CHAPTER XIII.
WHO DIANA WAS.
Bussy rose, bewildered at his own happiness, and entered with
Diana into the room which M. de Monsoreau had just quitted. He
looked at Diana with astonishment and admiration; he had not
dared to hope that the woman whom he had sought for, would equal
the woman of his dream, and now the reality surpassed all that
he had taken for a caprice of his imagination. Diana was about
nineteen, that is to say in the first éclât of that youth and
beauty which gives the purest coloring to the flower, the finest
flavor to the fruit. There was no mistaking the looks of Bussy;
Diana felt herself admired. At last she broke the silence.
"Monsieur," said she, "you have told me who you are, but not how
you came here."
"Madame, the cause of my presence here will come naturally out
of the recital you have been good enough to promise me; I am
sure of it, from some words of your conversation with M. de
Monsoreau."
"I will tell you all, monsieur; your name has been sufficient
to inspire me with full confidence, for I have always heard of
it as of that of a man of honor, loyalty, and courage."
Bussy bowed, and Diana went on.
"I am the daughter of the Baron de Méridor--that is to say, the
only heiress of one of the noblest and oldest names in Anjou."
"There was," said Bussy, "a Baron de Méridor, who, although he
could have saved himself, came voluntarily and gave up his sword
at the battle of Pavia, when he heard that the king was a prisoner,
and begged to accompany Francis to Madrid, partook his captivity,
and only quitted him to come to France and negotiate his ransom."
"It was my father, monsieur, and if ever you enter the great
hall of the Château de Méridor you will see, given in memory of
this devotion, the portrait of Francis I., painted by Leonardo
da Vinci."
"Ah!" said Bussy, "in those times kings knew how to recompense
their followers."
"On his return from Spain my father married. His two first children,
sons, died. This was a great grief to the Baron de Méridor. When
the king died, my father quitted the court, and shut himself
with his wife in the Château de Méridor. It was there that I was
born, ten years after the death of my brothers.
"Then all the love of the baron was concentrated on the child
of his old age; his love for me was idolatry. Three years after
my birth I lost my mother, and, too young to feel my loss, my
smiles helped to console my father. As I was all to him, so was
he also all to me. I attained my sixteenth year without dreaming
of any other world than that of my sheep, my peacocks, my swans,
and my doves, without imagining that this life would change,
or wishing that it should.
"The castle of Méridor was surrounded by vast forests, belonging
to the Duc d'Anjou; they were filled with deer and stags, whom
no one thought of tormenting, and who had grown quite familiar
to me; some of them would even come when I called them, and one,
a doe, my favorite Daphne, my poor Daphne, would come and eat
out of my hand.
"One spring I had missed her for a month, and was ready to weep
for her as for a friend, when she reappeared with two little
fawns. At first they were afraid of me, but seeing their mother
caress me, they soon learned to do the same.
"About this time we heard that the Duc d'Anjou had sent a governor
into the province, and that he was called the Comte de Monsoreau.
A week passed, during which everyone spoke of the new governor.
One morning the woods resounded with the sound of the horn, and
the barking of dogs. I ran to the park, and arrived just in time
to see Daphne, followed by her two fawns, pass like lightning,
pursued by a pack of hounds. An instant after, mounted on a black
horse, M. de Monsoreau flew past me.
"I cried out and implored pity for my poor protegee, but he did
not hear me. Then I ran after him, hoping to meet either the
count or some of his suite and determined to implore them to stop
this chase, which pierced my heart. I ran for some time without
knowing where, for I had lost sight of both dogs and hunters.
"Soon I could not even hear them, so I sat down at the foot of
a tree, and began to cry. I had been there about a quarter of
an hour, when I heard the chase again. The noise came nearer and
nearer, and, darting forward, I saw my poor Daphne again; she
had but one fawn with her now, the other had given way through
fatigue. She herself was growing visibly tired, and the distance
between her and the hounds was less than when I saw her first.
"As before, I exerted myself in vain to make myself heard. M. de
Monsoreau saw nothing but the animal he was chasing; he passed
more quickly that ever, with his horn to his mouth, which he
was sounding loudly. Behind him two or three hunters animated
the dogs with horn and voice. All passed me like a tempest, and
disappeared in the forest. I was in despair, but I ran on once
more and followed a path which I knew led to the castle of Beaugé.
belonging to the Duc d'Anjou, and which was about six miles from
the castle of Méridor. It was not till I arrived there that I
remembered that I was alone, and far from home.
