“To Paris.”
“But the king?”
“Oh! he will have forgotten everything by this time; besides, if there is to be war, as seems probable, he will be glad of me. But I must have pen and ink.”
“For what?”
“To write to Bussy; I cannot leave Anjou without telling him why.”
“No, of course not; you will find all that you require in my room.” St. Luc went in, and wrote,—
“DEAR FRIEND,
“You will learn, by report, ere long, the accident which has happened to M. de Monsoreau; we had together, by the old copse, a discussion on broken-down walls and horses that go home alone. In the heat of the argument, he fell on a bed of poppies and dandelions so hard that he died there.
“Your friend for life,
“St. Luc.