Page:Louise de la Valliere text.djvu/363

LOUISE DE LA VALLIERE. 353 piness of the •woman who loves, when that happiness is de- rived from a rival, is a living torture for a jealous man; but for a jealous man such as Kaoul was, for one whose heart had for the first time been steeped in gall and bitterness, Louise's happiness was in reality an ignominious death, a death of body and soul. He guessed all; he fancied he could see them, with their hands clasped in each other's, their faces drawn close together, and reflected, side by side, in loving proximity, as they gazed upon the mirrors around them — so sweet an occupation for lovers, who, as they thus see themselves twice over, impress the picture more endur- ingly in their memories. He could guess, too, the stolen kiss snatched as they separated from each other's loved society. The luxury, the studied elegance, eloquent of the perfection of indolence, of ease; the extreme care shown, either to spare the loved object every annoyance, or to occa- sion her a delightful surprise; that strength and power of love multiplied by the strength and power of royalty itself, seemed like a deathblow to Kaoul. If there be anything which can in any way assuage or mitigate the tortures of jealousy, it is the inferiority of the man who is preferred to yourself; while, on the very contrary, if there be an anguish more bitter than another, a misery for which language has no descriptive words, it is the superiority of the man pre- ferred to yourself, superior, perhaps, in youth, beauty, grace. It is in such moments as these that heaven almost seems to have taken part against the disdained and rejected lover. One final pang was reserved for poor Raoul. Mme. Hen- riette lifted up a silk curtain, and behind the canvas he perceived La Valliere's portrait. Not only the portrait of La Valliere, but of La Valliere eloquent of youth, beauty, and happiness, inhaling life and enjoyment at every pore, because at eighteen years of age love itself is life. "Louise!" murmured De Bragelonne — "Louise! is it true, then? Oh, you have never loved me, for never have you looked at me in that manner." And he felt as if his heart were crushed within his bosom. Mme. Henriette looked at him, almost envious of his ex- treme grief, although she well knew there was nothing to envy in it, and that she herself was as passionately loved by De Gruiche as Louise by De Bragelonne. Raoul interpreted Mme. Henriette's look. "Oh, forgive me, forgive me, madame; in your presence I know I ought to have greater mastery over myself. But