On descending into the court, M. de Méridor found a fresh horse, which Bussy had had prepared for him; another waited for Bussy, and attended by Rémy, they started. As they went along, the baron could not but ask himself by what strange confidence he had accompanied, almost blindly, the friend of the prince to whom he owed all his misfortunes. Would it not have been better to have braved the Duc d’Anjou, and instead of following Bussy where it pleased him to lead, to have gone at once to the Louvre, and thrown himself at the feet of the king? What could the prince say to him? How could he console him? Could soft words heal his wound? When they stopped, “What,” said the baron, “does the Duc d’Anjou live in this humble house?” “Not exactly, monsieur, but if it is not his dwelling, it is that of a lady whom he has loved.” A cloud passed over the face of the old gentleman. “Monsieur,” said he, “we provincials are not used to the easy manners of Paris; they annoy us. It seems to me that if the Duc d’Anjou wishes to see the Baron de Méridor, it ought to be at his palace, and not at the house of one of his mistresses.” “Come, come, baron!” said Bussy, with his smile, which always carried conviction with it, “do not hazard false conjectures. On my honor, the lady who you are going to see is perfectly virtuous and worthy in all respects.” “Who is she then?” “She is the wife of a friend of yours.” “Really! but then, monsieur, why did you say the duke loved her?” “Because I always speak truth. But enter, and you shall see accomplished all I have promised you.” “Take care; I wept for my child, and you said, ‘Console yourself, monsieur, the mercy of God is great;’ to promise me a consolation to my grief was almost to promise me a miracle.” “Enter, monsieur,” said Bussy, with his bright smile. Bussy went in first, and, running up to Gertrude, said, “Go and tell Madame de Monsoreau that M. de Bussy is here, and desires to speak to her. But,” continued he, in a low voice, “not a word of the person who accompanies me.” “Madame de Monsoreau!” said the old man in astonishment. But as he feebly mounted the staircase, he heard the voice of Diana crying,-- “M. de Bussy. Gertrude? Oh! let him come in!” “That voice!” cried the baron, stopping. “Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!” At that moment, as the baron tremblingly held on to the banister, and looked around him, he saw at the top of the staircase, Diana, smiling, and more beautiful that ever. At this sight the old man uttered a cry and would have fallen, had he not caught hold of Bussy, who stood by him. “Diana alive! Diana, oh, my God!” “Mon Dieu! M. de Bussy!” cried Diana, running down, “what is the matter with my father?” “He thought you dead, madame, and he wept, as a father must weep for a daughter like you.” “How!” cried Diana; “and no one undeceived him?” “No one.” “No,” cried the old man, recovering a little, “no one, not even M. de Bussy.” “Ungrateful,” said Bussy.