HIGH TREASON.
The ungovernable fury which took possession of the king at the sight and
at the perusal of Fouquet's letter to La Valliere by degrees subsided
into a feeling of pain and extreme weariness. Youth, invigorated by
health and lightness of spirits, and requiring that what it loses should
be immediately restored--youth knows not those endless, sleepless nights
which enable us to realize the fable of the vulture unceasingly feeding
on Prometheus. In instances where the man of middle life, in his
acquired strength of will and purpose, and the old man, in his state of
exhaustion, find an incessant augmentation of their bitter sorrow, a
young man, surprised by the sudden appearance of a misfortune, weakens
himself in sighs, and groans, and tears, in direct struggles with it,
and is thereby far sooner overthrown by the inflexible enemy with whom
he is engaged. Once overthrown, his struggles cease. Louis could not
hold out more than a few minutes, at the end of which he had ceased to
clench his hands, and to burn up with his looks the invisible objects of
his hatred; he soon ceased to attack with his violent imprecations not
M. Fouquet alone, but even La Valliere herself: from fury he subsided
into despair, and from despair to prostration. After he had thrown
himself for a few minutes to and fro convulsively on his bed, his
nerveless arms fell quietly down; his head lay languidly on his pillow;
his limbs, exhausted from his excessive emotions, still trembled
occasionally, agitated by slight muscular contractions; and from his
breast only faint and unfrequent sighs still issued. Morpheus, the
tutelary deity of the apartment, toward whom Louis raised his eyes,
wearied by his anger and reddened by his tears, showered down upon him
the sleep-inducing poppies with which his hands were filled; so that the
king gently closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Then it seemed to him, as it often happens in that first sleep, so light
and gentle, which raises the body above the couch, the soul above the
earth--it seemed to him, we say, as if the god Morpheus, painted on the
ceiling, looked at him with eyes resembling human eyes; that something
shone brightly, and moved to and fro in the dome above the sleeper; that
the crowd of terrible dreams which thronged together in his brain, and
which were interrupted for a moment, half-revealed a human face, with a
hand resting against the mouth, and in an attitude of deep and absorbed
meditation. And strange enough, too, this man bore so wonderful a
resemblance to the king himself, that Louis fancied he was looking at
his own face reflected in a mirror; with the exception, however, that
the face was saddened by a feeling of the profoundest pity. Then it
seemed to him as if the dome gradually retired, escaping from his gaze,
and that the figures and attributes painted by Lebrun became darker and
darker as the distance became more and more remote. A gentle, easy
movement, as regular as that by which a vessel plunges beneath the
waves, had succeeded to the immovableness of the bed. Doubtless the king
was dreaming, and in this dream the crown of gold which fastened the
curtains together seemed to recede from his vision, just as the dome, to
which it remained suspended, had done, so that the winged genius which,
with both its hands, supported the crown, seemed, though vainly so, to
call upon the king, who was fast disappearing from it. The bed still
sunk. Louis, with his eyes open, could not resist the deception of this
cruel hallucination. At last, as the light of the royal chamber faded
away into darkness and gloom, something cold, gloomy, and inexplicable
in its nature seemed to infect the air. No paintings, nor gold, nor
velvet hangings, were visible any longer, nothing but walls of a dull
gray color, which the increasing gloom made darker every moment. And yet
the bed still continued to descend, and after a minute, which seemed in
its duration almost an age to the king, it reached a stratum of air,
black and still as death, and then it stopped. The king could no longer
see the light in his room, except as from the bottom of a well we can
see the light of day. "I am under the influence of a terrible dream," he
thought. "It is time to awaken from it. Come! let me wake up."
Every one has experienced what the above remark conveys; there is hardly
a person who, in the midst of a nightmare, whose influence is
suffocating, has not said to himself by the help of that light which
still burns in the brain when every human light is extinguished, "It is
nothing but a dream after all." This was precisely what Louis XIV. said
to himself; but when he said, "Come, come! wake up," he perceived that
not only was he already awake, but still more, that he had his eyes open
also; he then looked all round him. On his right hand and on his left
two armed men stood silently, each wrapped in a huge cloak, and the face
covered with a mask; one of them held a small lamp in his hand, whose
glimmering light revealed the saddest picture a king could look upon.
