THE PRISONER.
Since Aramis' singular transformation into a confessor of the order,
Baisemeaux was no longer the same man. Up to that period, the place
which Aramis had held in the worthy governor's estimation was that of a
prelate whom he respected and a friend to whom he owed a debt of
gratitude; but now he felt himself an inferior, and that Aramis was his
master. He himself lighted a lantern, summoned a turnkey, and said,
returning to Aramis, "I am at your orders, monseigneur." Aramis merely
nodded his head, as much as to say, "Very good;" and signed to him with
his hand to lead the way. Baisemeaux advanced, and Aramis followed him.
It was a beautiful starry night; the steps of the three men resounded on
the flags of the terraces, and the clinking of the keys hanging from the
jailer's girdle made itself heard up to the stories of the towers, as if
to remind the prisoners that liberty was out of their reach. It might
have been said that the alteration effected in Baisemeaux had extended
itself even to the prisoners. The turnkey, the same who on Aramis' first
arrival had shown himself so inquisitive and curious, had now become not
only silent, but even impassible. He held his head down, and seemed
afraid to keep his ears open. In this wise they reached the basement of
the Bertaudiere, the two first stories of which were mounted silently
and somewhat slowly; for Baisemeaux, though far from disobeying, was far
from exhibiting any eagerness to obey. On arriving at the door,
Baisemeaux showed a disposition to enter the prisoner's chamber; but
Aramis, stopping him on the threshold, said, "The rules do not allow the
governor to hear the prisoner's confession."
Baisemeaux bowed, and made way for Aramis, who took the lantern and
entered; and then signed to them to close the door behind him. For an
instant he remained standing, listening whether Baisemeaux and the
turnkey had retired; but as soon as he was assured by the sound of their
dying footsteps that they had left the tower, he put the lantern on the
table and gazed around. On a bed of green serge, similar in all respects
to the other beds in the Bastille, save that it was newer, and under
curtains half-drawn, reposed a young man, to whom we have already once
before introduced Aramis. According to custom, the prisoner was without
a light. At the hour of curfew, he was bound to extinguish his lamp, and
we perceive how much he was favored, in being allowed to keep it burning
even till then. Near the bed a large leathern armchair, with twisted
legs, sustained his clothes. A little table--without pens, books, paper,
or ink--stood neglected in sadness near the window; while several
plates, still unemptied, showed that the prisoner had scarcely touched
his recent repast. Aramis saw that the young man was stretched upon his
bed, his face half-concealed by his arms. The arrival of a visitor did
not cause any change of position, either he was waiting in expectation,
or was asleep. Aramis lighted the candle from the lantern, pushed back
the armchair, and approached the bed with an evident mixture of interest
and respect. The young man raised his head. "What is it?" said he.
"Have you not desired a confessor?" replied Aramis.
"Yes."
"Because you are ill?"
"Yes."
"Very ill?"
The young man gave Aramis a piercing glance, and answered "I thank you."
After a moment's silence, "I have seen you before," he continued.
Aramis bowed.
Doubtless, the scrutiny the prisoner had just made of the cold, crafty,
and imperious character stamped upon the features of the bishop of
Vannes was little reassuring to one in his situation, for he added, "I
am better."
"And then?" said Aramis.
"Why then--being better, I have no longer the same need of a confessor,
I think."
"Not even of the haircloth, which the note you found in your bread
informed you of?"
The young man started; but before he had either assented or denied,
Aramis continued, "Not, even, of the ecclesiastic from whom you were to
hear an important revelation?"
"If it be so," said the young man, sinking again on his pillow, "it is
different; I listen."
Aramis then looked at him more closely, and was struck with the easy
majesty of his mien, one which can never be acquired unless Heaven has
implanted it in the blood or heart. "Sit down, monsieur," said the
prisoner.
Aramis bowed and obeyed. "How does the Bastille agree with you?" asked
the bishop.
"Very well."
"You do not suffer?"
"No."
"You have nothing to regret?"
"Nothing."
"Not even your liberty?"
"What do you call liberty, monsieur?" asked the prisoner, with the tone
of a man who is preparing for a struggle.
"I call liberty, the flowers, the air, light, the stars, the happiness
of going whithersoever the nervous limbs of twenty years of age may wish
to carry you." The young man smiled, whether in resignation or contempt,
it was difficult to tell. "Look," said he, "I have in that Japanese vase
two roses gathered yesterday evening in the bud from the governor's
garden; this morning they have blown and spread their vermilion chalices
beneath my gaze; with every opening petal they unfold the treasures of
their perfume, filling my chamber with a fragrance that embalms it. Look
now on these two roses; even among roses these are beautiful, and the
rose is the most beautiful of flowers. Why, then, do you bid me desire
other flowers when I possess the loveliest of all?"
Aramis gazed at the young man in surprise. "If _flowers_ constitute
liberty," sadly resumed the captive, "I am free, for I possess them."
"But the air!" cried Aramis; "air so necessary to life!"
