ferred 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 preferred 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. Madame Henrietta 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 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.

Madame Henrietta looked at him, almost envious of his extreme grief,
although she well knew there was nothing to envy in it, and that she
herself was as passionately loved by De Guiche as Louise by Bragelonne.
Raoul interpreted Madame Henrietta's look.

"Oh, forgive me, forgive me, madame; in your presence I know I ought to
have greater mastery over myself. But Heaven grant that you may never be
struck by a similar misery to that which crushes me at this moment, for
you are but a woman, and would not be able to endure so terrible an
affliction. Forgive me, I again entreat you, madame; I am but a man
without rank or position, while you belong to a race whose happiness
knows no bounds, whose power acknowledges no limit."

"Monsieur de Bragelonne," replied Henrietta, "a heart such as yours
merits all the consideration and respect which a queen's heart even can
bestow. Regard me as your friend, monsieur; and as such, indeed, I would
not allow your whole life to be poisoned by perfidy and covered with
ridicule. It was I, indeed, who, with more courage than any of your
pretended friends--I except M. de Guiche--was the cause of your return
from London; it is I, also, who have given you these melancholy proofs,
necessary, however, for your cure, if you are a lover with courage in
his heart, and not a weeping Amadis. Do not thank me; pity me even, and
do not serve the king less faithfully than you have done."

Raoul smiled bitterly. "Ah; true, true; I was forgetting that! the king
is my master."

"Your liberty, nay, your very life