The Duc d’Anjou stood quietly by.
“Sire,” continued St. Luc, “last night they laid a snare for Bussy, while he visited a woman who loved him; the husband, warned by a traitor, came to his house with a troop of assassins; they were everywhere—in the street—in the courtyard, even in the garden.”
In spite of his power over himself, the duke grew pale at these last words.
“Bussy fought like a lion, sire, but numbers overwhelmed him, and—”
“And he was killed,” interrupted the king, “and justly; I will certainly not revenge an adulterer.”
“Sire, I have not finished my tale. The unhappy man, after having defended himself for more than half an hour in the room, after having triumphed over his enemies, escaped, bleeding, wounded, and mutilated: he only wanted some one to lend him a saving hand, which I would have done had I not been seized by his assassins, and bound, and gagged. Unfortunately, they forgot to take away my sight as well as my speech, for I saw two men approach the unlucky Bussy, who was hanging on the iron railings. I heard him entreat them for help, for in these two men he had the right to reckon on two friends. Well, sire, it is horrible to relate—it was still more horrible to see and hear—one ordered him to be shot, and the other obeyed.”
“And you know the assassins?” cried the king, moved in spite of himself.
“Yes,” said St. Luc, and turning to the prince, with an expression of intense hatred, he cried, “the assassin, sire, was the prince, his friend.”
The duke stood perfectly quiet and answered, “Yes, M. de St. Luc is right; it was I, and your majesty will appreciate my action, for M. de Bussy was my servant; but this morning he was to fight against your majesty.”
“You lie, assassin!” cried St. Luc. “Bussy, full of wounds, his hands cut to pieces, a ball through his shoulder, and hanging suspended on the iron trellis-work, might have inspired pity in his most cruel enemies; they would have succored him. But you, the murderer of La Mole and of Coconnas, you killed Bussy, as you have killed, one after another, all your friends. You killed Bussy, not because he was the king’s enemy, but because he was the confidant of your secrets. Ah! Monsoreau knew well your reason for this crime.”