“His majesty,” he said, “has been good enough to remember that the Comte de la Fere is high in favor with King Charles II. This morning, as he was on his way to attend mass, the king, seeing me as he passed, signed to me to approach, which I accordingly did. ‘Monsieur de Bragelonne,’ he said to me, ‘you will call upon M. Fouquet, who has received from me letters for the king of Great Britain; you will be the bearer of them.’ I bowed. ‘Ah!’ his majesty added, ‘before you leave, you will be good enough to take any commissions which Madame may have for the king her brother.’” “Gracious heaven!” murmured Louise, much agitated, and yet full of thought at the same time. “So quickly! You are desired to set off in such haste!” said Montalais, almost paralyzed by this unforeseen event. “Properly to obey those whom we respect,” said Raoul, “it is necessary to obey quickly. Within ten minutes after I had received the order, I was ready. Madame, already informed, is writing the letter which she is good enough to do me the honor of intrusting to me. In the meantime, learning from Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente that it was likely you would be in this direction, I came here, and am happy to find you both.” “And both of us very sad, as you see,” said Montalais, going to Louise’s assistance, whose countenance was visibly altered. “Suffering?” responded Raoul, pressing Louise’s hand with a tender curiosity. “Your hand is like ice.” “It is nothing.” “This coldness does not reach your heart, Louise, does it?” inquired the young man, with a tender smile. Louise raised her head hastily, as if the question had been inspired by some suspicion, and had aroused a feeling of remorse. “Oh! you know,” she said, with an effort, “that my heart will never be cold towards a friend like yourself, Monsieur de Bragelonne.” “Thank you, Louise. I know both your heart and your mind; it is not by the touch of the hand that one can judge of an affection like yours. You know, Louise, how devotedly I love you, with what perfect and unreserved confidence I reserve my life for you; will you not forgive me, then, for speaking to you with something like the frankness of a child?” “Speak, Monsieur Raoul,” said Louise, trembling painfully, “I am listening.” “I cannot part from you, carrying away with me a thought that tortures me; absurd I know it to be, and yet one which rends my very heart.” “Are you going away, then, for any length of time?” inquired La Vallière, with faltering utterance, while Montalais turned her head aside. “No; probably I shall not be absent more than a fortnight.” La Vallière pressed her hand upon her heart, which felt as though it were breaking.