“Why, home, to be sure; have you not to prepare your toilette?” “What did you say?” cried Montalais, hastening to affect surprise, so fearful was she that Louise would in some way commit herself. “You don’t know the news, then?” said Madame de Saint-Remy. “What news, madame, is it possible for two girls to learn up in this dove-cote?” “What! have you seen nobody?” “Madame, you talk in enigmas, and you torment us at a slow fire!” cried Montalais, who, terrified at seeing Louise become paler and paler, did not know to what saint to put up her vows. At length she caught an eloquent look of her companion’s, one of those looks which would convey intelligence to a brick wall. Louise directed her attention to a hat—Raoul’s unlucky hat, which was set out in all its feathery splendor upon the table. Montalais sprang towards it, and, seizing it with her left hand, passed it behind her into the right, concealing it as she was speaking. “Well,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, “a courier has arrived, announcing the approach of the king. There, mesdemoiselles; there is something to make you put on your best looks.” “Quick, quick!” cried Montalais. “Follow Madame your mother, Louise; and leave me to get ready my dress of ceremony.” Louise arose; her mother took her by the hand, and led her out on to the landing. “Come along,” said she; then adding in a low voice, “When I forbid you to come to the apartment of Montalais, why do you do so?” “Madame, she is my friend. Besides, I had but just come.” “Did you see nobody concealed while you were there?” “Madame!” “I saw a man’s hat, I tell you—the hat of that fellow, that good-for-nothing!” “Madame!” repeated Louise. “Of that do-nothing De Malicorne! A maid of honor to have such company—fie! fie!” and their voices were lost in the depths of the narrow staircase. Montalais had not missed a word of this conversation, which echo conveyed to her as if through a tunnel. She shrugged her shoulders on seeing Raoul, who had listened likewise, issue from the closet. “Poor Montalais!” said she, “the victim of friendship! Poor Malicorne, the victim of love!” She stopped on viewing the tragic-comic face of Raoul, who was vexed at having, in one day, surprised so many secrets. “Oh, mademoiselle!” said he; “how can we repay your kindness?” “Oh, we will balance accounts some day,” said she. “For the present, begone, M. de Bragelonne, for Madame de Saint-Remy is not over indulgent; and any indiscretion on her part might bring hither a domiciliary visit, which would be disagreeable to all parties.” “But Louise—how shall I know——” “Begone! begone! King Louis XI. knew very well what he was about when he invented the post.” “Alas!” sighed Raoul. “And am I not here—I, who am worth all the posts in the kingdom? Quick, I say, to horse! so that if Madame de Saint-Remy should return for the purpose of preaching me a lesson on morality, she may not find you here.”