"I confess that a vague terror seized me, and that then only I
thought of the imprudence and folly of my conduct. I followed
the border of the lake, intending to ask the gardener (who, when
I had come there with my father, had often given me bouquets) to
take me home, when all at once I heard the sound of the chase
again. I remained motionless, listening, and I forgot all else.
Nearly at the same moment the doe reappeared, coming out of the
wood on the other side of the lake, but pursued so closely that
she must be taken immediately. She was alone, her second fawn
had fallen, but the sight of the water seemed to reanimate her,
and she plunged in as if she would have come to me. At first
she swam rapidly, and I looked at her with tears in my eyes,
and almost as breathless as herself; insensibly her strength
failed her, while the dogs seemed to grow more and more earnest
in their pursuit. Soon some of them reached her, and, stopped
by their bites, she ceased to advance. At this moment, M. de
Monsoreau appeared at the border of the lake, and jumped off
his horse. Then I collected all my strength to cry for pity,
with clasped hands. It seemed to me that he saw me, and I cried
again. He heard me, for he looked at me; then he ran towards
a boat, entered it, and advanced rapidly towards the animal,
who was fighting among the dogs. I did not doubt that, moved
by my voice, he was hastening to bring her succor, when all at
once I saw him draw his hunting knife, and plunge it into the
neck of the poor animal. The blood flowed out, reddening the
water at the lake, while the poor doe uttered a doleful cry,
beat the water with her feet, reared up, and then fell back dead.
"I uttered a cry almost as doleful as hers, and fell fainting
on the bank. When I came to myself again, I was in bed, in a
room of the château of Beaugé, and my father, who had been sent
for, standing by me. As it was nothing but over-excitement, the
next morning I was able to return home; although I suffered for
three or four days. Then my father told me, that M. de Monsoreau,
who had seen me, when I was carried to the castle, had come to
ask after me; he had been much grieved when he heard that he had
been the involuntary cause of my accident and begged to present
his excuses to me, saying, that he could not be happy until he
had his pardon from my own lips.
"It would have been ridiculous to refuse to see him, so, in spite
of my repugnance, I granted his request. He came the next day;
I felt that my behavior must have seemed strange, and I excused
it on the ground of my affection for Daphne. The count swore
twenty times, that had he known I had any interest in his victim,
he would have spared her with pleasure; but his protestations
did not convince me, nor remove the unfavorable impression I
had formed of him. When he took leave, he asked my father's
permission to come again. He had been born in Spain and educated
at Madrid, and it was an attraction for my father to talk over
the place where he had been so long a prisoner. Besides, the
count was of good family, deputy-governor of the province, and
a favorite, it was said, of the Due d'Anjou; my father had no
motive for refusing his request, and it was granted. Alas! from
this moment ceased, if not my happiness, at least my tranquillity.
I soon perceived the impression I had made on the count; he began
to come every day, and was full of attentions to my father, who
showed the pleasure he took in his conversation, which was certainly
that of a clever man.
"One morning my father entered my room with an air graver than
usual, but still evidently joyful. 'My child,' said he, 'you
always have said you did not wish to leave me.'
"'Oh! my father,' cried I, 'it is my dearest wish.'
"'Well, my Diana,' continued he, embracing me, 'it only depends
now on yourself to have your wish realized.' I guessed what he
was about to say, and grew dreadfully pale.
"'Diana, my child, what is the matter?' cried he.
"'M. de Monsoreau, is it not?' stammered I. 'Well?' said he,
astonished. 'Oh! never, my father, if you have any pity for your
daughter, never----'
"'Diana, my love,' said he, 'it is not pity I have for you, but
idolatry; you know it; take a week to reflect, and if then----'
"'Oh! no, no,' cried I, 'it is useless; not a day, not a minute!
No, no, no!' and I burst into tears. My father adored me, and he
took me in his arms, and gave me his word that he would speak
to me no more of this marriage.
"Indeed, a month passed, during which I neither heard of nor
saw M. de Monsoreau. One morning we received an invitation to a
grand fête which M. de Monsoreau was to give to the Duc d'Anjou,
who was about to visit the province whose name he bore. To this
was added a personal invitation from the prince, who had seen
my father at court. My first impulse was to beg my father to
refuse, but he feared to offend the prince, so we went. M. de
Monsoreau received us as though nothing had passed, and behaved
to me exactly as he did to the other ladies.
"Not so the duke. As soon as he saw me, he fixed his eyes on
me, and scarcely ever removed them. I felt ill at ease under
these looks, and begged my father to go home early. Three days
after M. de Monsoreau came to Méridor; I saw him from the windows,
and shut myself up in my own room. When he was gone, my father
said nothing to me, but I thought he looked gloomy.