Louis could not help saying to himself that his dream still lasted, and
that all he had to do to cause it to disappear was to move his arms or
to say something aloud; he darted from his bed, and found himself upon
the damp moist ground. Then, addressing himself to the man who held the
lamp in his hand, he said:
"What is this, monsieur, and what is the meaning of this jest?"
"It is no jest," replied in a deep voice the masked figure that held the
lantern.
"Do you belong to M. Fouquet?" inquired the king, greatly astonished at
his situation.
"It matters very little to whom we belong," said the phantom; "we are
your masters now, that is sufficient."
The king, more impatient than intimidated, turned to the other masked
figure. "If this is a comedy," he said, "you will tell M. Fouquet that I
find it unseemly and improper, and that I desire it should cease."
The second masked person to whom the king had addressed himself was a
man of huge stature and vast circumference. He held himself erect and
motionless as a block of marble. "Well!" added the king, stamping his
foot, "you do not answer!"
"We do not answer you, my good monsieur," said the giant in a stentorian
voice, "because there is nothing to answer."
"At least, tell me what you want?" exclaimed Louis, folding his arms
with a passionate gesture.
"You will know by-and-by," replied the man who held the lamp.
"In the meantime tell me where I am?"
"Look."
Louis looked all round him; but by the light of the lamp which the
masked figure raised for the purpose, he could perceive nothing but the
damp walls which glistened here and there with the slimy traces of the
snail. "Oh! oh! a dungeon," said the king.
"No, a subterranean passage."
"Which leads--?"
"Will you be good enough to follow us."
"I shall not stir from hence!" cried the king.
"If you are obstinate, my dear young friend," replied the taller and
stouter of the two, "I will lift you up in my arms, will roll you up in
a cloak, and if you are stifled there, why so much the worse for you."
And as he said this, he disengaged from beneath his cloak a hand of
which Milo of Crotona would have envied him the possession, on the day
when he had that unhappy idea of rending his last oak. The king dreaded
violence, for he could well believe that the two men into whose power he
had fallen had not gone so far with any idea of drawing back, and that
they would consequently be ready to proceed to extremities, if
necessary. He shook his head, and said: "It seems I have fallen into the
hands of a couple of assassins. Move on, then."
Neither of the men answered a word to this remark. The one who carried
the lantern walked the first, the king followed him, while the second
masked figure closed the procession. In this manner they passed along a
winding gallery of some length, with as many staircases leading out of
it as are to be found in the mysterious and gloomy palaces of Ann
Radcliff's creation. All these windings and turnings, during which the
king heard the sound of falling water over his head, ended at last in a
long corridor closed by an iron door. The figure with the lamp opened
the door with one of the keys he wore suspended at his girdle, where,
during the whole of the time, the king had heard them rattle. As soon as
the door was opened and admitted the air, Louis recognized the balmy
odors which are exhaled by the trees after a hot summer's day. He
paused, hesitatingly, for a moment or two; but his huge companion who
followed him thrust him out of the subterranean passage.
"Another blow," said the king, turning toward the one who had just had
the audacity to touch his sovereign; "what do you intend to do with the
king of France?"
"Try and forget that word," replied the man with the lamp, in a tone
which as little admitted of a reply as one of the famous decrees of
Minos.
"You deserve to be broken on the wheel for the word you have just made
use of," said the giant, as he extinguished the lamp his companion
handed to him; "but the king is too kind-hearted."
Louis, at that threat made so sudden a movement that it seemed as if he
meditated flight; but the giant's hand was in a moment placed on his
shoulder, and fixed him motionless where he stood. "But tell me, at
least, where we are going," said the king.
"Come," replied the former of the two men, with a kind of respect in his
manner, and leading his prisoner toward a carriage which seemed to be
in waiting.
The carriage was completely concealed amid the trees. Two horses, with
their feet fettered, were fastened by a halter to the lower branches of
a large oak.
