“Ah, is it you, Rémy?”
“Yes, count. Go to bed,”
Bussy obeyed, and all the next day Rémy watched by him, with refreshing drinks for his body and kind words for his mind. But on the day after Bussy missed him. “Poor lad!” thought he, “he was tired and wanted air; and then doubtless Gertrude expected him; she is but a femme de chambre, but she loves, and a femme de chambre who loves is better than a queen who does not.”
The day passed, and Rémy did not return. Bussy was angry and impatient. “Oh!” cried he, “I, who still believed in gratitude and friendship, will henceforth believe in nothing.” Towards evening he heard voices in his ante-chamber, and a servant entered, saying, “It is Monseigneur the Duc d’Anjou.”
“Let him enter,” said Bussy, frowning.
The duke, on entering the room, which was without lights, said, “It is too dark here, Bussy.”
Bussy did not answer; disgust closed his mouth. “Are you really ill,” said the duke, “that you do not answer?”
“I am very ill.”
“Then that is why I have not seen you for two days?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”