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"Thank you, count, good-evening; do not lose sight of our phantom."

"Oh! rely upon me for that; unless," added Henri, who feared he might
have said too much, "unless, indeed, I should be overtaken by sleep,
which seems more than probable, and a far more healthy occupation than
that of watching shadows and spies."

"Certainly," said the ensign, laughingly, as he took leave of Henri du
Bouchage.

Hardly had he quitted the library than Henri darted into the garden.

"Oh!" he murmured, "it is Remy! it is Remy! I should know him again in
the darkness of hell itself."

And the young man, as he felt his knees tremble beneath him, buried his
burning forehead in his cold damp hands.

"Great Heaven!" he cried, "is not this rather a phantasy of my poor
fevered brain, and is it not written that in my slumbering and in my
waking moments, day and night, I should ever see those two figures who
have made so deep and dark a furrow in my life?

"Why," he continued, like a man aware of the need that exists of
convincing himself, "why, indeed, should Remy be here in this chateau,
while the Duc d'Anjou is here? What is his motive in coming here? What
can the Duc d'Anjou possibly have to do with Remy? And why should he
have quitted Diana--he, who is her eternal companion? No; it is not he."

Then, again, a moment afterward, a conviction, thorough, profound,
almost instinctive in its nature, seemed to overcome all the doubts he
had entertained.

"It is he! it is he!" he murmured, in utter despair, and leaning against
the wall to save himself from falling. As he finished giving utterance
to this overpowering, overwhelming thought, which seemed to crush all
others in his mind, the sharp sound of the lock was again heard, and,
although the sound was almost imperceptible, his overexcited senses
detected it instantly. An indefinable shudder ran through the young
man's whole frame; again he listened with eager attention. So profound a
silence reigned around him on every side that he could hear the
throbbings of his own heart. A few minutes passed away without anything
he expected making its appearance. In default of his eyes, however, his
ears told him that some one was approaching, for he heard the sound of
the gravel under the advancing footsteps. Suddenly the straight black
line of the hedge seemed broken; he imagined he saw upon this dark
background a group still darker moving along.

"It is he returning again," murmured Henri. "Is he alone, or is some one
with him?"

The objects advanced from the side where the silver light of the moon
had illuminated a space of open ground. It was at the very moment when,
advancing in the opposite direction, the man in the overcoat crossed
this open space, that Henri fancied he recognized Remy. This time Henri
observed two shadows very distinctly; it was impossible he could be
mistaken. A death-like chill struck to his heart, and seemed to have
turned it to marble.

The two shadows walked quickly along, although with a firm step; the
former was dressed in a woolen overcoat, and at the appearance of the
second apparition, as at that of the first, the count fancied he
recognized Remy.

The second, who was completely enveloped in a large man's cloak, seemed
to defy every attempt at recognition.

And yet, beneath that cloak, Henri fancied he could detect what no human
eye could have possibly seen.

He could not control a deep bitter groan of despair, and no sooner had
the two mysterious personages disappeared behind the hedge than the
young man darted after them, and stealthily glided from one group of
trees to another, in the wake of those whom he was so anxious to
discover.

"Oh!" he murmured, as he stole along, "do I not indeed deceive myself?
Oh! Heaven, can it really be possible?"




CHAPTER LXXXVII.

CERTAINTY.


Henri glided along the hedge on the side which was thrown into deep
shade, taking care to make no noise either on the gravel or against the
trees.

Obliged to walk carefully, and while walking to watch carefully over
every movement he made, he could not perceive anything. And yet, by his
style, his dress, his walk, he still fancied he recognized Remy in the
man who wore the overcoat.

Mere conjectures, more terrifying for him than realities, arose in his
mind with regard to this man's companion.

The road which they were following, and which was bounded by a row of
elms, terminated in a high hawthorn hedge, which separated from the rest
of the park the pavilion of the Duc d'Anjou, and enveloped it as with a
curtain of verdure, in the midst of which, as has been already observed,
it entirely disappeared in a remote corner of the grounds of the
chateau. There were several beautiful sheets of water, dark underwood,
through which winding paths had been cut, and venerable trees, over the
summits of which the moon was shedding its streams of silver light,
while underneath the gloom was thick, dark, and impenetrable.

