The Man in the Iron Mask
by Alexandre Dumas, Père
Transcriber’s Notes:
As you may be aware, Project Gutenberg has been involved with the
writings of both the Alexandre Dumases for some time now, and since we
get a few questions about the order in which the books should be read,
and in which they were published, these following comments should
hopefully help most of our readers.
***
The Vicomte de Bragelonne is the final volume of D’Artagnan Romances:
it is usually split into three or four parts, and the final portion
is entitled The Man in the Iron Mask. The Man in the Iron Mask we’re
familiar with today is the last volume of the four-volume edition.
[Not all the editions split them in the same manner, hence some of the
confusion...but wait...there’s yet more reason for confusion.]
We intend to do ALL of The Vicomte de Bragelonne, split into four
etexts entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la
Vallière, and The Man in the Iron Mask.
One thing that may be causing confusion is that the etext we have now,
entitled Ten Years Later, says it’s the sequel to The Three Musketeers.
While this is technically true, there’s another book, Twenty Years
After, that comes between. The confusion is generated by the two facts
that we published Ten Years Later BEFORE we published Twenty Years
After, and that many people see those titles as meaning Ten and Twenty
Years “After” the original story...however, this is why the different
words “After” and “Later”...the Ten Years “After” is ten years after
the Twenty Years later...as per history. Also, the third book of the
D’Artagnan Romances, while entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, has the
subtitle Ten Years Later. These two titles are also given to different
volumes: The Vicomte de Bragelonne can refer to the whole book, or the
first volume of the three or four-volume editions. Ten Years Later
can, similarly, refer to the whole book, or the second volume of the
four-volume edition. To add to the confusion, in the case of our etexts,
it refers to the first 104 chapters of the whole book, covering material
in the first and second etexts in the new series. Here is a guide to the
series which may prove helpful:
The Three Musketeers: Etext 1257--First book of the D’Artagnan Romances.
Covers the years 1625-1628.
Twenty Years After: Etext 1259--Second book of the D’Artagnan Romances.
Covers the years 1648-1649. [Third in the order that we published, but
second in time sequence!!!]
Ten Years Later: Etext 1258--First 104 chapters of the third book of the
D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661.
The Vicomte de Bragelonne: Etext 2609 (first in the new series)--First
75 chapters of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the
year 1660.
Ten Years Later: Etext 2681 (second in the new series)--Chapters
76-140 of that third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years
1660-1661. [In this particular editing of it]
Louise de la Vallière: Etext 2710 (third in the new series)--Chapters
141-208 of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year
1661.
The Man in the Iron Mask: Etext 2759 (our next text)--Chapters
209-269 of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years
1661-1673.
Many thanks to Dr. David Coward, whose editions of the D’Artagnan
Romances have proved an invaluable source of information.
Introduction:
In the months of March-July in 1844, in the magazine Le Siecle, the
first portion of a story appeared, penned by the celebrated playwright
Alexandre Dumas. It was based, he claimed, on some manuscripts he had
found a year earlier in the Bibliotheque Nationale while researching a
history he planned to write on Louis XIV. They chronicled the adventures
of a young man named D’Artagnan who, upon entering Paris, became almost
immediately embroiled in court intrigues, international politics, and
ill-fated affairs between royal lovers. Over the next six years, readers
would enjoy the adventures of this youth and his three famous friends,
Porthos, Athos, and Aramis, as their exploits unraveled behind the
scenes of some of the most momentous events in French and even English
history.
Eventually these serialized adventures were published in novel form,
and became the three D’Artagnan Romances known today. Here is a brief
summary of the first two novels:
The Three Musketeers (serialized March--July, 1844): The year is 1625.
The young D’Artagnan arrives in Paris at the tender age of 18, and
almost immediately offends three musketeers, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos.
Instead of dueling, the four are attacked by five of the Cardinal’s
guards, and the courage of the youth is made apparent during the battle.
The four become fast friends, and, when asked by D’Artagnan’s landlord
to find his missing wife, embark upon an adventure that takes them
across both France and England in order to thwart the plans of the
Cardinal Richelieu. Along the way, they encounter a beautiful young spy,
named simply Milady, who will stop at nothing to disgrace Queen Anne of
Austria before her husband, Louis XIII, and take her revenge upon the
four friends.
Twenty Years After (serialized January--August, 1845): The year is now
1648, twenty years since the close of the last story. Louis XIII has
died, as has Cardinal Richelieu, and while the crown of France may sit
upon the head of Anne of Austria as Regent for the young Louis XIV,
the real power resides with the Cardinal Mazarin, her secret husband.
D’Artagnan is now a lieutenant of musketeers, and his three friends have
retired to private life. Athos turned out to be a nobleman, the Comte de
la Fere, and has retired to his home with his son, Raoul de Bragelonne.
