hand
along the charming path of life, covered with the flowers 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 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 very 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 antechamber, led into a small salon, richly enough furnished
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 toward 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
mouth worked into a bitter smile. He looked at the portrait of one whom
he so tenderly loved; and then all that he had said passed before his
mind again, and 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