“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 Vallière, 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, the
first affection betrayed. “Oh!” he murmured, “all is over, then. Nothing
is now left me in this world. Nothing to look forward to, nothing to
hope for. Guiche has told me so, my father has told me so, M. d’Artagnan
has told me so. All life is but an idle dream. The future which I have
been hopelessly pursuing for the last ten years is a dream! the union of
hearts, a dream! a life 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, friends and enemies--and for what
purpose, 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 soon
become a notorious disgrace, a public scandal; and who knows but that
to-morrow I may even be a public laughing-stock?”
And, despite the composure which he had promised his father and
D’Artagnan to observe, Raoul could not resist uttering a few words of
darkest menace. “And yet,” he continued, “if my name were De Wardes, and
if 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 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 seemingly modest and irreproachable conduct; a few might perhaps
fawn on the king by jesting at my expense; I should put myself on
the 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 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 I not replace love by pleasure? He must have suffered as much as
I suffer, even more--if that is possible. The history of one man is the
history of all, a dragging trial, more or less prolonged, more or less
bitter--sorrowful. The note of human nature is nothing but one sustained
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
anguish of the gaping ulcer in our own? Does the blood which is welling
from another man’s side stanch that which is pouring from our own? Does
the general grief of our fellow-creatures lessen our own private and
particular woe? 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, the
woman disdained me. Miserable, unlucky 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 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? 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 at any time
be 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 has
broken my heart, the heart of the friend and playmate of her childhood,
in no way affects 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 Vallière
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
more opaque will grow the shadow of shame he casts upon her face, in the
guise 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 together
side by side, she and I, during the earliest, the brightest, the most
angelic portion of our existence, hand in hand along the charming path
of life, covered with the blossoms 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 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 most 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 ante-chamber, led into a small _salon_, richly furnished enough
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 Vallière 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 towards 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
arm chair, 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
the one he had so tenderly loved; and then all that he had said passed
before his mind again, 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 towards the
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 absolute despair, one could hardly
have thought the human voice was capable of so desponding a cry, without
the snapping of the human heart.