As he approached this hedge, Henri felt that his heart was on the point
of failing him. In fact, to transgress so boldly the prince's orders,
and to abandon himself to a course of conduct as indiscreet as it was
rash, was the act, not of a loyal and honorable man, but of a mean and
cowardly spy, or of a jealous man driven to extremities. But as, while
opening the gate, which separated the greater from the smaller park, the
man he followed moved in such a way that his features were revealed, and
as he perceived that these features were indeed those of Remy, the
count's scruples vanished, and he resolutely advanced at all hazards.
Henri found the gate again closed; he leaped over the railings, and then
continued his pursuit of the prince's two strange visitors, who still
seemed to be hurrying onward. Another cause of terror was soon added;
for the duke, on hearing the footsteps of Remy and his companion upon
the gravel walk, made his appearance from the pavilion. Henri threw
himself behind the largest of the trees, and waited.

He could not see anything, except that he observed that Remy made a very
low salutation, that Remy's companion courtesied like a woman, instead
of bowing like a man, and that the duke, seemingly transported with
delight, offered his arm to the latter, in the same way as he would have
done to a woman. Then all three advanced toward the pavilion,
disappeared under the vestibule, and the door closed behind them.

"This must end," said Henri, "and I must seek a more convenient place,
where I can see everything that may pass without being seen."

He decided in favor of a clump of trees situated between the pavilion
and the wall, from the center of which the waters of a fountain gushed
forth, thus forming an impenetrable place of concealment; for it was not
likely that in the night-time, with the freshness and humidity which
would naturally be found near this fountain, the prince would seek the
vicinity of the water and the thickets. Hidden behind the statue with
which the fountain was ornamented, and standing at his full height
behind the pedestal, Henri was enabled to see what was taking place in
the pavilion, the principal window of which was quite open before him.

As no one could, or rather, as no one would, venture to penetrate so
far, no precautions had been taken.

A table was laid, sumptuously served with the richest viands, and with
rare wines in bottles of costly Venetian glass.

Two seats only at this table seemed to be awaiting two guests.

The duke approached one of the chairs; then, leaving the arm of Remy's
companion, and pointing to the other seat, he seemed to request that the
cloak might be thrown aside, as, although it might be very serviceable
for an evening stroll, it became very inconvenient when the object of
the stroll was attained, and when that object was a supper.

Thereupon the individual to whom the invitation had been addressed threw
the cloak upon a chair, and the dazzling blaze of the flambeaux lighted
up, without a shadow on their loveliness, the pale and
majestically-beautiful features of a woman whom the terrified eyes of
Henri immediately recognized. It was the lady of the mysterious house in
the Rue des Augustins, the wanderer in Flanders; in one word, it was
that Diana whose gaze was as mortal as the thrust of a dagger. On this
occasion she wore the apparel of her own sex, and was richly dressed in
brocaded silk; diamonds blazed on her neck, in her hair, and on her
wrists, and thereby made the extreme pallor of her face more remarkable
than ever, and in the light which shone from her eyes, it almost seemed
as if the duke had, by the employment of some magical means, evoked the
ghost of this woman, rather than the woman herself. Had it not been for
the support afforded by the statue round which he had thrown his arms,
colder even than the marble itself, Henri would have fallen backward
headlong into the basin of the fountain.

The duke seemed intoxicated with delight; he fixed his passionate gaze
upon this beautiful creature, who had seated herself opposite to him,
and who hardly touched the dishes which had been placed before her. From
time to time Francois leaned across the table to kiss one of the hands
of his silent guest, who, as pale as death, seemed as insensible to his
kisses as if her hand had been sculptured in alabaster, which, for
transparency and perfect whiteness, it so much resembled. From time to
time Henri started, raised his hand to his forehead, and with it wiped
away the death-like sweat which rose on it, and asked himself: "Is she
alive, or dead?"

The duke tried his utmost efforts and displayed all his powers of
eloquence to unbend the rigid beauty of her face.

Remy, the only attendant, for the duke had sent every one away, waited
on them both, and, occasionally, lightly touching his mistress with his
elbow as he passed behind her chair, seemed to revive her by the
contact, and to recall her to life, or rather to the position in which
she was placed.

