“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.