“You are my friend; you have already given me a terrible proof of it.”
“Ah! my dear friend,” said St. Luc, who believed Monsoreau dead and buried, “do not thank me, it is not worth while; certainly the thrust was a good one, and succeeded admirably, but it was the king who showed it me, when he kept me here a prisoner at the Louvre.”
“Dear friend.”
“Never mind Monsoreau; tell me about Diana. Was she pleased at last? Does she pardon me? When will the wedding take place?”
“Oh! my dear friend, we must wait till Monsoreau is dead.”
“What!” cried St. Luc, starting back as though he had put his foot on a pointed nail.
“Yes; poppies are not such dangerous plants as you thought; he did not die from his fall on them, but is alive and more furious than ever.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and he talks of nothing but vengeance, and of killing you on the first occasion.”
“And I have announced his death to everyone; he will find his heirs in mourning. But he shall not give me the lie; I shall meet him again, and if he escapes me a second time——”