"Four days passed thus, when, as I was returning from a walk,
the servants told me that M. de Monsoreau was with my father, who
had asked for me several times, and had desired to be immediately
informed of my return. Indeed, no sooner had I entered my room,
than my father came to me.
"'My child,' said he, 'a motive which I cannot explain to you,
forces me to separate myself from you for some days. Do not question
me, but be sure that it is an urgent one, since it determines
me to be a week, a fortnight, perhaps a month, without seeing
you.' I trembled, I knew not why, but I fancied that the visits
of M. de Monsoreau boded me no good.
"'Where am I to go, my father?' asked I.
"'To the château of Lude, to my sister, where you will be hidden
from all eyes. You will go by night.' 'And do you not accompany
me?' 'No, I must stay here, to ward off suspicion; even the servants
must not know where you are going.' 'But then, who will take me
there?' 'Two men whom I can trust.' 'Oh! mon Dieu! father,' I
cried. The baron embraced me. 'It is necessary, my child,' said
he.
"I knew my father's love for me so well that I said no more,
only I asked that Gertrude, my nurse, should accompany me. My
father quitted me, telling me to get ready.
"At eight o'clock (it was dark and cold, for it was the middle
of winter) my father came for me. We descended quietly, crossed
the garden, when he opened himself a little door leading to the
forest, and there we found a litter waiting, and two men; my
father spoke to them, then I got in, and Gertrude with me.
"My father embraced me once more, and we set off. I was ignorant
what danger menaced me, and forced me to quit the castle of Méridor.
I did not dare to question my conductors, whom I did not know. We
went along quietly, and the motion of the litter at last sent
me to sleep, when I was awoke by Gertrude, who, seizing my arm,
cried out, 'Oh, mademoiselle, was is the matter?'
"I passed my head through the curtains. We were surrounded by six
masked cavaliers, and our men, who had tried to defend me, were
disarmed. He who appeared the chief of the masked men approached
me, and said; 'Reassure yourself, mademoiselle, no harm will be
done to you, but you must follow us.'
"'Where?' I asked. 'To a place,' he replied, 'where, far from
having anything to complain of, you will be treated like a queen.'
'Oh! my father! my father!' I cried. 'Listen, mademoiselle,'
said Gertrude, 'I know the environs, and I am strong; we may be
able to escape.'
"'You must do as you will with us, gentlemen,' said I, 'we are
but two poor women, and cannot defend ourselves.' One of the men
then took the place of our conductor, and changed the direction
of our litter."
Here Diana stopped a moment, as if overcome with emotion.
"Oh, continue, madame, continue," cried Bussy.
It was impossible for Diana not to see the interest she inspired
in the young man; it was shown in his voice, his gestures, his
looks. She smiled, and went on.
"We continued our journey for about three hours, then the litter
stopped. I heard a door open, we went on, and I fancied we were
crossing a drawbridge. I was not wrong, for, on looking out of
the litter, I saw that we were in the courtyard of a castle.
What castle was it? We did not know. Often, during the route,
we had tried to discover where we were, but seemed to be in an
endless forest. The door of our litter was opened, and the same
man who had spoken to us before asked us to alight. I obeyed
in silence. Two men from the castle had come to meet us with
torches; they conducted us into a bedroom richly decorated, where
a collation waited for us on a table sumptuously laid out.
"'You are at home here, madame,' said the same man, 'and the
room for your servant is adjoining. When you wish for anything,
you have but to strike with the knocker on this door, and some
one, who will be constantly in the antechamber, will wait on
you.' This apparent attention showed that we were guarded. Then
the man bowed and went out, and we heard him lock the door behind
him.
"Gertrude and I were alone. She was about to speak, but I signed
her to be silent, for perhaps some one was listening. The door
of the room which had been shown us as Gertrude's was open, and
we went in to examine it. It was evidently the dressing-room to
mine, and was also locked. We were prisoners. Gertrude approached
me, and said in a low tone: 'Did demoiselle remark that we only
mounted five steps after leaving the court?' 'Yes,' said I.
'Therefore we are on the ground floor.' 'Doubtless.' 'So that----'
said she, pointing to the window. 'Yes, if they are not barred.'
'And if mademoiselle had courage.' 'Oh! yes, I have.'
