Chapter LX. Heu! Miser!
"Poor Raoul!" had said Athos. "Poor Raoul!" had said D'Artagnan: and,in point of fact, to be pitied by both these men, Raoul must indeed havebeen most unhappy. And therefore, when he found himself alone, face toface, as it were, with his own troubles, leaving behind him the intrepidfriend and the indulgent father; when he recalled the avowal of theking's affection, which had robbed him of Louise de la Valliere, whomhe loved so deeply, he felt his heart almost breaking, as indeed we allhave at least once in our lives, at the first illusion destroyed, thefirst affection betrayed. "Oh!" he murmured, "all is over, then. Nothingis now left me in this world. Nothing to look forward to, nothing tohope for. Guiche has told me so, my father has told me so, M. d'Artagnanhas told me so. All life is but an idle dream. The future which I havebeen hopelessly pursuing for the last ten years is a dream! the union ofhearts, a dream! a life of love and happiness, a dream! Poor fool thatI am," he continued, after a pause, "to dream away my existence aloud,publicly, and in the face of others, friends and enemies--and for whatpurpose, too? in order that my friends may be saddened by my troubles,and my enemies may laugh at my sorrows. And so my unhappiness will soonbecome a notorious disgrace, a public scandal; and who knows but thatto-morrow I may even be a public laughing-stock?"
And, despite the composure which he had promised his father andD'Artagnan to observe, Raoul could not resist uttering a few words ofdarkest menace. "And yet," he continued, "if my name were De Wardes, andif I had the pliancy of character and strength of will of M. d'Artagnan,I should laugh, with my lips at least; I should convince other womenthat this perfidious girl, honored by the affection I have wasted onher, leaves me only one regret, that of having been abused and deceivedby her seemingly modest and irreproachable conduct; a few might perhapsfawn on the king by jesting at my expense; I should put myself onthe track of some of those buffoons; I should chastise a few of them,perhaps; the men would fear me, and by the time I had laid three dyingor dead at my feet, I should be adored by the women. Yes, yes, that,indeed, would be the proper course to adopt, and the Comte de la Ferehimself would not object to it. Has not he also been tried, in hisearlier days, in the same manner as I have just been tried myself? Didhe not replace affection by intoxication? He has often told me so. Whyshould I not replace love by pleasure? He must have suffered as much asI suffer, even more--if that is possible. The history of one man is thehistory of all, a dragging trial, more or less prolonged, more or lessbitter--sorrowful. The note of human nature is nothing but one sustainedcry. But what are the sufferings of others compared to those from whichI am now suffering? Does the open wound in another's breast soften theanguish of the gaping ulcer in our own? Does the blood which is wellingfrom another man's side stanch that which is pouring from our own? Doesthe general grief of our fellow-creatures lessen our own private andparticular woe? No, no, each suffers on his own account, each struggleswith his own grief, each sheds his own tears. And besides," he went on,"what has my life been up to the present moment? A cold, barren, sterilearena, in which I have always fought for others, never for myself.Sometimes for a king, sometimes for a woman. The king has betrayed, thewoman disdained me. Miserable, unlucky wretch that I am! Women! Can Inot make all expiate the crime of one of their sex? What does thatneed? To have a heart no longer, or to forget that I ever had one; tobe strong, even against weakness itself; to lean always, even whenone feels that the support is giving way. What is needed to attain, orsucceed in all that? To be young, handsome, strong, valiant, rich. Iam, or shall be, all that. But honor?" he still continued, "and what ishonor after all? A theory which every man understands in his own way. Myfather tells me: 'Honor is the consideration of what is due to others,and particularly what is due to oneself.' But Guiche, and Manicamp,and Saint-Aignan particularly, would say to me: 'What's honor? Honorconsists in studying and yielding to the passions and pleasures of one'sking.' Honor such as that indeed, is easy and productive enough. Withhonor like that, I can keep my post at the court, become a gentleman ofthe chamber, and accept the command of a regiment, which may at any timebe presented to me. With honor such as that, I can be duke and peer.
"The stain which that woman has stamped upon me, the grief that hasbroken my heart, the heart of the friend and playmate of her childhood,in no way affects M. de Bragelonne, an excellent officer, a courageousleader, who will cover himself with glory at the first encounter, andwho will become a hundred times greater than Mademoiselle de la Valliereis to-day, the mistress of the king--for the king will not marryher--and the more publicly he will proclaim her as his mistress, themore opaque will grow the shadow of shame he casts upon her face, in theguise of a crown; and in proportion as others despise, as I despise her,I shall be gleaning honors in the field. Alas! we had walked togetherside by side, she and I, during the earliest, the brightest, the mostangelic portion of our existence, hand in hand along the charming pathof life, covered with the blossoms of youth; and then, alas! we reacha cross-road, where she separates herself from me, in which we haveto follow a different route, whereby we become more and more widelyseparated from each other. And to attain the end of this path, oh,Heaven! I am now alone, in utter despair, and crushed to the veryearth."
Such were the sinister reflections in which Raoul indulged, when hisfoot mechanically paused at the door of his own dwelling. He had reachedit without remarking the streets through which he passed, withoutknowing how he had come; he pushed open the door, continued to advance,and ascended the staircase. The staircase, as in most of the houses atthat period, was very dark, and the landings most obscure. Raoul livedon the first floor; he paused in order to ring. Olivain appeared, tookhis sword and cloak from his hands; Raoul himself opened the door which,from the ante-chamber, led into a small _salon_, richly furnished enoughfor the _salon_ of a young man, and completely filled with flowers byOlivain, who, knowing his master's tastes, had shown himself studiouslyattentive in gratifying them, without caring whether his masterperceived his attention or not. There was a portrait of La Valliere inthe _salon_, which had been drawn by herself and given by her to Raoul.This portrait, fastened above a large easy chair covered with darkcolored damask, was the first point towards which Raoul bent hissteps--the first object on which he fixed his eyes. It was, moreover,Raoul's usual habit to do so; every time he entered his room, thisportrait, before anything else, attracted his attention. This time, asusual, he walked straight up to the portrait, placed his knees upon thearm chair, and paused to look at it sadly. His arms were crossed uponhis breast, his head slightly thrown back, his eyes filled with tears,his mouth worked into a bitter smile. He looked at the portrait ofthe one he had so tenderly loved; and then all that he had said passedbefore his mind again, all that he had suffered seemed again to assailhis heart; and, after a long silence, he murmured for the third time,"Miserable, unhappy wretch that I am!"
He had hardly pronounced these words, when he heard the sound of a sighand a groan behind him. He turned sharply round and perceived, in theangle of the _salon_, standing up, a bending veiled female figure, whichhe had been the means of concealing behind the door as he opened it,and which he had not perceived as he entered. He advanced towards thefigure, whose presence in his room had not been announced to him; andas he bowed, and inquired at the same moment who she was, she suddenlyraised her head, and removed the veil from her face, revealing her paleand sorrow-stricken features. Raoul staggered back as if he had seen aghost.
"Louise!" he cried, in a tone of such absolute despair, one could hardlyhave thought the human voice was capable of so desponding a cry, withoutthe snapping of the human heart.
Louise de la Valliere Page 61