“Tell us what you know about him----” “Willingly. Firstly, I am afraid of him.” “Good, that is what you think; now tell us what you know.” “Listen. I was going home one night----” “It begins in a terrible manner.” “Pray let me finish. It was about six months ago, I was returning from my uncle D’Entragues, through the wood of Méridor, when all at once I heard a frightful cry, and I saw pass, with an empty saddle, a white horse, rushing through the wood. I rode on, and at the end of a long avenue, darkened by the approaching shades of night, I saw a man on a black horse; he seemed to fly. Then I heard again the same cry, and I distinguished before him on the saddle a woman, on whose mouth he had his hand. I had a gun in my hand--you know I aim well, and I should have killed him, but my gun missed fire.” “Well?” “I asked a woodcutter who this gentleman on the black horse was, and he said, ‘M. de Monsoreau.’” “Well,” said Antragues, “it is not so uncommon to carry away a woman, is it, Bussy?” “No; but, at least, one might let them cry out.” “And who was the woman?” “That I do not know; but he has a bad reputation,” “Do you know anything else about him?” “No; but he is much feared by his tenantry. However, he is a good hunter, and will fill his post better than St. Luc would have done, for whom it was first destined.” “Do you know where St. Luc is?” “No; is he still the king’s prisoner?” “Not at all; he set off at one o’clock this morning to visit his country house with his wife.” “Banished?” “It looks like it.” “Impossible!” “True as the gospel; Marshal de Brissac told me so this morning.” “Well! it has served M. de Monsoreau----” “Ah! I know now.” “Know what?” “The service that he rendered to the duke.” “Who? St. Luc?” “No; Monsoreau.” “Really.” “Yes, you shall see; come with me,” and Bussy, followed by Livarot and Antragues, galloped after the Duc d’Anjou. “Ah, monseigneur,” said he, “what a precious man M. de Monsoreau is.” “Ah! really; then you spoke to him?” “Certainly.” “And asked him what he had done for me?” “Certainly; that was all I spoke to him for.” “And what did he say?” “He courteously confessed that he was your purveyor.” “Of game?” “No; of women.” “What do you mean, Bussy?” cried the duke angrily. “I mean, monseigneur, that he carries away women for you on his great black horse, and that as they are ignorant of the honor reserved for them, he puts his hand on their mouths to prevent their crying out.” The duke frowned, and ground his teeth with anger, grew pale, and galloped on so fast, that Bussy and his, companions were left in the rear. “Ah! ah! it seems that the joke is a good one,” said Antragues. “And so much the better, that everyone does not seem to find it a joke,” said Bussy. A moment after, they heard the duke’s voice calling Bussy. He went, and found the duke laughing. “Oh!” said he, “it appears that what I said was droll.” “I am not laughing at what you said.”