"Gertrude then took a light, and approached the window. It opened
easily, and was not barred; but we soon discovered the cause
of this seeming negligence on the part of our captors. A lake
lay below us, and we were guarded by ten feet of water better
than by bolts and bars. But in looking out I discovered where we
were. We were in the château of Beaugé, where they had brought
me on the death of my poor Daphné. This castle belonged to the
Duc d'Anjou, and a sudden light was thrown upon our capture.
We shut the window again, and I threw myself, dressed, on my
bed, while Gertrude slept in a chair by my side. Twenty times
during the night I woke, a prey to sudden terror; but nothing
justified it, excepting the place where I found myself, for all
seemed asleep in the castle, and no noise but the cry of the
birds interrupted the silence of the night. Day appeared, but
only to confirm my conviction that flight was impossible without
external aid; and how could that reach us? About nine they came to
take away the supper and bring breakfast. Gertrude questioned the
servants, but they did not reply. Our morning passed in fruitless
plans for escape, and yet we could see a boat fastened to the
shore, with its oars in it. Could we only have reached that,
we might have been safe.
"They brought us our dinner in the same way, put it down, and
left us. In breaking my bread I found in it a little note. I
opened it eagerly, and read, 'A friend watches over you. To-morrow
you shall have news of him and of your father.' You can imagine
my joy. The rest of the day passed in waiting and hoping. The
second night passed as quietly as the first; then came the hour
of breakfast, waited for impatiently, for I hoped to find another
note. I was not wrong, it was as follows:--'The person who had you
carried off will arrive at the castle of Beaugé at ten o'clock
this evening; but at nine, the friend who watches over you will
be under your windows with a letter from your father, which will
command the confidence you, perhaps, might not otherwise give.
Burn this letter.
"I read and re-read this letter, then burned it as I was desired.
The writing was unknown to me, and I did not know from whom it
could have come. We lost ourselves in conjectures, and a hundred
times during the morning we went to the window to see if we could
see any one on the shores of the lake, but all was solitary.
An hour after dinner, some one knocked at our door, and then
entered. It was the man who had spoken to us before. I recognized
his voice; he presented a letter to me.
"'Whom do you come from?' asked I. 'Will mademoiselle take the
trouble to read, and she will see.' 'But I will not read this
letter without knowing whom it comes from.' 'Mademoiselle can
do as she pleases; my business is only to leave the letter,'
and putting it down, he went away. 'What shall I do?' asked I
of Gertrude. 'Read the letter, mademoiselle; it is better to
know what to expect.' I opened and read."
Diana, at this moment, rose, opened a desk, and from a portfolio
drew out the letter. Bussy glanced at the address and read, "To
the beautiful Diana de Méridor."
Then looking at Diana, he said--
"It is the Duc d'Anjou's writing."
"Ah!" replied she, with a sigh, "then he did not deceive me."
Then, as Bussy hesitated to open the letter--
"Read," said she, "chance has initiated you into the most secret
history of my life, and I wish to keep nothing from you."
Bussy obeyed and read--
"An unhappy prince, whom your divine beauty has struck to the
heart, will come at ten o'clock to-night to apologize for his
conduct towards you--conduct which he himself feels has no other
excuse than the invincible love he entertains for you.
"FRANÇOIS."
"Then this letter was really from the duke?" asked Diana.
"Alas! yes; it is his writing and his seal."
Diana sighed. "Can he be less guilty than I thought?" said she.
"Who, the prince?"
"No, M. de Monsoreau."
"Continue, madame, and we will judge the prince and the count."
"This letter, which I had then no idea of not believing genuine,
rendered still more precious to me the intervention of the unknown
friend who offered me aid in the name of my father; I had no
hope but in him. Night arrived soon, for it was in the month
of January, and we had still four or five hours to wait for the
appointed time. It was a fine frosty night; the heavens were
brilliant with stars, and the crescent moon lighted the country
with its silver beams. We had no means of knowing the time, but
we sat anxiously watching at Gertrude's window. At last we saw
figures moving among the trees, and then distinctly heard the
neighing of a horse.
"It is our friends,' said Gertrude. 'Or the prince,' replied I.
'The prince would not hide himself.' This reflection reassured
me. A man now advanced alone: it seemed to us that he quitted
another group who were left under the shade of the trees. As he
advanced, my eyes made violent efforts to pierce the obscurity,
and I thought I recognized first the tall figure, then the features,
of M. de Monsoreau. I now feared almost as much the help as the
danger. I remained mute, and drew back from the window. Arrived at
the wall, he secured his boat, and I saw his head at our window.
I could not repress a cry.
"'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."
