“Come,” said the old man, turning towards the house, without even noticing the others. The château had a strange sad look; all the blinds were down, and no one was visible. “Is Diana unfortunately not at home?” asked Jeanne. The old man stopped, and looked at her with an almost terrified expression. “Diana!” said he. At this name the two dogs uttered a mournful howl. “Diana!” repeated the old man; “do you not, then, know?” And his voice, trembling before, was extinguished in a sob. “But what has happened?” cried Jeanne, clasping her hands. “Diana is dead!” cried the old man, with a torrent of tears. “Dead!” cried Jeanne, growing as pale as death. “Dead,” thought Bussy; “then he has let him also think her dead. Poor old man! how he will bless me some day!” “Dead!” cried the old man again; “they killed her.” “Ah, my dear baron!” cried Jeanne, bursting into tears, and throwing her arms round the old man’s neck. “But,” said he at last, “though desolate and empty, the old house is none the less hospitable. Enter.” Jeanne took the old man’s arm, and they went into the dining-hall, where he sunk into his armchair. At last, he said, “You said you were married; which is your husband?” M. de St. Luc advanced and bowed to the old man, who tried to smile as he saluted him; then, turning to Bussy, said, “And this gentleman?” “He is our friend, M. Louis de Clermont, Comte de Bussy d’Amboise, gentleman of M. le Duc d’Anjou.” At these words the old man started up, threw a withering glance at Bussy, and then sank back with a groan. “What is it?” said Jeanne. “Does the baron know you, M. de Bussy?” asked St. Luc. “It is the first time I ever had the honor of seeing M. de Méridor,” said Bussy, who alone understood the effect which the name of the Duc d’Anjou had produced on the old man. “Ah! you a gentleman of the Duc d’Anjou!” cried the baron, “of that monster, that demon, and you dare to avow it, and have the audacity to present yourself here!” “Is he mad?” asked St. Luc of his wife. “Grief must have turned his brain,” replied she, in terror. “Yes, that monster!” cried he again; “the assassin who killed my child! Ah, you do not know,” continued he, taking Jeanne’s hands; “but the duke killed my Diana, my child--he killed her!” Tears stood in Bussy’s eyes, and Jeanne said: “Seigneur, were it so, which I do not understand, you cannot accuse M. de Bussy of this dreadful crime--he, who is the most noble and generous gentleman living. See, my good father, he weeps with us. Would he have come had he known how you would receive him? Ah, dear baron, tell us how this catastrophe happened.” “Then you did not know?” said the old man to Bussy. “Eh, mon Dieu! no,” cried Jeanne, “we none of us knew.”