"Get in," said the same man, opening the carriage door and letting down
the step. The king obeyed, seated himself at the back of the carriage,
the padded door of which was shut and locked immediately upon him and
his guide. As for the giant, he cut the fastenings by which the horses
were bound, harnessed them himself, and mounted on the box of the
carriage, which was unoccupied. The carriage set off immediately at a
quick trot, turned into the road to Paris, and in the forest of Senart
found a relay of horses fastened to the trees in the same manner the
first horses had been, and without a postilion. The man on the box
changed the horses, and continued to follow the road toward Paris with
the same rapidity, and entered the city about three o'clock in the
morning. The carriage proceeded along the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, and
after having called out to the sentinel, "by the king's order," the
driver conducted the horses into the circular inclosure of the Bastille,
looking out upon the courtyard, called La Cour du Gouvernement. There
the horses drew up, reeking with sweat, at the flight of steps, and a
sergeant of the guard ran forward. "Go and wake the governor," said the
coachman in a voice of thunder.
With the exception of this voice, which might have been heard at the
entrance of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, everything remained as calm in
the carriage as in the prison. Ten minutes afterward, M. de Baisemeaux
appeared in his dressing-gown on the threshold of the door. "What is the
matter now?" he asked; "and whom have you brought me there?"
The man with the lantern opened the carriage-door, and said two or three
words to the one who acted as driver, who immediately got down from his
seat, took up a short musket which he kept under his feet, and placed
its muzzle on the prisoner's chest.
[Illustration: "WHAT IS THIS, MONSIEUR, AND WHAT IS THE MEANING OF
THIS JEST?" "IT IS NO JEST," REPLIED IN A DEEP VOICE THE MASKED FIGURE
THAT HELD THE LANTERN.--_Page 367._]
"And fire at once if he speaks!" added aloud the man who alighted from
the carriage.
"Very good!" replied his companion, without any other remark.
With this recommendation, the person who had accompanied the king in the
carriage ascended the flight of steps, at the top of which the governor
was awaiting him. "Monsieur d'Herblay!" said the latter.
"Hush!" said Aramis. "Let us go into your room."
"Good heavens! what brings you here at this hour?"
"A mistake, my dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux," Aramis replied, quietly.
"It appears that you were quite right the other day."
"What about?" inquired the governor.
"About the order of release, my dear friend."
"Tell me what you mean, monsieur--no, monseigneur," said the governor,
almost suffocated by surprise and terror.
"It is a very simple affair; you remember, dear M. de Baisemeaux, that
an order of release was sent to you."
"Yes, for Marchiali."
"Very good! we both thought that it was for Marchiali?"
"Certainly; you will recollect, however, that I would not believe it,
but that you compelled me."
"Oh! Baisemeaux, my good fellow, what a word to make use of!--strongly
recommended, that was all."
"Strongly recommended, yes; strongly recommended to give him up to you:
and that you carried him off with you in your carriage."
"Well, my dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, it was a mistake; it was
discovered at the ministry, so that I now bring you an order from the
king to set at liberty--Seldon, that poor Scotch fellow, you know."
"Seldon! are you sure this time?"
"Well, read it yourself," added Aramis, handing him the order.
"Why," said Baisemeaux, "this order is the very same that has already
passed through my hands."
"Indeed?
"It is the very one I assured you I saw the other evening. Parbleu! I
recognize it by the blot of ink."
"I do not know whether it is that; but all I know is, that I bring it
for you."
"But, then, about the other?"
"What other?"
"Marchiali?"
"I have got him here with me."
"But that is not enough for me. I require a new order to take him back
again."
"Don't talk such nonsense, my dear Baisemeaux; you talk like a child!
Where is the order you received respecting Marchiali?"
Baisemeaux ran to his iron chest and took it out. Aramis seized hold of
it, coolly tore it in four pieces, held them to the lamp, and burned
them. "Good heavens! what are you doing?" exclaimed Baisemeaux, in an
extremity of terror.
"Look at your position a little quietly, my dear governor," said Aramis,
with his imperturbable self-possession, "and you will see how very
simple the whole affair is. You no longer possess any order justifying
Marchiali's release."
"I am a lost man!"