"Well, monsieur," returned the prisoner; "draw near to the window; it is
open. Between heaven and earth the wind whirls on its storms of hail
and lightning, wafts its warm mists or breathes in gentle breezes. It
caresses my face. When mounted on the back of this armchair, with my arm
around the bars of the window to sustain myself, I fancy I am swimming
in the wide expanse before me." The countenance of Aramis darkened as
the young man continued: "Light I have! what is better than light! I
have the sun, a friend who comes to visit me every day without the
permission of the governor or the jailer's company. He comes in at the
window and traces in my room a square the shape of the window, and which
lights up the hangings of my bed down to the border. This luminous
square increases from ten o'clock till mid-day, and decreases from one
till three slowly, as if, having hastened to come, it sorrowed at
leaving me. When its last ray disappears, I have enjoyed its presence
for four hours. Is not that sufficient? I have been told that there are
unhappy beings who dig in quarries, and laborers who toil in mines, and
who never behold it at all." Aramis wiped the drops from his brow. "As
to the stars which are so delightful to view," continued the young man,
"they all resemble each other save in size and brilliancy. I am a
favored mortal, for if you had not lighted that candle, you would have
been able to see the beautiful stars which I was gazing at from my couch
before your arrival, and whose rays were playing over my eyes." Aramis
lowered his head; he felt himself overwhelmed with the bitter flow of
that sinister philosophy which is the religion of the captive. "So much,
then, for the flowers, the air, the daylight, and the stars," tranquilly
continued the young man; "there remains but my exercise. Do I not walk
all day in the governor's garden if it is fine--here if it rains; in the
fresh air if it is warm; in the warm, thanks to my winter stove, if it
be cold? Ah! monsieur, do you fancy," continued the prisoner, not
without bitterness, "that men have not done everything for me that a man
can hope for or desire!"
"Men!" said Aramis; "be it so; but it seems to me you forget Heaven."
"Indeed I have forgotten Heaven," murmured the prisoner, with emotion;
"but why do you mention it? Of what use is it to talk to a prisoner of
Heaven?"
Aramis looked steadily at this singular youth, who possessed the
resignation of a martyr with the smile of an atheist. "Is not Heaven in
everything?" he murmured in a reproachful tone.
"Say rather, at the end of everything," answered the prisoner, firmly.
"Be it so," said Aramis; "but let us return to our starting-point."
"I desire nothing better," returned the young man.
"I am your confessor."
"Yes."
"Well, then, you ought, as a penitent, to tell me the truth."
"All that I wish is to tell it you."
"Every prisoner has committed some crime for which he has been
imprisoned. What crime then have _you_ committed?"
"You asked me the same question the first time you saw me," returned the
prisoner.
"And then, as now, you evaded giving me an answer."
"And what reason have you for thinking that I shall now reply to you?"
"Because this time I am your confessor."
"Then, if you wish me to tell what crime I have committed, explain to me
in what a crime consists. For as my conscience does not accuse me, I
aver that I am not a criminal."
"We are often criminals in the sight of the great of the earth, not
alone for having ourselves committed crimes, but because we know that
crimes have been committed."
The prisoner manifested the deepest attention. "Yes, I understand you,"
he said, after a pause; "yes, you are right, monsieur; it is very
possible that, in that light, I am a criminal in the eyes of the great
of the earth."
"Ah! then you know something," said Aramis, who thought he had pierced
not merely through a defect in, but through the joints of the harness.
"No, I am not aware of anything," replied the young man; "but sometimes
I think--and I say to myself--"
"What do you say to yourself?"
"That if I were to think any further I should either go mad or I should
divine a great deal."
"And then--and then?" said Aramis, impatiently.
"Then I leave off."
"You leave off?"
"Yes; my head becomes confused and my ideas melancholy; I feel ennui
overtaking me; I wish--"
"What?"
"I don't know; but I do not like to give myself up to longing for things
which I do not possess, when I am so happy with what I have."
"You are afraid of death?" said Aramis, with a slight uneasiness.
"Yes," said the young man, smiling.
Aramis felt the chill of that smile, and shuddered. "Oh, as you fear
death, you know more about matters than you say," he cried.
"And you," returned the prisoner, "who bade me to ask to see you--you,
who, when I did ask for you, came here promising a world of
confidence--how is it that, nevertheless, it is you who are silent, and
'tis I who speak? Since, then, we both wear masks, either let us both
retain them or put them aside together."
Aramis felt the force and justice of the remark, saying to himself,
"This is no ordinary man; I must be cautious. Are you ambitious?" said
he suddenly to the prisoner aloud, without preparing him for the
alteration.
"What do you mean by ambition?" replied the youth.
"It is," replied Aramis, "a feeling which prompts a man to desire more
than he has."
"I said that I was contented, monsieur; but perhaps I deceive myself. I
am ignorant of the nature of ambition; but it is not impossible I may
have some. Tell me your mind; 'tis all I wish."
"An ambitious man," said Aramis, "is one who covets what is beyond his
station."
"I covet nothing beyond my station," said the young man, with an
assurance of manner which for the second time made the bishop of Vannes
tremble.
He was silent. But to look at the kindling eye, the knitted brow, and
the reflective attitude of the captive, it was evident that he expected
something more than silence--a silence which Aramis now broke. "You lied
the first time I saw you," said he.
"Lied!" cried the young man, starting up on his couch, with such a tone
in his voice, and such a lightning in his eyes, that Aramis recoiled in
spite of himself.
"I _should_ say," returned Aramis, bowing, "you concealed from me what
you knew of your infancy."
"A man's secrets are his own, monsieur," retorted the prisoner, "and not
at the mercy of the first chance-comer."
"True," said Aramis, bowing still lower than before, "'tis true; pardon
me, but to-day do I still occupy the place of a chance-comer? I beseech
you to reply, monseigneur."
This title slightly disturbed the prisoner; but nevertheless he did not
appear astonished that it was given him. "I do not know you, monsieur,"
said he.
"Oh, if I but dared, I would take your hand and would kiss it."
The young man seemed as if he were going to give Aramis his hand; but
the light which beamed in his eyes faded away, and he coldly and
distrustfully withdrew his hand again. "Kiss the hand of a prisoner," he
said, shaking his head; "to what purpose?"
"Why did you tell me," said Aramis, "that you were happy here? Why, that
you aspired to nothing? Why, in a word, by thus speaking, do you prevent
me from being frank in my turn?"
