“Does the baron know you, M. de Bussy?” asked St. Luc.
“It is the first time I ever had the honor of seeing M. de Méridor,” said Bussy, who alone understood the effect which the name of the Duc d’Anjou had produced on the old man.
“Ah! you a gentleman of the Duc d’Anjou!” cried the baron, “of that monster, that demon, and you dare to avow it, and have the audacity to present yourself here!”
“Is he mad?” asked St. Luc of his wife.
“Grief must have turned his brain,” replied she, in terror.
“Yes, that monster!” cried he again; “the assassin who killed my child! Ah, you do not know,” continued he, taking Jeanne’s hands; “but the duke killed my Diana, my child—he killed her!”
Tears stood in Bussy’s eyes, and Jeanne said:
“Seigneur, were it so, which I do not understand, you cannot accuse M. de Bussy of this dreadful crime—he, who is the most noble and generous gentleman living. See, my good father, he weeps with us. Would he have come had he known how you would receive him? Ah, dear baron, tell us how this catastrophe happened.”
“Then you did not know?” said the old man to Bussy.
“Eh, mon Dieu! no,” cried Jeanne, “we none of us knew.”