Aramis, whose real name is D’Herblay, has followed his intention of
shedding the musketeer’s cassock for the priest’s robes, and Porthos has
married a wealthy woman, who left him her fortune upon her death. But
trouble is stirring in both France and England. Cromwell menaces the
institution of royalty itself while marching against Charles I, and at
home the Fronde is threatening to tear France apart. D’Artagnan brings
his friends out of retirement to save the threatened English monarch,
but Mordaunt, the son of Milady, who seeks to avenge his mother’s death
at the musketeers’ hands, thwarts their valiant efforts. Undaunted, our
heroes return to France just in time to help save the young Louis XIV,
quiet the Fronde, and tweak the nose of Cardinal Mazarin.
The third novel, The Vicomte de Bragelonne (serialized October,
1847--January, 1850), has enjoyed a strange history in its English
translation. It has been split into three, four, or five volumes at
various points in its history. The five-volume edition generally does
not give titles to the smaller portions, but the others do. In the
three-volume edition, the novels are entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne,
Louise de la Vallière, and The Man in the Iron Mask. For the purposes of
this etext, I have chosen to split the novel as the four-volume edition
does, with these titles: The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later,
Louise de la Vallière, and The Man in the Iron Mask. In the first three
etexts:
The Vicomte de Bragelonne (Etext 2609): It is the year 1660, and
D’Artagnan, after thirty-five years of loyal service, has become
disgusted with serving King Louis XIV while the real power resides with
the Cardinal Mazarin, and has tendered his resignation. He embarks on
his own project, that of restoring Charles II to the throne of England,
and, with the help of Athos, succeeds, earning himself quite a fortune
in the process. D’Artagnan returns to Paris to live the life of a rich
citizen, and Athos, after negotiating the marriage of Philip, the king’s
brother, to Princess Henrietta of England, likewise retires to his own
estate, La Fere. Meanwhile, Mazarin has finally died, and left Louis to
assume the reigns of power, with the assistance of M. Colbert, formerly
Mazarin’s trusted clerk. Colbert has an intense hatred for M. Fouquet,
the king’s superintendent of finances, and has resolved to use any
means necessary to bring about his fall. With the new rank of intendant
bestowed on him by Louis, Colbert succeeds in having two of Fouquet’s
loyal friends tried and executed. He then brings to the king’s attention
that Fouquet is fortifying the island of Belle-Ile-en-Mer, and could
possibly be planning to use it as a base for some military operation
against the king. Louis calls D’Artagnan out of retirement and sends
him to investigate the island, promising him a tremendous salary and his
long-promised promotion to captain of the musketeers upon his return. At
Belle-Isle, D’Artagnan discovers that the engineer of the fortifications
is, in fact, Porthos, now the Baron du Vallon, and that’s not all.
The blueprints for the island, although in Porthos’s handwriting,
show evidence of another script that has been erased, that of Aramis.
D’Artagnan later discovers that Aramis has become the bishop of Vannes,
which is, coincidentally, a parish belonging to M. Fouquet. Suspecting
that D’Artagnan has arrived on the king’s behalf to investigate, Aramis
tricks D’Artagnan into wandering around Vannes in search of Porthos,
and sends Porthos on an heroic ride back to Paris to warn Fouquet of
the danger. Fouquet rushes to the king, and gives him Belle-Isle as a
present, thus allaying any suspicion, and at the same time humiliating
Colbert, just minutes before the usher announces someone else seeking an
audience with the king.
Ten Years Later (Etext 2681): As 1661 approaches, Princess Henrietta of
England arrives for her marriage, and throws the court of France into
complete disorder. The jealousy of the Duke of Buckingham, who is
in love with her, nearly occasions a war on the streets of Le Havre,
thankfully prevented by Raoul’s timely and tactful intervention. After
the marriage, though, Monsieur Philip becomes horribly jealous of
Buckingham, and has him exiled. Before leaving, however, the duke
fights a duel with M. de Wardes at Calais. De Wardes is a malicious and
spiteful man, the sworn enemy of D’Artagnan, and, by the same token,
that of Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and Raoul as well. Both men are
seriously wounded, and the duke is taken back to England to recover.
Raoul’s friend, the Comte de Guiche, is the next to succumb to
Henrietta’s charms, and Monsieur obtains his exile as well, though De
Guiche soon effects a reconciliation. But then the king’s eye falls on
Madame Henrietta during the comte’s absence, and this time Monsieur’s
jealousy has no recourse. Anne of Austria intervenes, and the king and
his sister-in-law decide to pick a young lady with whom the king
can pretend to be in love, the better to mask their own affair. They
unfortunately select Louise de la Vallière, Raoul’s fiancee. While the
court is in residence at Fontainebleau, the king unwitting overhears
Louise confessing her love for him while chatting with her friends
beneath the royal oak, and the king promptly forgets his affection for
Madame. That same night, Henrietta overhears, at the same oak, De
Guiche confessing his love for her to Raoul. The two embark on their
own affair. A few days later, during a rainstorm, Louis and Louise
are trapped alone together, and the whole court begins to talk of the
scandal while their love affair blossoms. Aware of Louise’s attachment,
the king arranges for Raoul to be sent to England for an indefinite
period.