The same light shone a third time in the young man's eyes, but died
ineffectually away as before.
"You distrust me," said Aramis.
"And why say you so, monsieur?"
"Oh, for a very simple reason; if you know what you ought to know, you
ought to mistrust everybody."
"Then be not astonished that I am mistrustful, since you suspect me of
knowing what I know not."
Aramis was struck with admiration at this energetic resistance. "Oh,
monseigneur! you drive me to despair," said he, striking the armchair
with his fist.
"And on my part I do not comprehend you, monsieur."
"Well, then, try to understand me." The prisoner looked fixedly at
Aramis. "Sometimes it seems to me," said the latter, "that I have before
me the man whom I seek, and then--"
"And then your man disappears--is it not so?" said the prisoner,
smiling. "So much the better."
Aramis rose. "Certainly," said he; "I have nothing further to say to a
man who mistrusts me as you do."
"And I, monsieur," said the prisoner, in the same tone, "have nothing to
say to a man who will not understand that a prisoner ought to be
mistrustful of everybody."
"Even of his old friends?" said Aramis. "Oh, monseigneur, you are _too_
prudent!"
"Of my old friends?--you one of my old friends--you?"
"Do you no longer remember," said Aramis, "that you once saw in the
village where your early years were spent--"
"Do you know the name of the village?" asked the prisoner.
"Noisy-le-Sec, monseigneur," answered Aramis, firmly.
"Go on," said the young man, with an immovable aspect.
"Stay, monseigneur," said Aramis; "if you are positively resolved to
carry on this game, let us break off. I am here to tell you many things,
'tis true; but you must allow me to see that, on your side, you have a
desire to know them. Before revealing the important matters I conceal,
be assured I am in need of some encouragement, if not candor; a little
sympathy, if no confidence. But you keep yourself intrenched in a
pretended ignorance which paralyzes me. Oh, not for the reason you
think; for, ignorant as you may be, or indifferent as you feign to be,
you are none the less what you are, monseigneur, and there is
nothing--nothing, mark me! which can cause you not to be so."
"I promise you," replied the prisoner, "to hear you without impatience.
Only it appears to me that I have a right to repeat the question I have
already asked--'Who _are_ you?'"
"Do you remember, fifteen or eighteen years ago, seeing at Noisy-le-Sec
a cavalier, accompanied by a lady in black silk, with flame-colored
ribbons in her hair?"
"Yes," said the young man; "I once asked the name of this cavalier, and
they told me he called himself the Abbe d'Herblay. I was astonished that
the abbe had so warlike an air, and they replied that there was nothing
singular in that, seeing that he was one of Louis XIII.'s musketeers."
"Well," said Aramis, "that musketeer and abbe, afterward bishop of
Vannes, is your confessor now."
"I know it; I recognized you."
"Then, monseigneur, if you know that, I must further add a fact of which
you are ignorant--that if the king were to know this evening of the
presence of this musketeer, this abbe, this bishop, this confessor,
_here_--he, who has risked everything to visit you, would to-morrow see
glitter the executioner's ax at the bottom of a dungeon more gloomy and
more obscure than yours."
While hearing these words, delivered with emphasis, the young man had
raised himself on his couch and gazed more and more eagerly at Aramis.
The result of this scrutiny was that he appeared to derive some
confidence from, it. "Yes," he murmured, "I remember perfectly. The
woman of whom you speak came once with you, and twice afterward with
another." He hesitated.
"With another woman, who came to see you every month--is it not so,
monseigneur?"--"Yes."
"Do you know who this lady was?"
The light seemed ready to flash from the prisoner's eyes. "I am aware
that she was one of the ladies of the court," he said.
"You remember that lady well, do you not?"
"Oh, my recollection can hardly be very confused on this head," said the
young prisoner. "I saw that lady once with a gentleman about forty-five
years old. I saw her once with you, and with the lady dressed in black.
I have seen her twice since with the same person. These four people,
with my master, and old Perronnette, my jailer, and the governor of the
prison, are the only persons with whom I have ever spoken, and, indeed,
almost the only persons I have ever seen."
"Then, you were in prison?"
"If I am a prisoner here, there I was comparatively free, although in a
very narrow sense--a house which I never quitted, a garden surrounded
with walls I could not clear, these constituted my residence; but you
know it, as you have been there. In a word, being accustomed to live
within these bounds, I never cared to leave them. And so you will
understand, monsieur, that not having seen any thing of the world, I
have nothing left to care for; and, therefore, if you relate anything,
you will be obliged to explain everything to me."
"And I will do so," said Aramis, bowing, "for it is my duty,
monseigneur."
"Well, then, begin by telling me who was my tutor."
"A worthy, and, above all, an honorable gentleman, monseigneur; fit
guide both for body and soul. Had you ever any reason to complain of
him?"
"Oh, no; quite the contrary. But this gentleman of yours often used to
tell me that my father and mother were dead. Did he deceive me, or did
he speak the truth?"
"He was compelled to comply with the orders given him."
"Then he lied?"
"In one respect. Your father is dead."
"And my mother?"
"She is dead for you."
"But then she lives for others, does she not?"
"Yes."
"And I--and I, then" (the young man looked sharply at Aramis), "am
compelled to live in the obscurity of a prison?"
"Alas! I fear so."
"And that, because my presence in the world would lead to the revelation
of a great secret?"
"Certainly, a very great secret."
"My enemy must indeed be powerful, to be able to shut up in the Bastille
a child such as I then was."
"He is."
"More powerful than my mother, then?"
"And why do you ask that?"
"Because my mother would have taken my part."
Aramis hesitated. "Yes, monseigneur; more powerful than your mother."
"Seeing, then, that my nurse and preceptor were carried off, and that I,
also, was separated from them--either they were, or I am, very dangerous
to my enemy?"
