LOUISE DE LA VALLIERE. 335 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 difEerent episodes of this tale, it is to be attributed to the numerous shades of color Avhich are presented on this double palette, where two pictures are seen side by side, mingling and harmonizing their severe and j)leasing tones. The repose of the emotions of one is found in the bosom of the emo- tions 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 Eudysdael took in painting an autumn sky after having finished a spring-time scene. We wish our readers to do as much, and to resume Eaoul 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 exclu- sion, Louise's grief, Montalais' 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 arrrival this ap- pearance 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 Eaoul 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 word of others, Eaoul said within himself, "De Guiche wrote to put me on my guard; De Guiche knows something? I will go and ask De Guiche what he knows, and tell him what I have seen." The journey was not a long one. De 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 Eaoul, earnest in his friendship, enter his apartment. Eaoul, too, had not been able to refrain from exclaiming aloud, when he saw De Guiche, so pale, so
