moved, the floor creaked. At the noise the lady turned, she was
the original of the portrait. The man, seeing her turn, turned
also; it was M. de Monsoreau.

"Ah!" thought Bussy, "the white horse, the woman carried away,
there is some terrible history."

Bussy, as we have said, could see them both; she, standing up,
pale and disdainful. He, not pale, but livid, agitated his foot
impatiently.

"Madame," said he, at last, "do not hope to continue with me
this character of a persecuted woman; you are at Paris, in my
house, and, still more, you are Comtesse de Monsoreau, that is
to say, my Wife.

"If I am your wife, why refuse to conduct me to my father? Why
continue to hide me from the eyes of the world?"

"You have forgotten the Duc d'Anjou, madame."

"You assured me that, once your wife, I should have no more to
fear from him."

"That is to say----"

"You promised me that."

"But still, madame, I must take precautions."