"Yes; a peril from which he freed himself, by causing the nurse and
preceptor to disappear," answered Aramis quietly.
"Disappear!" cried the prisoner--"but how did they disappear?"
"In the surest possible way," answered Aramis;--"they are dead."
The young man turned visibly pale, and passed his hand tremblingly over
his face. "From poison?" he asked.
"From poison."
The prisoner reflected a moment. "My enemy must indeed have been very
cruel, or hard beset by necessity, to assassinate those two innocent
people, my sole support; for the worthy gentleman and the poor nurse had
never harmed a living being."
"In your family, monseigneur, necessity is stern. And so it is necessity
which compels me, to my great regret, to tell you that this gentleman
and the unhappy lady have been assassinated."
"Oh, you tell me nothing I am not aware of," said the prisoner, knitting
his brows.
"How?"
"I suspected it."
"Why?"
"I will tell you."
At this moment the young man, supporting himself on his two elbows,
drew close to Aramis' face, with such an expression of dignity, of
self-command, and of defiance even, that the bishop felt the electricity
of enthusiasm strike in devouring flashes from that seared heart of his,
into his brain of adamant.
"Speak, monseigneur. I have already told you that, by conversing with
you, I endanger my life. Little value as it has, I implore you to accept
it as the ransom of your own."
"Well," resumed the young man, "this is why I suspected that they had
killed my nurse and my preceptor."
"Whom you used to call your father."
"Yes; whom I called my father, but whose son I well knew I was not."
"Who caused you to suppose so?"
"For the same reason that you, monsieur, are too respectful for a
friend, he was also too respectful for a father."
"I, however," said Aramis, "have no intention to disguise myself."
The young man nodded assent, and continued:--"Undoubtedly, I was not
destined to perpetual seclusion," said the prisoner; "and that which
makes me believe so, above all, now, is the care that was taken to
render me as accomplished a cavalier as possible. The gentleman attached
to my person taught me everything he knew himself--mathematics, a little
geometry, astronomy, fencing, and riding. Every morning I went through
military exercises, and practiced on horseback. Well, one morning during
summer, it being very hot, I went to sleep in the hall. Nothing up to
that period, except the respect paid me, had enlightened me, or even
roused my suspicions. I lived as children, as birds, as plants, as the
air and the sun do. I had just turned my fifteenth year--"
"This, then, is eight years ago?"
"Yes, nearly; but I have ceased to reckon time."
"Excuse me; but what did your tutor tell you to encourage you to work?"
"He used to say that a man was bound to make for himself in the world,
that fortune which Heaven had refused him at his birth. He added, that,
being a poor obscure orphan, I had no one but myself to look to; and
that nobody either did, or ever would, take any interest in me. I was
then in the hall I have spoken of, asleep from fatigue in fencing. My
preceptor was in his room on the first floor, just over me. Suddenly I
heard him exclaim: and then he called, 'Perronnette! Perronnette!' It
was my nurse whom he called."
"Yes; I know it," said Aramis. "Continue, monseigneur."
"Very likely she was in the garden; for my preceptor came hastily
downstairs. I rose, anxious at seeing him anxious. He opened the
garden-door, still crying out, 'Perronnette! Perronnette!' The windows
of the hall looked into the court; the shutters were closed; but through
a chink in them I saw my tutor draw near a large well, which was almost
directly under the windows of his study. He stooped over the brim,
looked into the well, again cried out, and made wild and affrighted
gestures. Where I was, I could not only see, but hear--and see and hear
I did."
"Go on, I pray you," said Aramis.
"Dame Perronnette came running up, hearing the governor's cries. He went
to meet her, took her by the arm, and drew her quickly toward the edge;
after which, as they both bent over it together, 'Look, look,' cried he,
'what a misfortune!'
"'Calm yourself, calm yourself,' said Perronnette; 'what is the matter?'
"'The letter!' he exclaimed; 'do you see that letter?' pointing to the
bottom of the well.
"'What letter?' she cried.
"'The letter you see down there; the last letter from the queen.'
"At this word I trembled. My tutor--he who passed for my father, he who
was continually I recommending me modesty and humility--in
correspondence with the queen!
"'The queen's last letter!' cried Perronnette, without showing more
astonishment than at seeing this letter at the bottom of the well; 'but
how came it there?'
"'A chance, Dame Perronnette--a singular chance. I was entering my
room, and on opening the door, the window, too, being open, a puff of
air came suddenly and carried off this paper--this letter of her
majesty's; I darted after it, and gained the window just in time to see
it flutter a moment in the breeze and disappear down the well.'
"'Well,' said Dame Perronnette; 'and if the letter has fallen into the
well, 'tis all the same as if it was burned; and as the queen burns all
her letters every time she comes--'
"And so you see this lady who came every month was the queen," said the
prisoner.
"'Doubtless, doubtless,' continued the old gentleman; 'but this letter
contained instructions--how can I follow them?'
"'Write immediately to her; give her a plain account of the accident,
and the queen will no doubt write you another letter in place of this.'
"'Oh! the queen would never believe the story,' said the good gentleman,
shaking his head; 'she will imagine that I want to keep this letter
instead of giving it up like the rest, so as to have a hold over her.
She is so distrustful, and M. de Mazarin so--. This devil of an Italian
is capable of having us poisoned at the first breath of suspicion.'"
Aramis almost imperceptibly smiled.
"'You know, Dame Perronnette, they are both so suspicious in all that
concerns Philippe.'
"'Philippe' was the name they gave me," said the prisoner.
"'Well, 'tis no use hesitating,' said Dame Perronnette, 'somebody must
go down the well.'
