“Of his daughter, Diana, the most beautiful girl possible?” Bussy was filled with astonishment, asking himself by what singular happiness he found on the road people to talk to him of Diana de Méridor to echo the only thought which he had in his mind. “Is this castle far off, madame?” asked he. “About seven leagues, and we shall sleep there to-night; you will come, will you not?” “Yes, madame.” “Come, that is already a step towards the happiness I promised you.” “And the baron, what sort of a man is he?” “A perfect gentleman, a preux chevalier, who, had he lived in King Arthur’s time, would have had a place at his round table.” “And,” said Bussy, steadying his voice, “to whom is his daughter married?” “Diana married?” “Would that be extraordinary?” “Of course not, only I should have been the first to hear of it.” Bussy could not repress a sigh. “Then,” said he, “you expect to find Mademoiselle de Méridor at the château with her father?” “We trust so.” They rode on a long time in silence, and at last Jeanne cried: “Ah! there are the turrets of the castle. Look, M. de Bussy, through that great leafless wood, which in a month, will be so beautiful; do you not see the roof?” “Yes,” said Bussy, with an emotion which astonished himself; “and is that the château of Méridor?” And he thought of the poor prisoner shut up in the Rue St. Antoine. CHAPTER XXIII. THE OLD MAN. Two hours after they reached the castle. Bussy had been debating within himself whether or not to confide to his friends what he knew about Diana. But there was much that he could tell to no one, and he feared their questions, and besides, he wished to enter Méridor as a stranger. Madame de St. Luc was surprised, when the report sounded his horn to announce a visit, that Diana did not run as usual to meet them, but instead of her appeared an old man, bent and leaning on a stick, and his white hair flying in the wind. He crossed the drawbridge, followed by two great dogs, and when he drew quite near, said in a feeble voice,-- “Who is there, and who does a poor old man the honor to visit him?” “It is I, Seigneur Augustin!” cried the laughing voice of the young woman. But the baron, raising his head slowly, said, “You? I do not see. Who is it?” “Oh, mon Dieu!” cried Jeanne, “do you not know me? It is true, my disguise----” “Excuse me,” said the old man, “but I can see little; the eyes of old men are not made for weeping, and if they weep too much, the tears burn them.” “Must I tell you my name? I am Madame de St. Luc.” “I do not know you.” “Ah! but my maiden name was Jeanne de Cosse-Brissac.” “Ah, mon Dieu!” cried the old man, trying to open the gate with his trembling hands. Jeanne, who did not understand this strange reception, still attributed it only to his declining faculties; but, seeing that he remembered her, jumped off her horse to embrace him, but as she did so she felt his cheek wet with tears.