CHAPTER LXVII.
HEU! MISER!
"Poor Raoul!" had said Athos. "Poor Raoul!" had said D'Artagnan; and, inpoint 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, whom heloved so deeply, he felt his heart almost breaking, as indeed we allhave at least once in our lives, at the first illusion destroyed, at ourfirst affection betrayed. "Oh!" he murmured, "all is over then. Nothingis now left me in this world. Nothing to look for, nothing to hope for.Guiche has told me so, my father has told me so, and M. d'Artagnanlikewise. Everything is a mere idle dream in this life. That futurewhich I have been hopelessly pursuing for the last ten years, a dream!that union of our hearts, a dream! that life formed of love andhappiness, a dream! Poor fool that I am," he continued, after a pause,"to dream away my existence aloud, publicly, and in the face of others,my friends and my enemies--and for what purpose, too? in order that myfriends may be saddened by my troubles, and that my enemies may laughat my sorrows. And so my unhappiness will soon become a notoriousdisgrace, a public scandal; and who knows but that to-morrow I may noteven be ignominiously pointed at."
And, despite the composure which he had promised his father andD'Artagnan to observe, Raoul could not resist uttering a few words ofdark menace. "And yet," he continued, "if my name were De Wardes, and ifI had the pliant character and strength of will of M. d'Artagnan, Ishould laugh, with my lips at least; I should convince other women thatthis perfidious girl, honored by the affection I have wasted on her,leaves me only one regret, that of having been abused and deceived byher resemblance of a modest and irreproachable conduct; a few men mightperhaps fawn upon the king by laughing at my expense; I should putmyself on the track of some of those jesters; I should chastise a few ofthem, perhaps; the men would fear me, and by the time I had laid threedying or 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 laFere himself 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 not I replace love by pleasure? He must have suffered as much asI suffer, even more so, perhaps. The history of one man is the historyof all men, a lengthened trial, more or less so at least, more or lessbitter or sorrowful. The voice of human nature is nothing but oneprolonged cry. But what are the sufferings of others compared to thosefrom which I am now suffering? Does the open wound in another's breastsoften the pain of the gaping wound in our own? Or does the blood whichis welling from another man's side stanch that which is pouring from ourown? Does the general anguish of our fellow-creatures lessen our ownprivate and particular anguish? No, no, each suffers on his own account,each struggles with his own grief, each sheds his own tears.
"And besides," he went on, "what has my life been up to the presentmoment? A cold, barren, sterile arena, in which I have always fought forothers, never for myself. Sometimes for a king, sometimes for a woman.The king has betrayed me, the woman disdained me. Miserable, unhappywretch that I am! Women! Can I not make all expiate the crime of one oftheir sex? What does that need? To have a heart no longer, or to forgetthat I ever had one; to be strong, even against weakness itself; to leanalways, even when one feels that the support is giving way. What isneeded to attain, or succeed in all that? To be young, handsome, strong,valiant, rich. I am, or shall be, all that. But honor?" he stillcontinued, "and what is honor after all? A theory which every manunderstands in his own way. My father tells me: 'Honor is the respect ofthat which is due to others, and particularly of what is due to one'sself.' But Guiche and Manicamp, and Saint-Aignan particularly, would sayto me: 'What's honor? Honor consists in studying and yielding to thepassions and pleasures of one's king.' Honor such as that indeed, iseasy and productive enough. With honor like that I can keep my post atthe court, become a gentleman of the chamber, and accept the command ofa regiment, which may have been presented to me. With honor such asthat, I can be both duke and peer.
"The stain which that woman has just stamped upon me, the grief withwhich she has just broken my heart, the heart of the friend and playmateof her childhood, in no way affect M. de Bragelonne, an excellentofficer, a courageous leader, who will cover himself with glory at thefirst encounter, and who will become a hundred times greater thanMademoiselle de la Valliere is to-day, the mistress of the king, for theking will not marry her--and the more publicly he will proclaim her ashis mistress, the thicker will become the bandage of shame which hecasts in her face, in the guise of a crown; and in proportion as otherswill despise her, as I despise her, I shall be gaining honors in thefield. Alas! we had walked together side by side, she and I, during theearliest, the brightest, and best portion of our existence, hand in handalong the charming path of life, covered with the flowers of youth; andthen, alas! we reach a cross road, where she separates herself from me,in which we have to follow a different route, whereby we become more andmore widely separated from each other. And to attain the end of thispath, oh, Heaven! I am now alone in utter despair, and crushed to thevery earth!"
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 had 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 very 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 antechamber, led into a small salon, richly enough furnishedfor 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 withdark-colored damask, was the first point toward 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 thearmchair, and paused to look at it sadly. His arms were crossed upon hisbreast, his head slightly thrown back, his eyes filled with tears, hismouth worked into a bitter smile. He looked at the portrait of one whomhe so tenderly loved; and then all that he had said passed before hismind again, and all that he had suffered seemed again to assail hisheart; 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, andwhich he had not perceived as he entered. He advanced toward thisfigure, whose presence in his room had not been announced to him; and ashe 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 utter despair, that one couldhardly have thought that the human voice were capable of so desponding acry, without some fibers of the human heart snapping.
The Vicomte de Bragelonne Page 68