CHAPTER XCI.
THE ASSASSINATION.
Bussy, himself without disquietude or hesitation, had been received by Diana without fear, for she believed herself sure of the absence of M. de Monsoreau. Never had this beautiful woman been more beautiful, nor Bussy more happy. She was moved, however, by fears for the morrow’s combat, now so near, and she repeated to him, again and again, the anxiety she felt about it, and questioned him as to the arrangements he had made for flight. To conquer was not all; there was afterwards the king’s anger to avoid, for it was not probable that he would ever pardon the death or defeat of his favorites.
“And then,” said she, “are you not acknowledged to be the bravest man in France? Why make it a point of honor to augment your glory? You are already superior to other men, and you do not wish to please any other woman but me, Louis. Therefore, guard your life, or rather—for I think there is not a man in France capable of killing you, Louis—I should say, take care of wounds, for you may be wounded. Indeed, it was through a wound received in fighting with these same men, that I first made your acquaintance.”
“Make yourself easy,” said Bussy, smiling; “I will take care of my face—I shall not be disfigured.”
“Oh, take care of yourself altogether. Think of the grief you would experience if you saw me brought home wounded and bleeding, and that I should feel the same grief on seeing your blood. Be prudent, my too courageous hero—that is all I ask. Act like the Roman of whom you read to me the other day: let your friends fight, aid the one who needs it most, but if three men—if two men attack you, fly; you can turn, like Horatius, and kill them one after another.”
“Yes, my dear Diana.”
“Oh, you reply without hearing me, Louis; you look at me, and do not listen.”
“But I see you, and you are beautiful.”