"'Of course; so that the person who goes down may read the paper as he
is coming up.'
"'But let us choose some villager who cannot read, and then you will be
at ease.'
"'Granted; but will not any one who descends guess that a paper must be
important for which we risk a man's life? However, you have given me an
idea, Dame Perronnette; somebody shall go down the well, but that
somebody shall be myself.'
"But at this notion Dame Perronnette lamented and cried in such a
manner, and so implored the old nobleman, with tears in her eyes, that
he promised her to obtain a ladder long enough to reach down, while she
went in search of some stout-hearted youth, whom she was to persuade
that a jewel had fallen into the well, and that this jewel was wrapped
in a paper. 'And as paper,' remarked my preceptor, 'naturally unfolds in
water, the young man would not be surprised at finding nothing after
all, but the letter wide open.'
"'But perhaps the writing will be already effaced by that time,' said
Dame Perronnette.
"'No consequence, provided we secure the letter. On returning it to the
queen, she will see at once that we have not betrayed her; and
consequently, as we shall not rouse the distrust of Mazarin, we shall
have nothing to fear from him.'
"Having come to this resolution, they parted. I pushed back the shutter,
and, seeing that my tutor was about to re-enter, I threw myself on my
couch, in a confusion of brain caused by all I had just heard. My
governor opened the door a few moments after, and thinking I was asleep,
gently closed it again. As soon as ever it was shut, I rose, and,
listening, heard the sound of retiring footsteps. Then I returned to the
shutter, and saw my tutor and Dame Perronnette go out together. I was
alone in the house. They had hardly closed the gate before I sprang from
the window and ran to the well. Then, just as my governor had leaned
over, so leaned I. Something white and luminous glistened in the green
and quivering ripples of the water. The brilliant disk fascinated and
allured me; my eyes became fixed, and I could hardly breathe. The well
seemed to draw me in with its large mouth and icy breath; and I thought
I read, at the bottom of the water, characters of fire traced upon the
letter the queen had touched. Then, scarcely knowing what I was about,
and urged on by one of those instinctive impulses which drive men upon
their destruction, I lowered the cord from the windlass of the well to
within about three feet of the water, leaving the bucket dangling, and
at the same time taking infinite pains not to disturb that coveted
letter, which was beginning to change its white tint for a greenish
hue--proof enough that it was sinking--and then, with the rope weltering
in my hands, slid down into the abyss.
"When I saw myself hanging over the dark pool, when I saw the sky
lessening above my head, a cold shudder came over me, a chill fear got
the better of me, I was seized with giddiness, and the hair rose on my
head; but my strong will still reigned supreme over all the terror and
disquietude. I gained the water, and at once plunged into it, holding on
by one hand, while I immersed the other and seized the dear letter,
which, alas! came in two in my grasp. I concealed the two fragments in
my body-coat, and helping myself with my feet against the side of the
pit, and clinging on with my hands, agile and vigorous as I was, and,
above all, pressed for time, I regained the brink, drenching it as I
touched it with the water that streamed off me. I was no sooner out of
the well with my prize, than I rushed into the sunlight, and took refuge
in a kind of shrubbery at the bottom of the garden. As I entered my
hiding-place, the bell which resounded when the great gate was opened,
rang. It was my preceptor come back again. I had but just time. I
calculated that it would take ten minutes before he would gain my place
of concealment even if, guessing where I was, he came straight to it;
and twenty if he were obliged to look for me. But this was time enough
to allow me to read the cherished letter, whose fragments I hastened to
unite again. The writing was already fading, but I managed to decipher
it all."
"And what read you there, monseigneur?" asked Aramis, deeply interested.
"Quite enough, monsieur, to see that my tutor was a man of noble rank,
and that Perronnette, without being a lady of quality, was far better
than a servant; and also to perceive that I must myself be high-born,
since the queen, Anne of Austria, and Mazarin, the prime minister,
commended me so earnestly to their care." Here the young man paused,
quite overcome.
"And what happened?" asked Aramis.
"It happened, monsieur," answered he, "that the workmen they had
summoned found nothing in the well, after the closest search; that my
governor perceived that the brink was all watery; that I was not so well
dried by the sun as to escape Dame Perronnette's observing that my
garments were moist; and, lastly, that I was seized with a violent
fever, owing to the chill and the excitement of my discovery, an attack
of delirium supervening, during which I related the whole adventure; so
that, guided by my avowal, my governor found, under the bolster, the two
pieces of the queen's letter."
"Ah!" said Aramis, "now I understand."
"Beyond this all is conjecture. Doubtless the unfortunate lady and
gentleman, not daring to keep the occurrence secret, wrote all to the
queen, and sent back to her the torn letter."
"After which," said Aramis, "you were arrested and removed to the
Bastille."
"As you see."
"Then your two attendants disappeared?"
"Alas!"
"Let us not take up our time with the dead, but see what can be done
with the living. You told me you were resigned."
"I repeat it."
"Without any desire for freedom?"
"As I told you."
"Without ambition, sorrow, or even thought?"
The young man made no answer.
"Well," asked Aramis, "why are you silent?"
"I think I have spoken enough," answered the prisoner; "and that now it
is your turn. I am weary."
Aramis gathered himself up, and a shade of deep solemnity spread itself
over his countenance. It was evident that he had reached the crisis in
the part he had come to the prison to play. "One question," said Aramis.
"What is it? speak."
"In the house you inhabited there were neither looking-glasses nor
mirrors?"
"What are those two words, and what is their meaning?" asked the young
man; "I have no sort of knowledge of them."
"They designate two pieces of furniture which reflect objects; so that,
for instance, you may see in them your own lineaments, as you see mine
now, with the naked eye."
"No; then there was neither a glass nor a mirror in the house," answered
the young man.
