"And now, one last word."
"Why the last?"
"Do we need any one to assist us?"
"No one at all."
"Valets or maid-servants?"
"Bad—detestable. You will give the letters—you will receive them. Oh! we must have no pride in this affair, otherwise M. Malicorne and Mademoiselle Aure, not transacting their own affairs themselves, will have to make up their minds to see them done by others."
"You are quite right; but what is going on yonder in M. de Guiche's room?"
"Nothing: he is only opening his window."
"Let us be gone." And they both immediately disappeared, all the terms of the compact having been agreed upon.
The window, which had just been opened, was, in fact, that of the Comte de Guiche. But it was not alone with the hope of catching a glimpse of Madame through her curtains that he seated himself by the open window, for his preoccupation of mind had at that time a different origin. He had just received, as we have already stated, the courier who had been dispatched to him by Bragelonne, the latter having written to De Guiche a letter which had made the deepest impression upon him, and which he had read over and over again. "Strange, strange!" he murmured. "How powerful are the means by which destiny hurries men on toward their fate!" Leaving the window in order to approach nearer to the light, he again read over the letter he had just received: