[Dumas adopts the theory that the Man in the Iron Mask was
the suppressed twin brother of Louis XIV.]
"What is all this noise?" asked Philippe, turning towards the door of
the concealed staircase. And as he spoke a voice was heard saying,
"This way, this way. Still a few steps, sire."
"It is M. Fouquet's voice," said D'Artagnan, who was standing near the
Queen Mother.
"Then M. D'Herblay will not be far off," added Philippe; but little
did he expect to see the person who actually entered.
All eyes were riveted on the door, from which the voice of M. Fouquet
proceeded; but it was not he who came through.
A cry of anguish rang through the room, breaking forth simultaneously
from the King and the spectators, and surely never had been seen a
stranger sight.
The shutters were half closed, and only a feeble light struggled
through the velvet curtains, with their thick silk linings, and the
eyes of the courtiers had to get accustomed to the darkness before
they could distinguish between the surrounding objects. But once
discerned, they stood out as clear as day.
So, looking up, they saw Louis XIV. in the doorway of the private
stair, his face pale and his brows bent; and behind him stood Fouquet.
The Queen Mother, whose hand held that of Philippe, uttered a shriek
at the sight, thinking that she beheld a ghost.
Monsieur staggered for a moment and turned away his head, looking from
the King who was facing him to the King who was by his side.
Madame on the contrary stepped forward, thinking it must be her
brother-in-law reflected in a mirror. And indeed, this seemed the only
rational explanation of the double image.
Both young men, agitated and trembling, clenching their hands, darting
flames of fury from their eyes, dumb, breathless, ready to spring at
each other's throats, resembled each other so exactly in feature,
figure, and even, by pure accident, in dress, that Anne of Austria
herself stood confounded. For as yet the truth had not dawned on her.
There are some torments that we all instinctively reject. It is
easier far to accept the supernatural, the impossible.
That he should encounter such obstacles had never for one moment
occurred to Louis. He imagined he had only to show himself, for the
world to fall at his feet. The Sun-king could have no rival; and where
his rays did not fall, there must be darkness--
As to Fouquet, who could describe his bewilderment at the sight of the
living portrait of his master? Then he thought that Aramis was right,
and that the new-comer was every whit as much a king as his double,
and that after all, perhaps he had made a mistake when he had declined
to share in the _coup d'etat_ so cleverly plotted by the General of
the Jesuits.
And then, it was equally the blood royal of Louis XIII. that Fouquet
had determined to sacrifice to blood in all respects identical; a
noble ambition, to one that was selfish. And it was the mere aspect of
the pretender which showed him all these things.
D'Artagnan, leaning against the wall and facing Fouquet, was debating
in his own mind the key to this wonderful riddle. He felt
instinctively, though he could not have told why, that in the meeting
of the two Louis XIV's lay the explanation of all that had seemed
suspicious in the conduct of Aramis during the last few days.
Suddenly Louis XIV., by nature the most impatient of the two young
men, and with the habit of command that was the result of training,
strode across the room and flung open one of the shutters. The flood
of light that streamed through the window caused Philippe
involuntarily to recoil, and to step back into the shelter of an
alcove.
The movement struck Louis, and turning to the Queen he said:
"Mother, do you not know your own son, although every one else has
denied his King?"
Anne trembled at his voice and raised her arms to heaven, but could
not utter a single word.
"Mother," retorted Philippe in his quietest tones, "do you not know
your own son?"
And this time it was Louis who stepped back.
As for Anne, pierced to the heart with grief and remorse, she could
bear it no longer. She staggered where she stood, and unaided by her
attendants, who seemed turned into stone, she sank down on a sofa with
a sigh.
This spectacle was too much for Louis. He rushed to D'Artagnan, whose
brain was going round with bewilderment, and who clung to the door as
his last hope.
"To me, musketeer! Look us both in the face, and see which is the
paler, he or I."
The cry awoke D'Artagnan from his stupor, and struck the chord of
obedience strong in the bosom of every soldier. He lifted his head,
and striding straight up to Philippe laid his hand on his shoulder,
saying quietly:--
"Monsieur, you are my prisoner."
Philippe remained absolutely still, as if nailed to the floor, his
eyes fixed despairingly on the King who was his brother. His silence
reproached him as no words could have done, with the bitterness of the
past and the tortures of the future.
And the King understood, and his soul sank within him. His eyes fell,
and drawing his brother and sister-in-law with him, he hastily quitted
the room; forgetting in his agitation even his mother, lying
motionless on the couch beside him, not three paces from the son whom
for the second time she was allowing to be condemned to a death in
life.