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 have
been most unhappy. And therefore, when he found himself alone, face to
face, as it were, with his own troubles, leaving behind him the intrepid
friend and the indulgent father; when he recalled the avowal of the
king's affection, which had robbed him of Louise de la Valliere, whom he
loved so deeply, he felt his heart almost breaking, as indeed we all
have at least once in our lives, at the first illusion destroyed, at our
first affection betrayed. "Oh!" he murmured, "all is over then. Nothing
is 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'Artagnan
likewise. Everything is a mere idle dream in this life. That future
which I have been hopelessly pursuing for the last ten years, a dream!
that union of our hearts, a dream! that life formed of love and
happiness, 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 my
friends may be saddened by my troubles, and that my enemies may laugh
at my sorrows. And so my unhappiness will soon become a notorious
disgrace, a public scandal; and who knows but that to-morrow I may not
even be ignominiously pointed at."
And, despite the composure which he had promised his father and
D'Artagnan to observe, Raoul could not resist uttering a few words of
dark menace. "And yet," he continued, "if my name were De Wardes, and if
I had the pliant character and strength of will of M. d'Artagnan, I
should laugh, with my lips at least; I should convince other women that
this perfidious girl, honored by the affection I have wasted on her,
leaves me only one regret, that of having been abused and deceived by
her resemblance of a modest and irreproachable conduct; a few men might
perhaps fawn upon the king by laughing at my expense; I should put
myself on the track of some of those jesters; I should chastise a few of
them, perhaps; the men would fear me, and by the time I had laid three
dying 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 la
Fere himself would not object to it. Has not he also been tried, in his
earlier days, in the same manner as I have just been tried myself? Did
he not replace affection by intoxication? He has often told me so. Why
should not I replace love by pleasure? He must have suffered as much as
I suffer, even more so, perhaps. The history of one man is the history
of all men, a lengthened trial, more or less so at least, more or less
bitter or sorrowful. The voice of human nature is nothing but one
prolonged cry. But what are the sufferings of others compared to those
from which I am now suffering? Does the open wound in another's breast
soften the pain of the gaping wound in our own? Or does the blood which
is welling from another man's side stanch that which is pouring from our
own? Does the general anguish of our fellow-creatures lessen our own
private 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 present
moment? A cold, barren, sterile arena, in which I have always fought for
others, never for myself. Sometimes for a king, sometimes for a woman.
The king has betrayed me, the woman disdained me. Miserable, unhappy
wretch that I am! Women! Can I not make all expiate the crime of one of
their sex? What does that need? To have a heart no longer, or to forget
that I ever had one; to be strong, even against weakness itself; to lean
always, even when one feels that the support is giving way. What is
needed to attain, or succeed in all that? To be young, handsome, strong,
valiant, rich. I am, or shall be, all that. But honor?" he still
continued, "and what is honor after all? A theory which every man
understands in his own way. My father tells me: 'Honor is the respect of
that which is due to others, and particularly of what is due to one's
self.' But Guiche and Manicamp, and Saint-Aignan particularly, would say
to me: 'What's honor? Honor consists in studying and yielding to the
passions and pleasures of one's king.' Honor such as that indeed, is
easy and productive enough. With honor like that I can keep my post at
the court, become a gentleman of the chamber, and accept the command of
a regiment, which may have been presented to me. With honor such as
that, I can be both duke and peer.
"The stain which that woman has just stamped upon me, the grief with
which she has just broken my heart, the heart of the friend and playmate
of her childhood, in no way affect M. de Bragelonne, an excellent
officer, a courageous leader, who will cover himself with glory at the
first encounter, and who will become a hundred times greater than
Mademoiselle de la Valliere is to-day, the mistress of the king, for the
king will not marry her--and the more publicly he will proclaim her as
his mistress, the thicker will become the bandage of shame which he
casts in her face, in the guise of a crown; and in proportion as others
will despise her, as I despise her, I shall be gaining honors in the
field. Alas! we had walked together side by side, she and I, during the
earliest, the brightest, and best portion of our existence, hand in hand
along the charming path of life, covered with the flowers of youth; and
then, 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 and
more widely separated from each other. And to attain the end of this
path, oh, Heaven! I am now alone in utter despair, and crushed to the
very earth!"
Such were the sinister reflections in which Raoul indulged, when his
foot mechanically paused at the door of his own dwelling. He had reached
it without remarking the streets through which he had passed, without
knowing how he had come; he pushed open the door, continued to advance,
and ascended the staircase. The staircase, as in most of the houses at
that period, was very dark, and the landings very obscure. Raoul lived
on the first floor; he paused in order to ring. Olivain appeared, took
his sword and cloak from his hands; Raoul himself opened the door which,
from the antechamber, led into a small salon, richly enough furnished
for the salon of a young man, and completely filled with flowers by
Olivain, who, knowing his master's tastes, had shown himself studiously
attentive in gratifying them, without caring whether his master
perceived his attention or not. There was a portrait of La Valliere in
the salon, which had been drawn by herself and given by her to Raoul.
This portrait, fastened above a large easy-chair covered with
dark-colored damask, was the first point toward which Raoul bent his
steps--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, this
portrait, before anything else, attracted his attention. This time, as
usual, he walked straight up to the portrait, placed his knees upon the
armchair, and paused to look at it sadly. His arms were crossed upon his
breast, his head slightly thrown back, his eyes filled with tears, his
mouth worked into a bitter smile. He looked at the portrait of one whom
he so tenderly loved; and then all that he had said passed before his
mind again, and all that he had suffered seemed again to assail his
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 sigh
and a groan behind him. He turned sharply round, and perceived, in the
angle of the salon, standing up, a bending veiled female figure, which
he had been the means of concealing behind the door as he opened it, and
which he had not perceived as he entered. He advanced toward this
figure, whose presence in his room had not been announced to him; and as
he bowed, and inquired at the same moment who she was, she suddenly
raised her head, and removed the veil from her face, revealing her pale
and sorrow-stricken features. Raoul staggered back, as if he had seen a
ghost.
"Louise!" he cried, in a tone of such utter despair, that one could
hardly have thought that the human voice were capable of so desponding a
cry, without some fibers of the human heart snapping.