“‘Ah, pardon,’ said he, ‘but I thought you expected me.’ ‘I expected some one, monsieur, but I did not know it was you.’ A bitter smile passed over his face. ‘Who else,’ said he, ‘except her father, watches over the honor of Diana de Méridor?’ ‘You told me, monsieur, in your letter, that you came in my father’s name.’ ‘Yes, mademoiselle, and lest you should doubt it, here is a note from the baron,’ and he gave me a paper. I read —
“‘MY DEAR DIANA, – M. de Monsoreau can alone extricate you from your dangerous position, and this danger is immense. Trust, then, to him as to the best friend that Heaven can send to us. I will tell you later what from the bottom of my heart I wish you to do to acquit the debt we shall contract towards him.
“‘Your father, who begs you to believe him, and to have pity on him, and on yourself,
“‘BARON DE MÉRIDOR.’
“I knew nothing against M. de Monsoreau; my dislike to him was rather from instinct than reason. I had only to reproach him with the death of a doe, a very light crime for a hunter. I then turned towards him. ‘Well?’ said he. ‘Monsieur, I have read my father’s letter, it tells me you will take me from hence, but it does not tell me where you will take me.’ ‘Where the baron waits for you.’ ‘And where is that?’ ‘In the castle of Méridor.’ ‘Then I shall see my father?’ ‘In two hours.’
“‘Ah I monsieur, if you speak truly – ’ I stopped. The count waited for the end of my sentence. ‘Count on my gratitude,’ said I in a trembling tone, for I knew what he might expect from my gratitude. ‘Then, mademoiselle,’ said he, ‘you are ready to follow me?’ I looked at Gertrude. ‘Reflect that each minute that passes is most precious,’ said he, ‘I am nearly half an hour behind time now; it will soon be ten o’clock, and then the prince will be here.’ ‘Alas! yes.’ ‘Once he comes, I can do nothing for you but risk without hope that life which I now risk to save you.’ ‘Why did not my father come?’ I asked. ‘Your father is watched. They know every step he takes.’ ‘But you – ’ ‘Oh! I am different; I am the prince’s friend and confidant.’ ‘Then if you are his friend – ’ ‘Yes, I betray him for you; it is true, as I told you just now, I am risking my life to save you.’ This seemed so true, that although I still felt repugnance, I could not express it. ‘I wait,’ said the count, ‘and stay; if you still doubt, look there.’ I looked, and saw on the opposite shore a body of cavaliers advancing. ‘It is the duke and his suite,’ said he, ‘in five minutes it will be too late.’
“I tried to rise, but my limbs failed me. Gertrude raised me in her arms and gave me to the count. I shuddered at his touch, but he held me fast and placed me in the boat. Gertrude followed without aid. Then I noticed that my veil had come off, and was floating on the water. I thought they would track us by it, and I cried, ‘My veil; catch my veil.’ The count looked at it and said, ‘No, no, better leave it.’ And seizing the oars, he rowed with all his strength. We had just reached the bank when we saw the windows of my room lighted up. ‘Did I deceive you? Was it time?’ said M. de Monsoreau. ‘Oh I yes, yes,’ cried I, ‘you are really my saviour.’
“The lights seemed to be moving about from one room to the other. We heard voices, and a man entered who approached the open window, looked out, saw the floating veil, and uttered a cry. ‘You see I did well to leave the veil,’ said the count, ‘the prince believes that to escape him you threw yourself into the lake.’ I trembled at the man who had so instantaneously conceived this idea.”
CHAPTER XIV.
THE TREATY
There was a moment’s silence. Diana seemed almost overcome. Bussy was already vowing eternal vengeance against her enemies. She went on:
“Scarcely had we touched the shore, when seven or eight men ran to us. They were the count’s people, and I thought I recognized among them the two men who had escorted me when I left Méridor. A squire held two horses, a black one for the count and a white one for me. The count helped me to mount, and then jumped on his own horse. Gertrude mounted en croupe behind one of the men, and we set off at full gallop. The count held the bridle of my horse. I said to him that I was a sufficiently good horsewoman to dispense with this, but he replied that the horse was inclined to run away. When we had gone about ten minutes, I heard Gertrude’s voice calling to me, and turning, I saw that four of the men were taking her by a different path from that which we were following. ‘Gertrude,’ cried I, ‘why does she not come with me?’ ‘It is an indispensable precaution,’ said the count; ‘if we are pursued we must leave two tracks, and they must be able to say in two places that they have seen a woman carried away by men. There is then a chance that M. d’Anjou may take a wrong road, and go after your servant instead of you.’ Although specious, this reply did not satisfy me, but what could I do? Besides, the path which the count was following was the one which led to the Château de Méridor. In a quarter of an hour, at the rate at which we are going, we should have been at the castle, when all at once, when we came to a cross road which I knew well, the count, instead of following the road to the castle, turned to the left, and took a road which led away from it. I cried out, and in spite of our rapid pace had already my hand on the pommel in order to jump off, when the count, seizing me round the waist, drew me off my horse, and placed me on the saddle before him. This action was so rapid that I had only time to utter a cry. M. de Monsoreau put his hand on my mouth, and said, ‘Mademoiselle, I swear to you, on my honor, that I only act by your father’s orders, as I will prove to you at the first halt we make. If this proof appears to you insufficient, you shall then be free.’ ‘But, monsieur,’ cried I, pushing away his hand, ‘you told me you were taking me to my father!’ ‘Yes, I told you so, because I saw that you hesitated to follow me, and a moment’s more hesitation would have ruined us both, as you know. Now, do you wish to kill your father? Will you march straight to your dishonor? If so, I will take you to Méridor.’ ‘You spoke of a proof that you acted in the name of my father.’ ‘Here it is,’ said the baron, giving me a letter, ‘keep it, and read it at the first stoppage. If, when you have read it, you wish to return to Méridor, you are free; but if you have any respect for your father’s wishes you will not.’ ‘Then, monsieur,’ I replied, ‘let us reach quickly our stopping-place, for I wish to know if you speak the truth.’ ‘Remember, you follow me freely.’ ‘Yes, as freely as a young girl can who sees herself placed between her father’s death and her own dishonor on the one hand, and on the other the obligation to trust herself to the word of a man whom she hardly knows.’ ‘Never mind, I follow you freely, monsieur, as you shall see if you will give me my horse again.’ The count called to one of his men to dismount and give me his horse. ‘The white mare cannot be far,’ said he to the man; ‘seek her in the forest and call her, she will come like a dog to her name or to a whistle; you can rejoin us at La Châtre.’ I shuddered in spite of myself. La Châtre was ten leagues from Méridor, on the road to Paris. ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘I accompany you, but at La Châtre we make our conditions.’ ‘Mademoiselle, at La Châtre you shall give me your orders.’ At daybreak we arrived at La Châtre, but instead of entering the village we went by across-road to a lonely house. I stopped. ‘Where are we going?’ I asked. ‘Mademoiselle,’ said the count, ‘I appeal to yourself. Can we, in flying from a prince next in power to the king, stop in an ordinary village inn, where the first person would denounce us?’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘go on.’ We resumed our way. We were expected, for a man had ridden on before to announce our arrival. A good fire burned in a decent room, and a bed was prepared. ‘This is your room,’ said the count, ‘I will await your orders.’ He went out and left me alone. My first thought was for my letter. Here it is, M. de Bussy; read.”
Bussy took the letter and read:
“MY BELOVED DIANA – As I do not doubt