On descending into the court, M. de Meridor found a fresh horse, which Bussy had had prepared for him; another waited for Bussy, and attended by Remy, they started. As they went along, the baron could not but ask himself by what strange confidence he had accompanied, almost blindly, the friend of the prince to whom he owed all his misfortunes. Would it not have been better to have braved the Duc d'Anjou, and instead of following Bussy where it pleased him to lead, to have gone at once to the Louvre, and thrown himself at the feet of the king? What could the prince say to him? How could he console him? Could soft words heal his wound?
When they stopped, "What," said the baron, "does the Duc d'Anjou live in this humble house?"
Sign in to unlock this title
Sign in to continue reading, it's free! As an unregistered user you can only read a little bit.
