he latter, the conflicts of
love and vanity; bitter disappointments and ineffable delights; life
instead of memory. If, therefore, any variety has been presented to the
reader in the different episodes of this tale, it is to be attributed to
the numerous shades of color which are presented on this double palette,
where two pictures are seen side by side, mingling and harmonizing their
severe and pleasing tones. The repose of the emotions of the one is
found in the bosom of the emotions of the other. After having talked
reason with older heads, one loves to talk nonsense with youth.
Therefore, if the threads of this story do not seem very intimately to
connect the chapter we are now writing with that we have just written,
we do not intend to give ourselves any more thought or trouble about it
than Ruysdael took in painting an autumn sky, after having finished a
spring-time scene. We wish our readers to do as much, and to resume
Raoul de Bragelonne's story at the very place where our last sketch left
him.

In a state of frenzy and dismay, or rather without power or will of his
own--without knowing what to do--he fled heedlessly away after the scene
in La Valliere's room. The king, Montalais, Louise, that chamber, that
strange exclusion, Louise's grief, Montalais's terror, the king's
wrath--all seemed to indicate some misfortune. But what? He had arrived
from London because he had been told of the existence of a danger; and
almost on his arrival this appearance of danger was manifest. Was not
this sufficient for a lover? Certainly it was; but it was insufficient
for a pure and upright heart such as his. And yet Raoul did not seek for
explanations in the very quarter where all jealous or less timid lovers
would have done. He did not go straightway to his mistress, and say,
"Louise, is it true that you love me no longer? Is it true that you love
another?" Full of courage, full of friendship as he was full of love; a
religious observer of his word, and believing blindly the words of
others, Raoul said within himself, "Guiche wrote to put me on my guard;
Guiche knows something; I will go and ask Guiche what he knows, and tell
him what I have seen." The journey was not a long one. Guiche, who had
been brought, from Fontainebleau to Paris within the last two days, was
beginning to recover from his wound, and to walk about a little in his
room. He uttered a cry of joy as he saw Raoul, earnest in his
friendship, enter his apartmen