M. Fouquet just now by the note which was torn into a thousand
pieces upon the terrace, and given to the winds by monsieur le
surintendant. Gourville is rubbing his hands; that is because he has
done something clever. Whence comes M. Gourville? Gourville is coming
from the Rue aux Herbes. Whither does the Rue aux Herbes lead?" And
D'Artagnan followed, along the tops of the houses of Nantes, dominated
by the castle, the line traced by the streets, as he would have done
upon a topographical plan; only, instead of the dead, flat paper, the
living chart rose in relief with the cries, the movements, and the
shadows of men and things. Beyond the inclosure of the city, the great
verdant plains stretched out, bordering the Loire, and appeared to run
towards the pink horizon, which was cut by the azure of the waters and
the dark green of the marshes. Immediately outside the gates of Nantes
two white roads were seen diverging like separate fingers of a gigantic
hand. D'Artagnan, who had taken in all the panorama at a glance by
crossing the terrace, was led by the line of the Rue aux Herbes to
the mouth of one of those roads which took its rise under the gates of
Nantes. One step more, and he was about to descend the stairs, take
his trellised carriage, and go towards the lodgings of M. Fouquet. But
chance decreed, at the moment of plunging into the staircase, that he
was attracted by a moving point then gaining ground upon that road.

"What is that?" said the musketeer to himself; "a horse galloping,--a
runaway horse, no doubt. What a rate he is going at!" The moving point
became detached from the road, and entered into the fields. "A white
horse," continued the captain, who had just observed the color thrown
luminously against the dark ground, "and he is mounted; it must be some
boy whose horse is thirsty and has run away with him."

These reflections, rapid as lightning, simultaneous with visual
perception, D'Artagnan had already forgotten when he descended the
first steps of the staircase. Some morsels of paper were spread over the
stairs, and shone out white against the dirty stones. "Eh! eh!" said the
captain to himself, "here are some of the fragments of the note torn by
M. Fouquet. Poor man! he has given his secret to the wind; the wind will
have no more to do with it, and brings it back to the king. Decidedly,
Fouquet, you play with misfortune! the game is not a fair one,--fortune
is against you. The star of Louis XIV. o