Thereupon, a bright flush spread over her whole face, her eyes sparkled,
she smiled as if some magician had touched a spring unknown to this
automaton-like figure, seemingly endowed with intelligence, and the
mechanism of which had drawn the lightning glance from her eyes, the
glowing flush on her cheek, and the sparkling smile to her lips. The
moment after, she again subsided into her calm and statue-like
stillness. The prince, however, approached her, and by the passionate
tone of his conversation, seemed as if he had succeeded in warming into
animation his new conquest. Thereupon Diana, who occasionally glanced at
the face of a magnificent clock suspended over the prince's head,
against the opposite side of the wall to where she was seated, seemed to
make an effort over herself, and with her lips bedecked with smiles took
a more active part in the conversation.

Henri, concealed in his leafy covert, wrung his hands in despair, and
cursed the whole creation in the utter wretchedness of his sore
distress. It seemed to him monstrous, almost iniquitous, that this
woman, so pure and rigidly inflexible, should yield herself so
unresistingly to the prince, because he was a prince, and abandon
herself to love because it was offered within the precincts of a palace.
His horror at Remy was so extreme that he could have slain him without
remorse, in order to see whether so great a monster had the blood and
heart of a man in him. In such paroxysms of rage and contempt did Henri
pass the time during the supper, which to the Duc d'Anjou was so full of
rapture and delight.

Diana sang. The prince, inflamed by wine, and by his passionate
discourse, rose from the table for the purpose of embracing Diana. Every
drop of blood seemed to curdle in Henri's veins. He put his hand to his
side to see if his sword were there, and then thrust it into his breast
in search of a dagger. Diana, with a strange smile, which most assuredly
had never, until that moment, had its counterpart on any face, stopped
the duke as he was approaching her.

"Will you allow me, monseigneur," she said, "before I rise from the
table, to share with your royal highness one of those tempting-looking
peaches."

And with these words she stretched out her hand toward a basket of gold
filagree work, in which twenty peaches were tastefully arranged, and
took one.

Then, taking from her girdle a beautiful little dagger, with a silver
blade and a handle of malachite, she divided the peach into two
portions, and offered one of them to the prince, who seized it and
carried it eagerly to his lips, as though he would thus have kissed
Diana's.

This impassioned action produced so deep an impression on himself, that
a cloud seemed to obscure his sight at the very moment he bit into the
fruit. Diana looked at him with her clear steady gaze, and her fixed
immovable smile.

Remy, leaning his back against a pillar of carved wood, also looked on
with a gloomy expression of countenance.

The prince passed one of his hands across his forehead, wiped away the
perspiration which had gathered there, and swallowed the piece that he
had bitten.

This perspiration was most probably the symptom of a sudden
indisposition; for while Diana ate the other half of the peach, the
prince let fall on his plate what remained of the portion he had taken,
and with difficulty rising from his seat, seemed to invite his beautiful
companion to accompany him into the garden in order to enjoy the cool
night air.

Diana rose, and without pronouncing a single word, took the duke's arm,
which he offered her.

Remy gazed after them, particularly after the prince, whom the air
seemed completely to revive.

As she walked along, Diana wiped the small blade of her knife on a
handkerchief embroidered with gold, and restored it to its shagreen
sheath.

In this manner they approached the clump of trees where Henri was
concealed.

The prince, with a passionate gesture, pressed his companion's arm
against his heart.

"I feel better," he said, "and yet I hardly know what heavy weight seems
to press down on my brain; I love too deeply, madame, I perceive."

Diana plucked several sprigs of jasmine and of clematis, and two
beautiful roses which bordered the whole of one side of the pedestal of
the statue behind which Henri was shrinking terrified.

"What are you doing, madame?" inquired the prince.

"I have always understood, monseigneur," she said, "that the perfume of
flowers was the best remedy for attacks of giddiness; I am gathering a
bouquet with the hope that this bouquet, if presented by me, will have
the magical influence which I wish it to possess."

But, while she was arranging the flowers, she let a rose fall from her
hand, which the prince eagerly hastened to pick up.

The movement that Francois made was rapid, but not so rapid, however,
but that it gave Diana sufficient time to pour upon the other rose a few
drops of a liquid contained in a small gold bottle which she drew from
her bosom.

She then took from his hand the rose which the prince had picked up, and
placing it in her girdle, said--

"That one is for me, let us change."

And in exchange for the rose which she received from the prince's hand,
she held out the bouquet to him.

