“Stop, M. d’Aubigné,” cried the duke, “it is Bussy, I believe.”
“Oh! yes, my prince, it is I. But what, in Heaven’s name are you doing, killing horses on the road at this hour?”
“Ah! is it M. de Bussy?” said D’Aubigné, “then you do not want me any more. Permit me to return to him who sent me?”
“Not without receiving my sincere thanks and the promise of a lasting friendship.”
“I accept it, monseigneur, and will recall your words to you some day.”
“M. D’Aubigné! I am in the clouds,” murmured Bussy.
“Did you not know? As you are here, did you not expect me?” said the prince, with an air of suspicion which did not escape Bussy, who began to reflect that his secret residence in Anjou might seem very strange to the prince.
“I did better than expect you,” said Bussy, “and as you wish to enter the town before the gates are closed, jump into the saddle, monseigneur.”
The prince accepted, and Bussy mounted behind him, asking himself if this prince, dressed in black, were not the evil spirit sent already to disturb his happiness.
“Where do we go now, monseigneur?” said he, as they entered the city.