the color of the hangings, in all that surrounded him.
Dumb, and now completely overwhelmed, there was nothing further for him
now to learn, and he followed his pitiless conductress as blindly as
the culprit follows the executioner; while Madame, as cruel as women of
overstrung temperaments generally are, did not spare him the slightest
detail. But it must be admitted that, notwithstanding the kind of apathy
into which he had fallen, none of these details, even had he been left
alone, would have escaped him. The happiness of the woman who loves,
when that happiness is derived from a rival, is a living torture for
a jealous man; but for a jealous man such as Raoul was, for one whose
heart for the first time in its existence was being 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, and they
gazed upon the mirrors around them--so sweet an occupation for lovers,
who, as they thus see themselves twice over, imprint the picture still
more deeply on 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 occasion her a delightful surprise; that might and
majesty of love multiplied by the majesty and might of royalty itself,
seemed like a death-blow to Raoul. 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; whilst, on the very contrary,
if there be one anguish more bitter than another, a misery for which
language lacks a word, 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 radiant with
youth, beauty, and happiness, inhaling life and enjoyment at every pore,
because at eighteen years of age love itself is life.