Immediately the door opened, and a young, vigorous-looking girl entered. As she went in, she left the door open, which threw a strong light into the room where Bussy was hid, and between the two windows he saw the portrait. Bussy now crept noiselessly along to where he could peep into the room. However carefully he moved, the floor creaked. At the noise the lady turned, she was the original of the portrait. The man, seeing her turn, turned also; it was M. de Monsoreau.
“Ah!” thought Bussy, “the white horse, the woman carried away, there is some terrible history.”
Bussy, as we have said, could see them both; she, standing up, pale and disdainful. He, not pale, but livid, agitated his foot impatiently.
“Madame,” said he, at last, “do not hope to continue with me this character of a persecuted woman; you are at Paris, in my house, and, still more, you are Comtesse de Monsoreau, that is to say, my Wife.
“If I am your wife, why refuse to conduct me to my father? Why continue to hide me from the eyes of the world?”
“You have forgotten the Duc d’Anjou, madame.”
“You assured me that, once your wife, I should have no more to fear from him.”
“That is to say——”
“You promised me that.”
“But still, madame, I must take precautions.”