ely 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 towards 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
arm chair, 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
the one he had so tenderly loved; and then all that he had said passed
before his mind again, 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 means of concealing behind the door as he opened it,
and which he had not perceived as he entered. He advanced towards the
figure, whose presence in his room had not been announced to him; and
as he bowed, and inquired at the same moment who she was, she suddenly
raised her head, and removed the veil from her face, revealing her pale
and sorrow-stricken features. Raoul staggered back as if he had seen a
ghost.

"Louise!" he cried, in a tone of such absolute despair, one could hardly
have thought the human voice was capable of so desponding a cry, without
the snapping of the human heart.

Chapter LXI. Wounds within Wounds.

Mademoiselle de la Valliere--for it was indeed she--advanced a few steps
towards him. "Yes--Louise," she murmured.

But this interval, short as it had been, was quite sufficient for Raoul
to recover himself. "You, mademoiselle?" he said; and then added, in an
indefinable tone, "You here!"

"Yes, Raoul," the young girl replied, "I have been waiting for you."

"I beg your pardon. When I came into the room I