A VISIT TO THE HOUSE AT LES TOURNELLES.
The duke became more and more in love with Diana, as she seemed
always to escape him, and with his love for her, his hatred of
Monsoreau increased. On the other side he had not renounced his
political hopes, but had recommenced his underhand machinations.
The moment was favorable, for many wavering conspirators had
been encouraged by the kind of triumph which the weakness of
the king, and the cunning of Catherine, had given to the duke;
however, he no longer confided his projects to Bussy, and showed
him only a hypocritical friendship. He was vaguely uneasy at
seeing him at Monsoreau’s house, and envious of the confidence
that Monsoreau, so suspicious of himself, placed in him. He was
frightened also at the joy and happiness which shone in Diana’s
face. He knew that flowers only bloom in the light of the sun,
and women in that of love. She was visibly happy, and this annoyed
him. Determined to use his power, both for love and vengeance,
he thought it would be absurd to be stayed in this purpose by
such ridiculous obstacles as the jealousy of a husband, and the
repugnance of a wife. One day he ordered his equipages, intending
to visit Monsoreau. He was told that he had moved to his house
in the Rue St. Antoine.
“Let us go there,” said he to Bussy. Soon the place was in commotion
at the arrival of the twenty-four handsome cavaliers, each with
two lackeys, who formed the prince’s suite. Both Bussy and the
prince knew the house well; they both went in, but while the
prince entered the room, Bussy remained on the staircase. It
resulted from this arrangement that the duke was received by
Monsoreau alone, while Bussy was received by Diana, while Gertrude
kept watch. Monsoreau, always pale, grew livid at sight of the
prince.
“Monseigneur, here! really it is too much honor for my poor house!”
cried he, with a visible irony.
The prince smiled. “Wherever a suffering friend goes, I follow
him,” replied he. “How are you?”
“Oh, much better; I can already walk about, and in a week I shall
be quite well.”
“Was it your doctor who prescribed for you the air of the Bastile?”
asked the prince, with the most innocent air possible.
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Did you not like the Rue des Petits-Pères?”
“No, monseigneur; I had too much company there--they made too
much noise.”
“But you have no garden here.”
“I did not like the garden.”
The prince bit his lips. “Do you know, comte,” said he, “that
many people are asking the king for your place?”
“On what pretext, monseigneur?”
“They say you are dead.”
“Monseigneur, you can answer for it that I am not.”
“I answer for nothing; you bury yourself as though you were dead.”
It was Monsoreau’s turn to bite his lips.
“Well, then, I must lose my place,” said he.
“Really?”
“Yes; there are things I prefer to it.”
“You are very disinterested.”
“It is my character, monseigneur.”
“Then of course you will not mind the king’s knowing your
character?”
“Who will tell him?”
“Diable! if he asks me about you, I must repeat our conversation.”
“Ma foi! monseigneur, if all they say in Paris were reported
to the king, his two ears would not be enough to listen with.”
“What do they say at Paris, monsieur?” asked the prince sharply.
Monsoreau tried to calm himself. “How should a poor invalid, as
I am, know?” said he. “If the king is angry at seeing his work
badly done, he is wrong.”
“How so?”
“Because, doubtless, my accident proceeds, to some extent, from
him.”
“Explain yourself.”
“M. de St. Luc, who wounded me, is a dear friend of the king’s.
It was the king who taught him the thrust by which he wounded
me, and it might have been the king who prompted him.”
“You are right; but still the king is the king.”
“Until he is so no longer.”
The duke trembled. “Is not Madame de Monsoreau here?” said he.
“Monseigneur, she is ill, or she would have come to present her
respects to you.”
“Ill! poor woman! it must be grief at seeing you suffer.”
“Yes, and the fatigue of moving.”
“Let us hope it will be a short indisposition. You have so skilful
a doctor.”
“Yes, that dear Rémy----”
“Why, he is Bussy’s doctor.”
“He has lent him to me.”
“You are, then, great friends?”
“He is my best, I might say my only, friend.”
“Adieu, come!”
As the duke raised the tapestry, he fancied he saw the skirt
of a dress disappear into the next room, and immediately Bussy
appeared at his post in the middle of the corridor. Suspicion
grew stronger with the duke.
“We are going,” said he to Bussy, who ran down-stairs without
replying; while the duke, left alone, tried to penetrate the
corridor where he had seen the silk dress vanish. But, turning,
he saw that Monsoreau had followed, and was standing at the door.
“Your highness mistakes your way,” said he.
“True,” said the duke, “thank you.” And he went down with rage
in his heart. When he returned home, Aurilly glided into his
room.
“Well,” said the duke, “I am baffled by the husband!”
“And, perhaps, also by the lover, monseigneur.”
“What do you say?”
“The truth.”
“Speak, then.”
“I hope your highness will pardon me--it was in your service.”
“I pardon you in advance. Go on.”
“After your highness had gone up-stairs, I watched under a shed
in the courtyard.”
“Ah! What did you see?”
“I saw a woman’s dress; I saw this woman lean forward, and then
I heard the sound of along and tender kiss.”
“But who was the man?”
“I cannot recognize arms.”
“No, but you might gloves.”
“Indeed, it seemed to me----”
“That you recognized them?”
“It was only a guess.”
“Never mind.”
“Well, monseigneur, they looked like the gloves of M. de Bussy.”
“Buff, embroidered with gold, were they not?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Ah! Bussy! yes, it was Bussy. Oh, I was blind and yet not blind;
but I could not believe in so much audacity.”
“But your highness must not believe it too lightly; might there
not have been a man hidden in her room?”
“Yes, doubtless, but Bussy, who was in the corridor, would have
seen him.”
“That is true.”
“And then the gloves----”
“Yes, and besides the kiss, I heard----”
“What?”
“Three words, ‘Till to-morrow evening.’”
“Oh! mon Dieu!”
“So that, if you like, we can make sure.”
“Aurilly, we will go.”
“Your highness knows I am at your orders.”
“Ah! Bussy, a traitor! Bussy, the honest man--Bussy, who does
not wish me to be King of France;” and the duke, smiling with
an infernal joy, dismissed Aurilly.