“No one.”
“No,” cried the old man, recovering a little, “no one, not even M. de Bussy.”
“Ungrateful,” said Bussy.
“Oh! yes! you are right; for this moment repays me for all my griefs. Oh! my Diana! my beloved Diana!” cried he, drawing his daughter to him with one hand, and extending the other to Bussy. But all at once he cried, “But you said I was to see Madame de Monsoreau. Where is she?”
“Alas! my father!” cried Diana.
Bussy summoned up all his strength. “M. de Monsoreau is your son-in-law,” he said.
“What! my son-in-law! and every one—even you, Diana—left me in ignorance.”
“I feared to write, my father; he said my letters would fall into the hands of the prince. Besides, I thought you knew all.”
“But why all these strange mysteries?”
“Ah, yes, my father; why did M. de Monsoreau let you think me dead, and not let you know I was his wife?”