THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
On descending into the court, M. de Méridor found a fresh horse, which Bussy had had prepared for him; another waited for Bussy, and attended by Rémy, they started. As they went along, the baron could not but ask himself by what strange confidence he had accompanied, almost blindly, the friend of the prince to whom he owed all his misfortunes. Would it not have been better to have braved the Duc d’Anjou, and instead of following Bussy where it pleased him to lead, to have gone at once to the Louvre, and thrown himself at the feet of the king? What could the prince say to him? How could he console him? Could soft words heal his wound?
When they stopped, “What,” said the baron, “does the Duc d’Anjou live in this humble house?”
“Not exactly, monsieur, but if it is not his dwelling, it is that of a lady whom he has loved.”
A cloud passed over the face of the old gentleman. “Monsieur,” said he, “we provincials are not used to the easy manners of Paris; they annoy us. It seems to me that if the Duc d’Anjou wishes to see the Baron de Méridor, it ought to be at his palace, and not at the house of one of his mistresses.”
“Come, come, baron!” said Bussy, with his smile, which always carried conviction with it, “do not hazard false conjectures. On my honor, the lady who you are going to see is perfectly virtuous and worthy in all respects.”
“Who is she then?”
“She is the wife of a friend of yours.”
“Really! but then, monsieur, why did you say the duke loved her?”
“Because I always speak truth. But enter, and you shall see accomplished all I have promised you.”