Aramis looked round him. "Nor is there here either," he said; "they have
again taken the same precaution."
"To what end?"
"You will know directly. Now, you have told me that you were instructed
in mathematics, astronomy, fencing, and riding; but you have not said a
word about history."
"My tutor sometimes related to me the principal deeds of the king St.
Louis, King Francis I., and King Henry IV."
"Is that all?"
"Very nearly."
"This also was done by design, then; just as they deprived you of
mirrors, which reflect the present, so they left you in ignorance of
history, which reflects the past. Since your imprisonment books have
been forbidden you; so that you are unacquainted with a number of facts,
by means of which you would be able to reconstruct the shattered edifice
of your recollections and your hopes."
"It is true," said the young man.
"Listen, then: I will in a few words tell you what has passed in France
during the last twenty-three or twenty-four years; that is, from the
probable date of your birth; in a word, from the time that interests
you."
"Say on." And the young man resumed his serious and attentive attitude.
"Do you know who was the son of Henry IV.?"
"At least I know who his successor was."
"How?"
"By means of a coin dated 1610, which bears the effigy of Henry IV.; and
another of 1612, bearing that of Louis XIII. So I presumed that, there
being only two years between the two dates, Louis was Henry's
successor."
"Then," said Aramis, "you know that the last reigning monarch was Louis
XIII.?"
"I do," answered the youth, slightly reddening.
"Well, he was a prince full of noble ideas and great projects, always,
alas! deferred by the troubles of the times and the struggle that his
minister Richelieu had to maintain against the great nobles of France.
The king himself was of a feeble character; and died young and unhappy."
"I know it."
"He had been long anxious about having an heir; a care which weighs
heavily on princes, who desire to leave behind them more than one pledge
that their thoughts and their works will be continued."
"Did the king, then, die childless?" asked the prisoner, smiling.
"No, but he was long without one, and for a long while thought he should
be the last of his race. This idea had reduced him to the depths of
despair, when suddenly, his wife, Anne of Austria--"
The prisoner trembled.
"Did you know," said Aramis, "that Louis XIII.'s wife was called Anne of
Austria?"
"Continue," said the young man, without replying to the question.
"When suddenly," resumed Aramis, "the queen announced an interesting
event. There was great joy at the intelligence, and all prayed for her
happy delivery. On the 5th of September, 1638, she gave birth to a son."
Here Aramis looked at his companion, and thought he observed him turning
pale. "You are about to hear," said Aramis, "an account which few could
now give; for it refers to a secret which they think buried with the
dead or entombed in the abyss of the confessional."
"And you will tell me this secret?" broke in the youth.
"Oh!" said Aramis, with unmistakable emphasis, "I do not know that I
ought to risk this secret by intrusting it to one who has no desire to
quit the Bastille."
"I hear you, monsieur."
"The queen, then, gave birth to a son. But while the court was rejoicing
over the event, when the king had shown the new-born child to the
nobility and people, and was sitting gayly down to table to celebrate
the event, the queen, who was alone in her room, was again taken ill,
and gave birth to a second son."
"Oh!" said the prisoner, betraying a better acquaintance with affairs
than he had owned to, "I thought that Monsieur was only born a--"
Aramis raised his finger. "Let me continue," he said.
The prisoner sighed impatiently and paused.
"Yes," said Aramis, "the queen had a second son, whom Dame Perronnette,
the midwife, received in her arms."
"Dame Perronnette!" murmured the young man.
"They ran at once to the banqueting-room, and whispered to the king what
had happened: he rose and quitted the table. But this time it was no
longer happiness that his face expressed, but something akin to terror.
The birth of twins changed into bitterness the joy to which that of an
only son had given rise, seeing that in France (a fact you are assuredly
ignorant of) it is the oldest of the king's sons who succeeds his
father."
"I know it."
"And that the doctors and jurists assert that there is ground for
doubting whether he who first makes his appearance is the elder by the
law of Heaven and of nature."
The prisoner uttered a smothered cry, and became whiter than the
coverlet under which he hid himself.
"Now you understand," pursued Aramis, "that the king, who, with so much
pleasure, saw himself repeated in one, was in despair about two; fearing
that the second might dispute the first's claim to seniority, which had
been recognized only two hours before; and so this second son, relying
on party interests and caprices, might one day sow discord and engender
civil war in the kingdom; by these means destroying the very dynasty he
should have strengthened."
"Oh, I understand--I understand!" murmured the young man.
"Well," continued Aramis, "this is what they relate, what they declare;
this is why one of the queen's two sons, shamefully parted from his
brother, shamefully sequestered, is buried in the profoundest obscurity;
this is why that second son has disappeared, and so completely, that not
a soul in France, save his mother, is aware of his existence."
"Yes! his mother, who has cast him off!" cried the prisoner, in a tone
of despair.
"Except also," Aramis went on, "the lady in the black dress; and,
finally, excepting--"
"Excepting yourself--is it not? You, who come and relate all this; you,
who rouse in my soul curiosity, hatred, ambition, and, perhaps, even the
thirst of vengeance; except you, monsieur, who, if you are the man whom
I expect, whom the note I have received applies to; whom, in short,
Heaven ought to send me, must possess about you--"
"What?" asked Aramis.
"A portrait of the king, Louis XIV., who at this moment reigns upon the
throne of France."
"Here is the portrait," replied the bishop, handing the prisoner a
miniature in enamel, on which Louis was depicted life-like, with a
handsome, lofty mien. The prisoner eagerly seized the portrait, and
gazed at it with devouring eyes.
"And now, monseigneur," said Aramis, "here is a mirror." Aramis left the
prisoner time to recover his ideas.
