of having rendered him. “Do you know what they will say?” continued St. Luc. “They will say, if your friends conquer, that it is because they first murdered Bussy.” “And who will dare to say that?” “Pardieu! everyone,” said Crillon. “No, monsieur, they shall not say that,” replied the king, “for you shall point out the assassin.” “I will name him, sire, to clear your majesty from so heinous an accusation,” said St. Luc. “Well! do it.” The Duc d’Anjou stood quietly by. “Sire,” continued St. Luc, “last night they laid a snare for Bussy, while he visited a woman who loved him; the husband, warned by a traitor, came to his house with a troop of assassins; they were everywhere--in the street--in the courtyard, even in the garden.” In spite of his power over himself, the duke grew pale at these last words. “Bussy fought like a lion, sire, but numbers overwhelmed him, and--” “And he was killed,” interrupted the king, “and justly; I will certainly not revenge an adulterer.” “Sire, I have not finished my tale. The unhappy man, after having defended himself for more than half an hour in the room, after having triumphed over his enemies, escaped, bleeding, wounded, and mutilated: he only wanted some one to lend him a saving hand, which I would have done had I not been seized by his assassins, and bound, and gagged. Unfortunately, they forgot to take away my sight as well as my speech, for I saw two men approach the unlucky Bussy, who was hanging on the iron railings. I heard him entreat them for help, for in these two men he had the right to reckon on two friends. Well, sire, it is horrible to relate--it was still more horrible to see and hear--one ordered him to be shot, and the other obeyed.” “And you know the assassins?” cried the king, moved in spite of himself. “Yes,” said St. Luc, and turning to the prince, with an expression of intense hatred, he cried, “the assassin, sire, was the prince, his friend.” The duke stood perfectly quiet and answered, “Yes, M. de St. Luc is right; it was I, and your majesty will appreciate my action, for M. de Bussy was my servant; but this morning he was to fight against your majesty.”