"Far from it, my good fellow, since I have brought Marchiali back to
you, and it is just the same as if he had never left."
"All!" said the governor, completely overcome by terror.
"Plain enough, you see; and you will go and shut him up immediately."
"I should think so, indeed."
"And you will hand over this Seldon to me, whose liberation is
authorized by this order. Do you understand?"
"I--I--"
"You do understand, I see," said Aramis. "Very good." Baisemeaux clasped
his hands together.
"But why, at all events, after having taken Marchiali away from me, do
you bring him back again?" cried the unhappy governor, in a paroxysm of
terror, and completely dumfounded.
"For a friend, such as you are," said Aramis--"for so devoted a servant,
I have no secrets;" and he put his mouth close to Baisemeaux's ear, as
he said in a low tone of voice, "you know the resemblance between that
unfortunate fellow, and--"
"And the king?--yes!"
"Very good; the very first use that Marchiali made of his liberty was to
persist--. Can you guess what?"
"How is it likely I should guess?"
"To persist in saying that he was the king of France; to dress himself
up in clothes like those of the king; and then pretend to assume that he
was the king himself."
"Gracious heavens!"
"That is the reason why I have brought him back again, my dear friend.
He is mad, and lets every one see how mad he is."
"What is to be done, then?"
"That is very simple; let no one hold any communication with him. You
understand, that when his peculiar style of madness came to the king's
ears, the king, who had pitied his terrible affliction, and saw how his
kindness of heart had been repaid by such black ingratitude, became
perfectly furious; so that, now--and remember this very distinctly, dear
Monsieur de Baisemeaux, for it concerns you most closely--so that there
is now, I repeat, sentence of death pronounced against all those who may
allow him to communicate with any one else but me, or the king himself.
You understand, Baisemeaux, sentence of death!"
"You need not ask me whether I understand."
"And now, let us go down, and conduct this poor devil back to his
dungeon again, unless you prefer he should come up here."
"What would be the good of that?"
"It would be better, perhaps, to enter his name in the prison book at
once!"
"Of course, certainly; not a doubt of it."
"In that case, have him up."
Baisemeaux ordered the drums to be beaten, and the bell to be rung, as
a warning to every one to retire, in order to avoid meeting a prisoner,
about whom it was desired to observe a certain mystery. Then, when the
passages were free, he went to take the prisoner from the carriage, at
whose breast Porthos, faithful to the directions which had been given
him, still kept his musket leveled. "Ah! is that you, miserable wretch?"
cried the governor, as soon as he perceived the king. "Very good, very
good." And immediately, making the king get out of the carriage, he led
him, still accompanied by Porthos, who had not taken off his mask, and
Aramis, who again resumed his, up the stairs, to the second Bertaudiere,
and opened the door of the room in which Philippe for six long years had
bemoaned his existence. The king entered into the cell without
pronouncing a single word: he was pale and haggard. Baisemeaux shut the
door upon him, turned the key twice in the lock, and then returned to
Aramis. "It is quite true," he said, in a low tone, "that he has a
rather strong resemblance to the king; but still less so than you said."
"So that," said Aramis, "you would not have been deceived by the
substitution of the one for the other."
"What a question!"
"You are a most valuable fellow, Baisemeaux," said Aramis; "and now, set
Seldon free."
"Oh, yes. I was going to forget that. I will go and give orders at
once."
"Bah! to-morrow will be time enough."
"'To-morrow!'--oh, no. This very minute."
"Well; go off to your affairs, I shall go away to mine. But it is quite
understood, is it not?"
"What is quite understood?"
"That no one is to enter the prisoner's cell, except with an order from
the king; an order which I will myself bring."
"Quite so. Adieu, monseigneur."
Aramis returned to his companion. "Now, Porthos, my good fellow, back
again to Vaux, and as fast as possible."
"A man is light and easy enough, when he has faithfully served his king;
and, in serving him, saved his country," said Porthos. "The horses will
be as light as if they had nothing at all behind them. So let us be
off." And the carriage, lightened of a prisoner, who might well be--as
he in fact was--very heavy for Aramis, passed across the drawbridge of
the Bastille, which was raised again immediately behind it.