their severe and pleasing tones. The repose of
the emotions of one is found in harmonious contrast with the fiery
sentiments of the other. After having talked reason with older heads,
one loves to talk nonsense with youth. Therefore, if the threads of
the story do not seem very intimately to connect the chapter we are
now writing with the one 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
accordingly 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,--hardly knowing what he was doing,--he fled swiftly, after the
scene in La Valliere's 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 more jealous or less timid lovers would have done. He did
not go straightaway 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 word 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 wounds, and to walk about a little in his room. He
uttered a cry of joy as he saw Raoul, with the eagerness of friendship,
enter the apartment. Raoul was unable to refrain from a cry of grief,
when he saw De Guiche, so pale, so thin, so melancholy. A very few
words, and a simple gesture which De Guiche made to put aside Raoul's
arm, were sufficient to inform the latter of the truth.

"Ah! so it is," said Raoul, seating himself beside his friend; "one
loves and dies."

"No, no, not dies," replied Guiche, smiling, "since I am now recovering,
and since, to