“Quelus, think of the Duc d’Anjou, who supports Bussy; you do not suppose I fear Bussy himself?”
“Eh! Mordieu, what need we fear; we belong to the king. If we get into peril for him he will help us.”
“You, yes; but me,” said St. Luc, piteously.
“Ah dame, why do you marry, knowing how jealous the king is in his friendships?”
“Good,” thought St. Luc, “everyone for himself; and as I wish to live tranquil during the first fortnight of my marriage, I will make friends with M. Bussy.” And he advanced towards him. After his impertinent speech, Bussy had looked round the room to see if any one would take notice of it. Seeing St. Luc approach, he thought he had found what he sought.
“Monsieur,” said he, “is it to what I said just now, that I owe the honor of the conversation you appear to desire?”
“Of what you have just said, I heard nothing. No, I saw you, and wished to salute you, and thank you for the honor you have done me by your presence here.”
Bussy, who knew the courage of St. Luc, understood at once that he considered the duties of a host paramount, and answered him politely.
Henri, who had seen the movement said, “Oh, oh! I fear there is mischief there; I cannot have St. Luc killed. Go and see, Quelus; no, you are too rash—you, Maugiron.”
But St. Luc did not let him approach Bussy, but came to meet him and returned with him to the king.