“M. de Monsoreau! Well, what was his conduct in all this!”
“Ah, generous; for Diana had refused his hand. He was the first to tell me of the infamous projects of the duke; he showed me how to baffle them, only asking, if he succeeded, for her hand. I gave my consent with joy; but alas! it was useless—he arrived too late—my poor Diana had saved herself by death!”
“And since then, what have you heard of him?”
“It is a month ago, and the poor gentleman has not dared to appear before me, having failed in his generous design.”
“Well, monsieur,” said Bussy, “I am charged by the Duc d’Anjou to bring you to Paris, where his highness desires to speak to you.”
“I!” cried the baron, “I see this man! And what can the murderer have to say to me?”
“Who knows? To justify himself perhaps.”
“No, M. de Bussy, no, I will not go to Paris; it would be too far away from where my child lies in her cold bed.”
“M. le Baron,” said Bussy firmly, “I have come expressly to take you to Paris, and it is my duty to do so.”
“Well, I will go,” cried the old man, trembling with anger; “but woe to those who bring me. The king will hear me, or, if he will not, I will appeal to all the gentlemen of France. Yes, M. de Bussy, I will accompany you.”