It was rapidly growing dusk; only a little light still lingered in the room. A feeling of utter loneliness, a foreboding of coming misfortune, suddenly overcame her. The shadows of approaching night seemed to strike into her very soul. She started at her own footstep as she crossed the parquet floor towards a taper which stood upon a marble table, covered with costly trifles given to her by the King. She stretched out her hand to light it. When she had done so, something sparkled on the floor close to the chair on which Madame de Montespan had been seated. Louise stooped down to see what it was. She at once recognised some golden tablets which she had often noticed in the hands of Madame de Montespan. The diamonds, set in the rich gold chasing, and the initials, had caught the light. The snap was open. It was so dark that La Vallière held it close to the taper in order to close the spring. In doing so the tablets fell open—her eyes fixed themselves on the pages. An expression of horror came into them as she gazed. Could it be, or was she dreaming? All the blood in her body rushed to her heart. She put down the light which she had held, and, with the tablets in her hand, sat down to collect her senses, for her head was dizzy. Could it be? Yes; it was the handwriting of the King. How well she knew it—each stroke, every little turn of the pen, how she had studied it! As she passed page after page through her quivering fingers, each bore the same well-known characters. She tried to read; a film gathered over her eyes. Yet she must read on. She pressed her hand upon her brow; her brain seemed on fire. At length a desperate resolution gave her power—she read. There were verses of passionate fondness, signed "Louis." The first dated three months back; the last only yesterday. She would have wept, but the tears froze ere they reached her eyes. With a great effort she collected her scattered senses and began to think. Madame de Montespan must have dropped these tablets on purpose. She saw it all. They fell from her hand upon the floor. Lying there she gazed at them in silence. Then she glanced round the room. It was now quite dark; the burning taper only served to deepen the gloom—Louise knew she was alone in the world; the King loved another. With the composure of despair she took up a pen to address him before she fled, for fly she intuitively felt she must. She was not capable of reflection, but it came to her quite naturally as the only thing that remained for her to do, to fly; and where could she go but to Chaillot, to the dear sisterhood?