Fouquet had not quitted the terrace where he had been left by his guide. He reperused his note, conceived thus:

“Something is being contrived against you. Perhaps they will not dare to carry it out at the castle; it will be on your return home. The house is already surrounded by musketeers. Do not enter. A white horse is in waiting for you behind the esplanade!”

Fouquet recognized the writing and zeal of Gourville.

Not being willing that, if any evil happened to himself, this paper should compromise a faithful friend, the surintendant was busy tearing it into a thousand morsels, spread about by the wind from the balustrade of the terrace. D’Artagnan found him watching the snowflake fluttering of the last scraps in space.