The prince seized it eagerly, inhaled its perfume with delight, and
passed his arm around Diana's waist. But this latter action, in all
probability, completely overwhelmed the already troubled senses of the
prince, for his knees trembled under him, and he was obliged to seat
himself on a bank of green turf, beside which he happened to be
standing.

Henri did not lose sight of these two persons, and yet he had a look for
Remy also, who in the pavilion awaited the termination of this scene, or
rather seemed to devour every minute incident of it.

When he saw the prince totter, he advanced toward the threshold of the
pavilion. Diana, on her side, perceiving Francois stagger, sat herself
down beside him on the bank.

The giddiness from which Francois suffered continued on this occasion
longer than on the former; the prince's head was resting on his chest.
He seemed to have lost all connection in his ideas, and almost the
perception of his own existence; and yet the convulsive movement of his
fingers on Diana's hand seemed to indicate that he was instinctively
pursuing his wild dream of love. At last he slowly raised his head, and
his lips being almost on a level with Diana's face, he made an effort to
touch those of his lovely guest, but as if unobservant of the movement,
she rose from her seat.

"You are suffering, monseigneur," she said; "it would be better if we
were to go in."

"Oh! yes, let us go in," exclaimed the prince in a transport of joy.

And he arose, staggering, to his feet; then, instead of Diana leaning on
his arm, it was he who leaned on Diana's arm; and thanks to this
support, walking with less difficulty, he seemed to forget fever and
giddiness too, for suddenly drawing himself up, he, in an unexpected
manner, pressed his lips on her neck. She started as if, instead of a
kiss, she had received the impression of a red hot iron.

"Remy!" she exclaimed, "a flambeau, a flambeau!"

Remy immediately returned to the salle-a-manger, and lighted, by the
candle on the table, a flambeau which he took from a small round table,
and then, hurrying to the entrance to the pavilion, and holding the
torch in his hand, he cried out:

"Here is one, madame."

"Where is your highness going to?" inquired Diana, seizing hold of the
flambeau and turning her head aside.

"Oh! we will return to my own room, and you will lead me, I venture to
hope, madame?" replied the prince, in a frenzy of passion.

"Willingly, monseigneur," replied Diana, and she raised the torch in the
air, and walked before the prince.

Remy opened, at the end of the pavilion, a window through which the
fresh air rushed inward, in such a manner that the flame and smoke of
the flambeau, which Diana held, were carried back toward Francois' face,
which happened to be in the very current of the air. The two lovers, as
Henri considered them to be, proceeded in this manner, first crossing a
gallery to the duke's own room, and disappeared behind the
fleur-de-lized hangings, which served the purpose of a portiere.

Henri had observed everything that had passed with increasing fury, and
yet this fury was such that it almost deprived him of life. It seemed as
if he had no strength left except to curse the fate which had imposed so
cruel a trial upon him. He had quitted his place of concealment, and in
utter despair, his arms hanging by his side, and with a haggard gaze, he
was on the point of returning, with life ebbing fast, to his apartment
in the chateau, when suddenly the hangings behind which he had seen
Diana and the prince disappear were thrown aside, and Diana herself
rushed into the supper-room, and seized hold of Remy, who, standing
motionless and erect, seemed only to be waiting her return.

"Quick! quick!" she said to him; "all is finished."

And they both darted into the garden as if they had been drunk, or mad,
or raging with passion.

No sooner did Henri observe them, however, than he seemed to have
recovered all his strength; he hastened to place himself in their way,
and they came upon him suddenly in the middle of the path, standing
erect, his arms crossed, and more terrible in his silence than any one
could ever have been in his loudest menaces. Henri's feelings had
indeed arrived at such a pitch of exasperation, that he would readily
have slain any man who would have ventured to maintain that women were
not monsters sent from hell to corrupt the world. He seized Diana by the
arm, and stopped her suddenly, notwithstanding the cry of terror which
she uttered, and notwithstanding the dagger which Remy put to his
breast, and which even grazed his flesh.

"Oh! doubtless you do not recognize me," he said furiously, gnashing his
teeth; "I am that simple-hearted young man who loved you, and whose love
you would not return, because for you there was no future, but merely
the past. Ah! beautiful hypocrite that you are, and you, foul liar, I
know you at last--I know and curse you. To the one I say, I despise and
contemn you: to the other, I shrink from you with horror."

