hand to her face and entered her
carriage, Madame following her. The king again mounted his horse, and
without showing a preference for any particular carriage-door, he
returned to Fontainebleau, the reins hanging over his horse's neck,
absorbed in thought. As soon as the crowd had disappeared, and the sound
of the horses and carriages grew fainter in the distance, and when they
were certain, in fact, that no one could see them, Aramis and Fouquet
came out of their grotto, and both of them in silence passed slowly on
toward the walk. Aramis looked most narrowly not only at the whole
extent of the open space stretching out before and behind him, but even
into the very depths of the wood.

"Monsieur Fouquet," he said, when he had quite satisfied himself that
they were alone, "we must get back, at any cost, the letter you wrote to
La Valliere."

"That will be easy enough," said Fouquet, "if my servant has not given
it to her."

"In any case, it must be done; do you understand?"

"Yes; the king is in love with this girl, you mean?"

"Exceedingly so; and what is worse is that, on her side, the girl is
passionately attached to the king."

"As much as to say that we must change our tactics, I suppose?"

"Not a doubt of it; you have no time to lose. You must see La Valliere,
and, without thinking any more of becoming her lover, which is out of
the question, must declare yourself her dearest friend and her most
humble servant."

"I will do so," replied Fouquet, "and without the slightest feeling of
disinclination, for she seems a good-hearted girl."

"Or a clever one," said Aramis; "but in that case the greater reason."
Then he added, after a moment's pause, "If I am not mistaken, that girl
will become the strongest passion of the king. Let us return to our
carriage, and, as fast as possible, to the chateau."

CHAPTER V.

TOBY.

Two hours after the surintendant's cortege had set off by Aramis'
directions, conveying them both toward Fontainebleau with the fleetness
of the clouds, which the last breath of the tempest was hurrying across
the face of the heavens, La Valliere was closeted in her own apartment,
with a simple muslin wrapper round her, having just finished a slight
repast, which was placed upon a small marble table. Suddenly the door
was opened, and a servant entered to announce M. Fouquet, who had called
to request permission to pay his respects to her. She made him repeat
the message twice ove