Diana, at this moment, rose, opened a desk, and from a portfolio drew out the letter. Bussy glanced at the address and read, “To the beautiful Diana de Méridor.” Then looking at Diana, he said-- “It is the Duc d’Anjou’s writing.” “Ah!” replied she, with a sigh, “then he did not deceive me.” Then, as Bussy hesitated to open the letter-- “Read,” said she, “chance has initiated you into the most secret history of my life, and I wish to keep nothing from you.” Bussy obeyed and read-- “An unhappy prince, whom your divine beauty has struck to the heart, will come at ten o’clock to-night to apologize for his conduct towards you--conduct which he himself feels has no other excuse than the invincible love he entertains for you. “FRANÇOIS.” “Then this letter was really from the duke?” asked Diana. “Alas! yes; it is his writing and his seal.” Diana sighed. “Can he be less guilty than I thought?” said she. “Who, the prince?” “No, M. de Monsoreau.” “Continue, madame, and we will judge the prince and the count.” “This letter, which I had then no idea of not believing genuine, rendered still more precious to me the intervention of the unknown friend who offered me aid in the name of my father; I had no hope but in him. Night arrived soon, for it was in the month of January, and we had still four or five hours to wait for the appointed time. It was a fine frosty night; the heavens were brilliant with stars, and the crescent moon lighted the country with its silver beams. We had no means of knowing the time, but we sat anxiously watching at Gertrude’s window. At last we saw figures moving among the trees, and then distinctly heard the neighing of a horse. “It is our friends,’ said Gertrude. ‘Or the prince,’ replied I. ‘The prince would not hide himself.’ This reflection reassured me. A man now advanced alone: it seemed to us that he quitted another group who were left under the shade of the trees. As he advanced, my eyes made violent efforts to pierce the obscurity, and I thought I recognized first the tall figure, then the features, of M. de Monsoreau. I now feared almost as much the help as the danger. I remained mute, and drew back from the window. Arrived at the wall, he secured his boat, and I saw his head at our window. I could not repress a cry. “‘Ah, pardon,’ said he, ‘but I thought you expected me.’ ‘I expected some one, monsieur, but I did not know it was you.’ A bitter smile passed over his face. ‘Who else,’ said he, ‘except her father, watches over the honor of Diana de Méridor?’ ‘You told me, monsieur, in your letter, that you came in my father’s name.’ ‘Yes, mademoiselle, and lest you should doubt it, here is a note from the baron,’ and he gave me a paper. I read--