“Ah, there is the beautiful Diana!” cried the duke; “do you see her, Bussy?”
Diana, indeed, came out of the house, and behind her came a litter, on which lay Monsoreau, his eyes shining with fever and jealousy as he was carried along.
“What does this mean?” cried the duke to his companion, who had turned whiter than the handkerchief with which he was trying to hide his emotion.
“Long live the Duc d’Anjou!” cried Monsoreau, raising his hand in the air by a violent effort.
“Take care, you will hurt yourself,” said a voice behind him. It was Rémy.
Surprise does not last long at court, so, with a smile, the duke said, “Oh, my dear count, what a happy surprise! Do you know we heard you were dead?”
“Come near, monseigneur, and let me kiss your hand. Thank God, not only I am not dead, but I shall live; I hope to serve you with more ardor than ever.”
As for Bussy, he felt stunned, and scarcely dared to look at Diana. This treasure, twice lost to him, belonged still to his rival.
“And you, M. de Bussy,” said Monsoreau, “receive my thanks, for it is almost to you that I owe my life.”
“To me!” stammered the young man, who thought the count was mocking him.