“Pardon, monsieur, but you seem all alone. Is it that the favor which you enjoy has already made you enemies?”
“I do not know, monsieur, but it is probable. But, may I ask, to what I owe the honor that you do me in invading my solitude?”
“Ma foi, to the great admiration that M. le Duc d’Anjou has inspired in me for you.”
“How so?”
“By recounting to me the exploit for which you were made chief huntsman.”
M. de Monsoreau grew so frightfully pale, that the marks in his face looked like black spots on his yellow skin; at the same time he looked at Bussy in a manner that portended a violent storm. Bussy saw that he had done wrong; but he was not a man to draw back; on the contrary, he was one of those who generally repair an indiscretion by an impertinence.
“You say, monsieur,” said Monsoreau, “that the Duke recounted to you my last exploit?”
“Yes, monsieur, but I should much like to hear the story from your own lips.”
M. de Monsoreau clasped his dagger tighter in his hand, as though he longed to attack Bussy.
“Ma foi, monsieur,” said he, “I was quite disposed to grant your request, and recognize your courtesy, but unfortunately here is the king arriving, so we must leave it for another time.”