“The stain which that woman has just stamped upon me, the grief with which she has just broken my heart,- mine, Raoul’s, her friend from 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 proclaims her as his mistress, the more will he enlarge the band of shame which he places as a crown upon her brow; and when others shall despise her as I despise her, I shall have become famous. 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 now we come to a cross road, where she separates herself from me, whence we shall follow different roads, which will lead us always farther apart. And to attain the end of this path, oh Heaven! I am alone, I am in despair, I am crushed. Oh, unhappy man that I am!”
Such were the sinister reflections in which Raoul was indulging when his foot mechanically paused at the door of his own dwelling. He had reached it without noticing 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 were obscure. Raoul lived on the first floor; he paused in order to ring. Olivain appeared, and took Raoul’s sword and cloak from his hands. Raoul himself opened the door which from the antechamber 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 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 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 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 lips curved in a bitter smile. He looked at the portrait of her whom he so tenderly loved; and then all that he had said passed before his mind again, and all that he had suffered assailed his heart. 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 the opening door had concealed as he entered, and which, since he had not turned around, he had not perceived. He advanced towards 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 despair as one could hardly believe the human voice could express without breaking all the fibres of the heart.
Chapter XXII: Wounds Upon Wounds
MADEMOISELLE DE LA VALLIERE (for it was indeed she) advanced a few steps toward him. “Yes- Louise,” she murmured.
But this interval, short as it had been, was quite sufficient for Raoul to recover himself. “You, Mademoiselle?” he said; and then added, in an indefinable tone, “You here!”