Chapter 60

Chapter LX:
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, 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,