"Make way!" cried Remy, in a strangled voice; "make way, young fool, or
if not--"

"Be it so," replied Henri; "finish your work, and slay my body, wretch,
since you have already destroyed my soul."

"Silence!" muttered Remy, furiously, pressing the blade of his dagger
more and more against Henri's breast.

Diana, however, violently pushed Remy aside, and seizing Du Bouchage by
the arm, she drew him straight before her. She was lividly pale; her
beautiful hair streamed over her shoulders; the contact of the hand on
Henri's wrist seemed to the latter cold and damp as the dews of death.

"Monsieur," she said, "do not rashly judge of matters of which Heaven
alone can judge. I am Diana de Meridor, the mistress of Monsieur de
Bussy, whom the Duc d'Anjou miserably allowed to perish when he could
have saved him. Eight days since Remy slew Aurilly, the duke's
accomplice, and the prince himself I have just poisoned with a peach, a
bouquet, and a torch. Move aside, monsieur--move aside, I say, for Diana
de Meridor, who is on her way to the Convent des Hospitalieres."

With these words, and letting Henri's arm fall, she took hold of that
of Remy, as he waited by her side.

Henri fell on his knees, following the retreating figures of the two
assassins, who disappeared behind the thick copse, as though it had been
a vision from hell. It was not till fully an hour afterward that Du
Bouchage, overpowered with fatigue and overwhelmed with terror, with his
brain on fire, was able to summon sufficient strength to drag himself to
his apartment, nor was it until after he had made the attempt nearly a
dozen times that he succeeded in escalading the window. He walked to and
fro in his room several times, and then staggered toward the bed, on
which he threw himself. Every one was sleeping quietly in the chateau.




CHAPTER LXXXVIII.

FATALITY.


The next morning, about nine o'clock, the beautiful rays of the sun were
glistening like gold on the graveled walks of Chateau-Thierry. Numerous
gangs of workmen, who had the previous evening been directed to be in
attendance, had been actively at work from daybreak upon the
preparations in the park, as well as in the decoration of the apartments
destined to receive the king, whose arrival was momentarily expected. As
yet nothing was stirring in the pavilion where the duke reposed, for he
had on the previous evening forbidden his two old servants to awaken
him. They were to wait until he summoned them. Toward half-past nine two
couriers rode at full speed into the town, announcing his majesty's near
arrival. The civic authorities, the governor, and the garrison formed
themselves in ranks on either side of the road, leaving a passage for
the royal procession. At ten o'clock the king appeared at the foot of
the hill; he had mounted his horse when they had taken their last
relays. He never neglected an opportunity of doing so, especially when
entering towns, as he rode admirably. The queen-mother followed him in a
litter; fifty gentlemen belonging to the court, richly clad and
admirably mounted, followed in their suite. A company of the guards,
followed by Crillon himself, a hundred and twenty of the Swiss, and as
many of the Scotch guards, commanded by Larchant, and all the members of
the royal household who accompanied the king in his excursions, mules,
coffers, and domestic servants, formed a numerous army, the files of
which followed the windings of the road leading from the river to the
summit of the hill. Lastly, the cortege entered the town amid the
ringing of the church bells, the roar of cannon, and bursts of music.
The acclamations of the inhabitants were enthusiastic; for a visit from
the king was of such rare occurrence at that time that, seen thus
closely, he seemed to be a living embodiment of divine right. The king,
as he progressed through the crowd, looked on all sides for his brother,
but in vain. He only found Henri du Bouchage waiting for him at the gate
of the chateau.

When once within the chateau, Henri III. inquired after the health of
the Duc d'Anjou from the officer who had assumed the high distinction of
receiving the king.

"Sire," replied the latter, "his highness, during the last few days, has
been residing in the pavilion in the park, and we have not yet seen him
this morning. It is most probable, however, that as he was well
yesterday, he is well also to-day."

"This pavilion is in a very retired part of the park, it seems," said
Henri, in a tone of displeasure, "since the sound of the cannon does not
seem to have been heard."

"Sire," one of the duke's two aged attendants ventured to remark, "his
highness did not, perhaps, expect your majesty so soon."

"Old fool," growled Henri, "do you think, then, that a king presents
himself in this way at other people's residences without informing them
of it? Monsieur le Duc d'Anjou has been aware of my intended arrival
since yesterday."