Chapter 60: Heu! Miser!

“Poor Raoul!” Athos had said; “Poor Raoul!” d’Artagnan had said: to be pitied by both these men, Raoul must indeed have been most unhappy. And 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 the first love 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, to publish my dreams in the face of my friends and my enemies,- that my friends may be saddened by my troubles and my enemies may laugh at my sorrows! So my unhappiness will soon become a notorious disgrace, a public scandal; so to-morrow I shall be ignominiously pointed at.”

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 my love, leaves me only one regret,- that of having been deceived by her counterfeit of honesty. Some men might perhaps make favor with the King at my expense: I should put myself on the track of those jesters; I should chastise a few of them,- the men would fear me, and by the time I had laid three 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 love 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, of greater or less duration, 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, 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 require? 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 that result? To be young, handsome, strong, valiant, rich. I am, or shall be, all that. But, honor? 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 of what one owes to one’s self.’ But De Guiche and Manicamp, and De Saint-Aignan particularly would say to me, ‘Honor consists in serving 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 have the command of a regiment. 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,- 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.