?"

"Raoul," murmured Montalais.

"It is I--I," said a joyous voice, upon the last steps of the grand
staircase.

La Valliere uttered a terrible shriek and threw herself back.

"I am here, dear Louise," said Raoul, running towards her. "I knew but
too well that you had not ceased to love me."

La Valliere with a gesture, partly of extreme terror, and partly as if
invoking a blessing, attempted to speak, but could not articulate one
word. "No, no!" she said, as she fell into Montalais's arms, murmuring,
"Do not touch me, do not come near me."

Montalais made a sign to Raoul, who stood almost petrified at the door,
and did not even attempt to advance another step into the room.
Then, looking towards the side of the room where the screen was, she
exclaimed: "Imprudent girl, she has not even closed the trap-door."

And she advanced towards the corner of the room to close the screen, and
also, behind the screen, the trap-door. But suddenly the king, who had
heard Louise's exclamation, darted through the opening, and hurried
forward to her assistance. He threw himself on his knees before her, as
he overwhelmed Montalais with questions, who hardly knew where she was.
At the moment, however, when the king threw himself on his knees, a cry
of utter despair rang through the corridor, accompanied by the sound of
retreating footsteps. The king wished to see who had uttered the cry and
whose were the footsteps he had heard; and it was in vain that Montalais
sought to retain him, for Louis, quitting his hold of La Valliere,
hurried towards the door, too late, however, for Raoul was already at a
distance, and the king only beheld a shadow that quickly vanished in the
silent corridor. [8]

Chapter XL: Two Old Friends.

Whilst every one at court was busily engaged with his own affairs, a man
mysteriously took up his post behind the Place de Greve, in the
house which we once saw besieged by D'Artagnan on the occasion of the
_emeute_. The principal entrance of the house was in the Place Baudoyer;
it was tolerably large, surrounded by gardens, inclosed in the Rue
Saint-Jean by the shops of toolmakers, which protected it from prying
looks, and was walled in by a triple rampart of stone, noise, and
verdure, like an embalmed mummy in its triple coffin. The man we have
just alluded to walked along with a firm step, although he was no longer
in his early prime. His dark cloak and long sword plainly revealed
one who seemed in sear