THE PRINCE AND THE FRIEND.
We may remember that the Duc de Guise had invited the Duc d’Anjou
to meet him in the streets of Paris that evening. However, he
determined not to go out of his palace unless he was well
accompanied; therefore the duke went to seek his sword, which
was Bussy d’Amboise. For the duke to make up his mind to this
step he must have been very much afraid; for since his deception
with regard to M. de Monsoreau he had not seen Bussy, and stood
in great dread of him. Bussy, like all fine natures, felt sorrow
more vividly than pleasure; for it is rare that a man intrepid
in danger, cold and calm in the face of fire and sword, does not
give way to grief more easily than a coward. Those from whom a
woman can draw tears most easily are those most to be feared by
other men. Bussy had seen Diana received at court as Comtesse
de Monsoreau, and as such admitted by the queen into the circle
of her maids of honor; he had seen a thousand curious eyes fixed
on her unrivaled beauty. During the whole evening he had fastened
his ardent gaze on her, who never raised her eyes to him, and
he, unjust, like every man in love, never thought how she must
have been suffering from not daring to meet his sympathizing
glance.
“Oh,” said he to himself, seeing that he waited uselessly for
a look, “women have skill and audacity only when they want to
deceive a guardian, a husband, or a mother; they are awkward
and cowardly when they have simply a debt of gratitude to pay,
they fear so much to seem to love--they attach so exaggerated
a value to their least favor, that they do not mind breaking
their lover’s heart, if such be their humor. Diana might have
said to me frankly, ‘I thank you for what you have done for me,
but I do not love you.’ The blow would have killed or cured me.
But no; she prefers letting me love her hopelessly; but she has
gained nothing by it, for I no longer love her, I despise her.”
And he went away with rage in his heart.
“I am mad,” thought he, “to torment myself about a person who
disdains me. But why does she disdain me, or for whom? Not,
surely, for that long, livid-looking skeleton, who, always by
her side, covers her incessantly with his jealous glances. If
I wished it, in a quarter of an hour I could hold him mute and
cold under my knee with ten inches of steel in his heart, and
if I cannot be loved, I could at least be terrible and hated.
Oh, her hatred! Rather than her indifference. Yes, but to act
thus would be to do what a Quelus or a Maugiron would do if they
knew how to love. Better to resemble that hero of Plutarch whom
I so much admired, the young Antiochus, dying of love and never
avowing it, nor uttering a complaint. Am I not called the brave
Bussy?”
He went home, and threw himself on a chair. How long he remained
there he did not know when a man approached him.
“M. le Comte,” said he, “you are in a fever.”
“Ah, is it you, Rémy?”
“Yes, count. Go to bed,”
Bussy obeyed, and all the next day Rémy watched by him, with
refreshing drinks for his body and kind words for his mind. But
on the day after Bussy missed him. “Poor lad!” thought he, “he
was tired and wanted air; and then doubtless Gertrude expected
him; she is but a femme de chambre, but she loves, and a femme
de chambre who loves is better than a queen who does not.”
The day passed, and Rémy did not return. Bussy was angry and
impatient. “Oh!” cried he, “I, who still believed in gratitude
and friendship, will henceforth believe in nothing.” Towards
evening he heard voices in his ante-chamber, and a servant entered,
saying, “It is Monseigneur the Duc d’Anjou.”
“Let him enter,” said Bussy, frowning.
The duke, on entering the room, which was without lights, said,
“It is too dark here, Bussy.”
Bussy did not answer; disgust closed his mouth. “Are you really
ill,” said the duke, “that you do not answer?”
“I am very ill.”
“Then that is why I have not seen you for two days?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
The prince, piqued at these short answers, began to examine the
room.
“You seem to me well lodged, Bussy,” said he.
Bussy did not reply.
“Bussy must be very ill,” said the duke to an attendant who stood
by, “why was not Miron called? The king’s doctor is not too good
for Bussy.” When the servant was gone, “Are you in grief, Bussy?”
said the duke.
“I do not know.”
The duke approached, becoming more and more gracious as he was
rebuffed. “Come, speak frankly, Bussy,” said he.
“What am I to say, monseigneur?”
“You are angry with me?”
“I! for what? besides, it is no use to be angry with princes.”
The duke was silent.
“But,” said Bussy, “we are losing time in preambles; to the point,
monseigneur. You have need of me, I suppose?”
“Ah, M. de Bussy!”
“Yes, doubtless; do you think I believe that you come here through
friendship; you, who love no one?”
“Oh, Bussy, to say such things to me!”
“Well, be quick, monseigneur, what do you want? When one serves
a prince, and he dissimulates to the extent of calling you his
friend, one must pay for the dissimulation by being ready to
sacrifice everything, even life, if necessary.”
The duke colored, but it was too dark to see it. “I wanted nothing
of you, Bussy, and you deceive yourself in thinking my visit
interested. I desire only, seeing the fine evening, and that
all Paris is out to sign the League, that you should accompany
me a little about the streets.”
Bussy looked at him. “Have you not Aurilly to go with you?”
“A lute-player!”
“Ah, monseigneur, you do not mention all his qualities; I believed
that he fulfilled other functions for you. Besides, you have a
dozen other gentlemen; I hear them in the ante-chamber.”
At this moment the door opened. “Who is there?” said the duke,
haughtily. “Who enters unannounced where I am?”
“I, Rémy,” replied the young man, without any embarrassment.
“Who is Rémy?”
“The doctor, monseigneur,” said the young man.
“And my friend,” said Bussy. “You heard what monseigneur asks?”
continued he, turning to Rémy.
“Yes, that you should accompany him; but----”
“But what?” said the duke.
“But you cannot do it!”
“And why so?” cried the duke.
“Because it is too cold out of doors.”
“Too cold!” cried the duke, surprised that any one should oppose
him.
“Yes, too cold. Therefore I, who answer for M. Bussy’s life to
himself and to his friends, must forbid him to go out.” And he
pressed Bussy’s hand in a significant manner.
“Very well,” said the duke, “if the risk be so great, he must
stay.” And he turned angrily to the door; but returning to the
bed, he said, “Then you have decided not to come?”
“Monseigneur, you hear that the doctor forbids me.”
“You ought to see Miron, he is a great doctor.”
“I prefer my friend.”
“Then adieu.”
“Adieu, monseigneur.”
No sooner was the duke gone than Rémy said, “Now, monsieur, get
up at once, if you please.”
“What for?”
“To come out with me. This room is too warm.”
“You said just now to the duke that it was too cold outside.”
“The temperature has changed since.”
“So that----” said Bussy, with curiosity.
“So that now I am convinced that the air will do you good.”
“I do not understand.”
“Do you understand the medicines I give you? Yet you take them.
Come, get up; a walk with M. d’Anjou is dangerous, with me it is
healthy. Have you lost confidence in me? If so, send me away.”
“Well, as you wish it.” And he rose, pale and trembling.
“An interesting paleness,” said Rémy.
“But where are we going?”
“To a place where I have analyzed the air to-day.”
“And this air?”
“Is sovereign for your complaint, monseigneur.”
Bussy dressed, and they went out.