"You have ceased to love me," she wrote; "the proofs are in my hand, written by yourself. The last time we met you told me how dear I was to you; let me never hear your beloved voice speak another language. I do not reproach you; you have treated me as I deserved. But I still love you as when we first met among the woods of Fontainebleau. If ever you waste a thought upon me, remember that death alone can quench that love." Alas for the weakness of human nature! La Vallière, once within the walls of Chaillot, shut herself into the same cell she had before occupied, and repented that she had come. "I ought to have seen the King, and to have questioned him myself. Madame de Montespan may have purposely deceived me. That she must be false I know too well. Who can tell if it is not all a device to rob me of Louis? I may myself be but a tool in her hands. If I had seen him, all might have been explained. He is my master; I had no right to leave him. Oh! I wish I had not come!" Thus she reasoned. Her soul was not yet wholly given to God. Further trials await her. Breathlessly she waited for what might happen; the creak of a door made her heart beat; every footstep made her tremble. At the end of some hours the door opened and the Prince de Condé was announced. "What, alone! Once he would have come himself," she murmured. Composing herself as best she could, she rose to meet him. The Prince placed in her hands a letter from the King; he desired her to return immediately to Versailles with the bearer. La Vallière meekly bowed her head and obeyed. No sooner had La Vallière returned to the Hôtel Biron than the King arrived. He was ruddy with health; his eyes flashed with the vigour of manhood. His bearing was proud, yet dignified. On his head was a hat trimmed with point lace and jewels, from which hung a fringe of white ostrich feathers, which mixing with the dark curls of his peruke, covered his shoulders. "Let us live our old life again," said he, uncovering, and taking her hands in his. "I hate explanations. Believe me, your presence here, _under all circumstances_," and he accentuated these words, "is necessary to my happiness." "But, Sire, Madame de Montespan?" Louis became crimson; a momentary frown knit his dark eyebrows. "I desire you to receive her as heretofore," he replied hurriedly. "Louise, it is a sacrifice you must make for my sake. You will not refuse. It will endear you to me more than ever." As he spoke he looked at her tenderly. "Sire, I cannot," she replied firmly, casting her eyes on the ground. "How! You dare to refuse me? Louise, I command you." The King drew himself up; he laid his hand heavily on her shoulder. Then, seeing how wasted and frail she was, and how her slight form quivered under his touch, he added in a softened tone, "Louise, I entreat you."