"So high--so high!" murmured the young man, eagerly comparing the
likeness of Louis with his own countenance reflected in the glass.
"What do you think of it?" at length said Aramis.
"I think that I am lost," replied the captive; "the king will never set
me free."
"And I--I demand," added the bishop, fixing his piercing eyes
significantly upon the prisoner, "I demand which of the two is the
king--the one whom this miniature portrays, or whom the glass reflects?"
"The king, monsieur," sadly replied the young man, "is he who is on the
throne, who is not in prison; and who, on the other hand, can cause
others to be entombed there. Royalty is power; and you see well how
powerless I am."
"Monseigneur," answered Aramis, with a respect he had not yet
manifested, "the king, mark me, will, if you desire it, be he who,
quitting his dungeon, shall maintain himself upon the throne, on which
his friends will place him."
"Tempt me not, monsieur," broke in the prisoner, bitterly.
"Be not weak, monseigneur," persisted Aramis; "I have brought all the
proofs of your birth; consult them; satisfy yourself that you are a
king's son; and then let us act."
"No, no; it is impossible."
"Unless, indeed," resumed the bishop, ironically, "it be the destiny of
your race that the brothers excluded from the throne should be always
princes void of courage and honesty, as was your uncle, M. Gaston
d'Orleans, who ten times conspired against his brother, Louis XIII."
"What!" cried the prince, astonished, "my uncle Gaston 'conspired
against his brother;' conspired to dethrone him?"
"Exactly, monseigneur; for no other reason. I tell you the truth."
"And he had friends--devoted ones?"
"As much so as I am to you."
"And, after all, what did he do?--Failed!"
"He failed, I admit; but always through his own fault; and, for the sake
of purchasing--not his life--for the life of the king's brother is
sacred and inviolable--but his liberty, he sacrificed the lives of all
his friends one after another. And so, at this day, he is the very shame
of history, and the detestation of a hundred noble families in this
kingdom."
"I understand, monsieur; either by weakness or treachery, my uncle slew
his friends."
"By weakness; which, in princes, is always treachery."
"And cannot a man fail, then, from incapacity and ignorance? Do you
really believe it possible that a poor captive such as I, brought up,
not only at a distance from the court, but even from the world--do you
believe it possible that such a one could assist those of his friends
who should attempt to serve him?" And as Aramis was about to reply, the
young man suddenly cried out, with a violence which betrayed the temper
of his blood, "We are speaking of friends; but how can _I_ have any
friends--I, whom no one knows; and have neither liberty, money, nor
influence to gain any?"
"I fancy I had the honor to offer myself to your royal highness."
"Oh, do not style me so, monsieur; 'tis either treachery or cruelty! Bid
me not think of aught else than these prison-walls, which confine me;
let me again love, or, at least, submit to my slavery and my obscurity."
"Monseigneur, monseigneur; if you again utter these desperate words--if,
after having received proof of your high birth, you still remain
poor-spirited in body and soul, I will comply with your desire, I will
depart, and renounce forever the service of a master, to whom so eagerly
I came to devote my assistance and my life!"
"Monsieur," cried the prince, "would it not have been better for you to
have reflected, before telling me all that you have done, that you have
broken my heart forever!"
"And so I desired to do, monseigneur."
"To talk to me about power, grandeur, and even royalty. Is a prison the
fitting place? You wish to make me believe in splendor, and we are lying
hidden in night; you boast of glory, and we are smothering our words in
the curtains of this miserable bed; you give me glimpses of absolute
power, and I hear the step of the jailer in the corridor--that step
which, after all, makes you tremble more than it does me. To render me
somewhat less incredulous, free me from the Bastille; let me breathe the
fresh air; give me my spurs and trusty sword, then we shall begin to
understand each other."
"It is precisely my intention to give you all this, monseigneur, and
more; only, do you desire it?"
"A word more," said the prince. "I know there are guards in every
gallery, bolts to every door, cannon and soldiery at every barrier. How
will you overcome the sentries--spike the guns? How will you break
through the bolts and bars?"
"Monseigneur--how did you get the note which announced my arrival to
you?"
"You can bribe a jailer for such a thing as a note."
"If we can corrupt one turnkey, we can corrupt ten."
"Well; I admit that it may be possible to release a poor captive from
the Bastille; possible so to conceal him that the king's people shall
not again ensnare him; possible, in some unknown retreat, to sustain the
unhappy wretch in some suitable manner."
"Monseigneur!" said Aramis, smiling.
"I admit that, whoever would do thus much for me, would seem more than
mortal in my eyes; but as you tell me I am a prince, brother of a king,
how can you restore me the rank and power which my mother and my brother
have deprived me of? And as, to effect this, I must pass a life of war
and hatred, how will you make me prevail in those combats--render me
invulnerable to my enemies? Ah! monsieur, reflect upon this; place me,
to-morrow, in some dark cavern in a mountain's base; yield me the
delight of hearing in freedom the sounds of river and plain, of
beholding in freedom the sun of the blue heavens, or the stormy sky, and
it is enough. Promise me no more than this, for, indeed, more you cannot
give, and it would be a crime to deceive me, since you call yourself my
friend."
Aramis waited in silence. "Monseigneur," he resumed, after a moment's
reflection, "I admire the firm, sound sense which dictates your words;
I am happy to have discovered my monarch's mind."
"Again, again! oh! for mercy's sake," cried the prince, pressing his icy
hands upon his clammy brow, "do not play with me! I have no need to be a
king to be the happiest of men."
"But I, monseigneur, wish you to be a king for the good of humanity."
"Ah!" said the prince, with fresh distrust inspired by the word; "ah!
with what then has humanity to reproach my brother?"
