“But still, madame, I must take precautions.” “Well, monsieur, when you have taken them, return to me.” “Diana,” said the count, who was growing visibly angry, “Diana, do not make a jest of this sacred tie.” “Act so, monsieur, that I can have confidence in the husband, and I will respect the marriage.” “Oh! this is too much!” cried the count. “I am in my own house, you are my wife, and this night you shall be mine.” Bussy put his hand on his sword-hilt, and made a step forward, but Diana did not give him time to appear. “Stay,” said she, drawing a poignard from her belt, “here is my answer.” And rushing into the room where Bussy was, she shut the door and locked it, while Monsoreau exhausted himself in menaces and in blows on the door. “If you break this door you will find me dead on the threshold.” “And be easy, madame, you shall be revenged,” said Bussy. Diana was about to utter a cry, but her fear of her husband was strong enough to restrain her. She remained pale and trembling, but mute. M. de Monsoreau struck violently with his foot, but convinced that Diana would execute her menace, went out of the drawing-room, shutting the door violently behind him. Then they heard him going down the stairs. “But you, monsieur,” said Diana, turning to Bussy, “who are you, and how came you here?” “Madame,” said Bussy, opening the door, and kneeling before her, “I am the man whose life you preserved. You cannot think that I come to your house with any bad designs.” As the light streamed in, Diana recognized him at once. “Ah! you here, monsieur,” cried she, clasping her hands, “you were here--you heard all?” “Alas! yes, madame.” “But who are you? your name, monsieur?” “Madame, I am Louis de Clermont, Comte de Bussy.” “Bussy! you are the brave Bussy!” cried Diana, filling with joy the heart of the young man. “Ah! Gertrude!” cried she, turning to her servant, who, hearing her mistress talking to some one, had entered in terror, “Gertrude, I have no more to fear, for from this time I place myself under the safeguard of the most noble and loyal gentleman in France.” Then holding out her hand to Bussy. “Rise, monsieur,” said she, “I know who you are, now you must know who I am.” CHAPTER XIII. WHO DIANA WAS. Bussy rose, bewildered at his own happiness, and entered with Diana into the room which M. de Monsoreau had just quitted. He looked at Diana with astonishment and admiration; he had not dared to hope that the woman whom he had sought for, would equal the woman of his dream, and now the reality surpassed all that he had taken for a caprice of his imagination. Diana was about nineteen, that is to say in the first éclât of that youth and beauty which gives the purest coloring to the flower, the finest flavor to the fruit. There was no mistaking the looks of Bussy; Diana felt herself admired. At last she broke the silence. “Monsieur,” said she, “you have told me who you are, but not how you came here.”