“Yes,” cried Bussy, “but if the danger were less great than you thought; what do we know? There is some mystery in all this, which I must clear up. But I protest to you, that if I had had the happiness to be in the place of M. de Monsoreau, I would have saved your young and beautiful daughter without exacting a price for it.”
“He loved her,” said M. de Méridor, trying to excuse him.
“And I, then——” cried Bussy; and, although he stopped, frightened at what he was about to say, Diana heard and understood.
“Well!” cried she, reddening, “my brother, my friend, can you do nothing for me?”
“But the Duc d’Anjou,” said the baron.
“I am not aware of those who fear the anger of princes,” said Bussy; “and, besides, I believe the danger lies not with him, but with M. de Monsoreau.”
“But if the duke learns that Diana is alive, all is lost.”
“I see,” said Bussy, “you believe M. de Monsoreau more than me. Say no more; you refuse my aid; throw yourself, then, into the arms of the man who has already so well merited your confidence. Adieu, baron; adieu, madame, you will see me no more.”
“Oh!” cried Diana, taking his hand. “Have you seen me waver for an instant; have you ever seen me soften towards him? No. I beg you, on my knees, M. de Bussy, not to abandon me.”
Bussy seized her hands, and all his anger melted away like snow before the sun.