"I forgot to say, monseigneur, that if you would allow me to guide you,
and if you consent to become the most powerful monarch on earth, you
will have promoted the interests of all the friends whom I devote to the
success of your cause, and these friends are numerous."
"Numerous?"
"Less numerous than powerful, monseigneur."
"Explain yourself."
"It is impossible; I will explain, I swear before Heaven, on that day
that I see you sitting on the throne of France."
"But my brother?"
"You shall decree his fate. Do you pity him?"
"Him, who leaves me to perish in a dungeon? No, I pity him not."
"So much the better."
"He might have himself come to this prison, have taken me by the hand
and have said, 'My brother, Heaven created us to love, not to contend
with one another. I come to you. A barbarous prejudice has condemned you
to pass your days in obscurity, far from all men, and deprived of every
joy. I will make you sit down beside me; I will buckle round your waist
our father's sword. Will you take advantage of this reconciliation to
put down or to restrain me? Will you employ that sword to spill my
blood?' 'Oh! never,' I would have replied to him, 'I look on you as my
preserver, and will respect you as my master. You give me far more than
Heaven bestowed; for through you I possess liberty and the privilege of
loving and being loved in this world.'"
"And you would have kept your word, monseigneur?"
"On my life! While now--now that I have guilty ones to punish."
"In what manner, monseigneur?"
"What do you say as to the resemblance that Heaven has given me to my
brother?"
"I say that there was in that likeness a providential instruction which
the king ought to have heeded; I say that your mother committed a crime
in rendering those different in happiness and fortune whom nature
created so similar in her womb; and I conclude that the object of
punishment should be only to restore the equilibrium."
"By which you mean--"
"That if I restore you to your place on your brother's throne, he shall
take yours in prison."
"Alas! there is so much suffering in prison, especially to a man who has
drunk so deeply of the cup of enjoyment."
"Your royal highness will always be free to act as you may desire; and
if it seems good to you, after punishment, may pardon."
"Good. And now, are you aware of one thing, monsieur?"
"Tell me, my prince."
"It is that I will hear nothing further from you till I am clear of the
Bastille."
"I was going to say to your highness that I should only have the
pleasure of seeing you once again."
"And when?"
"The day when my prince leaves these gloomy walls."
"Heavens! how will you give me notice of it?"
"By myself coming to fetch you."
"Yourself?"
"My prince, do not leave this chamber save with me, or if in my absence
you are compelled to do so, remember that I am not concerned in it."
"And so, I am not to speak a word of this to any one whatever, save to
you?"
"Save only to me." Aramis bowed very low, the prince offered his hand.
"Monsieur," he said, in a tone that issued from his heart, "one word
more, my last. If you have sought me for my destruction; if you are only
a tool in the hands of my enemies; if from our conference, in which you
have sounded the depths of my mind, anything worse than captivity
result, that is to say, if death befall me, still receive my blessing,
for you will have ended my troubles and given me repose from the
tormenting fever that has preyed upon me these eight years."
"Monseigneur, wait the result ere you judge me," said Aramis.
"I say that, in such a case, I bless and forgive you. If, on the other
hand, you are come to restore me to that position in the sunshine of
fortune and glory to which I was destined by Heaven; if by your means I
am enabled to live in the memory of man, and confer luster on my race by
deeds of valor, or by solid benefits bestowed upon my people; if, from
my present depths of sorrow, aided by your generous hand, I raise myself
to the very height of honor, then to you, whom I thank with blessings,
to you will I offer half my power and my glory; though you would still
be but partly recompensed, and your share must always remain incomplete,
since I could not divide with you the happiness received at your hands."
"Monseigneur," replied Aramis, moved by the pallor and excitement of the
young man, "the nobleness of your heart fills me with joy and
admiration. It is not you who will have to thank me, but rather the
nation whom you will render happy, the posterity whose name you will
make glorious. Yes; I shall have bestowed upon you more than life, as I
shall have given you immortality." The prince offered his hand to
Aramis, who sank upon his knee and kissed it.
"It is the first act of homage paid to our future king," said he. "When
I see you again, I shall say, 'Good day, sire.'"
"Till then," said the young man, pressing his wan and wasted fingers
over his heart--"till then, no more dreams, no more strain upon my
life--it would break! Oh, monsieur, how small is my prison--how low the
window--how narrow are the doors! To think that so much pride, splendor,
and happiness should be able to enter in and remain here!"
"Your royal highness makes me proud," said Aramis, "since you infer it
is I who brought all this." And he rapped immediately on the door. The
jailer came to open it with Baisemeaux, who, devoured by fear and
uneasiness, was beginning, in spite of himself, to listen at the door.
Happily, neither of the speakers had forgotten to smother his voice,
even in the most passionate outbreaks.
"What a confessor!" said the governor, forcing a laugh; "who would
believe that a mere recluse, a man almost dead, could have committed
crimes so numerous, and so long to tell of?"
Aramis made no reply. He was eager to leave the Bastille, where the
secret which overwhelmed him seemed to double the weight of the walls.
As soon as they reached Baisemeaux's quarters, "Let us proceed to
business, my dear governor," said Aramis.
"Alas!" replied Baisemeaux.
"You have to ask me for my receipt for one hundred and fifty thousand
livres," said the bishop.
"And to pay over the first third of the sum," added the poor governor,
with a sigh, taking three steps toward his iron strong-box.
"Here is the receipt," said Aramis.
"And here is the money," returned Baisemeaux, with a threefold sigh.
"The order instructed me only to give a receipt; it said nothing about
receiving the money," rejoined Aramis. "Adieu, Monsieur le Gouverneur!"
And he departed, leaving Baisemeaux almost more than stifled with joy
and surprise at this regal present so liberally bestowed by the
confessor extraordinary to the Bastille.