Meanwhile, the struggle for power continues between Fouquet and Colbert.
Although the Belle-Isle plot backfired, Colbert prompts the king to ask
Fouquet for more and more money, and without his two friends to raise it
for him, Fouquet is sorely pressed. The situation gets so bad that his
new mistress, Madame de Belliere, must resort to selling all her jewels
and her gold and silver plate. Aramis, while this is going on, has grown
friendly with the governor of the Bastile, M. de Baisemeaux, a fact that
Baisemeaux unwittingly reveals to D’Artagnan while inquiring of him
as to Aramis’s whereabouts. This further arouses the suspicions of the
musketeer, who was made to look ridiculous by Aramis. He had ridden
overnight at an insane pace, but arrived a few minutes after Fouquet
had already presented Belle-Isle to the king. Aramis learns from the
governor the location of a mysterious prisoner, who bears a remarkable
resemblance to Louis XIV--in fact, the two are identical. He uses
the existence of this secret to persuade a dying Franciscan monk, the
general of the society of the Jesuits, to name him, Aramis, the new
general of the order. On Aramis’s advice, hoping to use Louise’s
influence with the king to counteract Colbert’s influence, Fouquet also
writes a love letter to La Vallière, unfortunately undated. It never
reaches its destination, however, as the servant ordered to deliver it
turns out to be an agent of Colbert’s.
Louise de la Vallière (Etext 2710): Believing D’Artagnan occupied at
Fontainebleau and Porthos safely tucked away at Paris, Aramis holds a
funeral for the dead Franciscan--but in fact, Aramis is wrong in both
suppositions. D’Artagnan has left Fontainebleau, bored to tears by
the _fetes_, retrieved Porthos, and is visiting the country-house of
Planchet, his old lackey. This house happens to be right next door
to the graveyard, and upon observing Aramis at this funeral, and his
subsequent meeting with a mysterious hooded lady, D’Artagnan, suspicions
aroused, resolves to make a little trouble for the bishop. He presents
Porthos to the king at the same time as Fouquet presents Aramis, thereby
surprising the wily prelate. Aramis’s professions of affection and
innocence do only a little to allay D’Artagnan’s concerns, and he
continues to regard Aramis’s actions with a curious and wary eye.
Meanwhile, much to his delight, Porthos is invited to dine with the king
as a result of his presentation, and with D’Artagnan’s guidance, manages
to behave in such a manner as to procure the king’s marked favor.
The mysterious woman turns out to be the Duchesse de Chevreuse, a
notorious schemer and former friend of Anne of Austria. She comes
bearing more bad news for Fouquet, who is already in trouble, as the
king has invited himself to a _fete_ at Vaux, Fouquet’s magnificent
mansion, that will surely bankrupt the poor superintendent. The Duchesse
has letters from Mazarin that prove that Fouquet has received thirteen
million francs from the royal coffers, and she wishes to sell these
letters to Aramis. Aramis refuses, and the letters are instead sold to
Colbert. Fouquet, meanwhile, discovers that the receipt that proves his
innocence in the affair has been stolen from him. Even worse, Fouquet,
desperate for money, is forced to sell the parliamentary position that
renders him untouchable by any court proceedings. As part of her deal
with Colbert, though, Chevreuse also obtains a secret audience with the
queen-mother, where the two discuss a shocking secret--Louis XIV has a
twin brother, long believed, however, to be dead.
Meanwhile, in other quarters, De Wardes, Raoul’s inveterate enemy, has
returned from Calais, barely recovered from his wounds, and no sooner
does he return than he begins again to insult people, particularly La
Vallière, and this time the comte de Guiche is the one to challenge him.
The duel leaves De Guiche horribly wounded, but enables Madame to use
her influence to destroy De Wardes’s standing at court. The _fetes_,
however, come to an end, and the court returns to Paris. The king has
been more than obvious about his affections for Louise, and Madame,
the queen-mother, and the queen join forces to destroy her. She is
dishonorably discharged from court, and in despair, she flees to the
convent at Chaillot. Along the way, though, she runs into D’Artagnan,
who manages to get word back to the king of what has taken place. By
literally begging Madame in tears, Louis manages to secure Louise’s
return to court--but Madame still places every obstacle possible before
the lovers. They have to resort to building a secret staircase and
meeting in the apartments of M. de Saint-Aignan, where Louis has a
painter create a portrait of Louise. But Madame recalls Raoul from
London and shows him these proofs of Louise’s infidelity. Raoul,
crushed, challenges Saint-Aignan to a duel, which the king prevents,
and Athos, furious, breaks his sword before the king. The king has
D’Artagnan arrest Athos, and at the Bastile they encounter Aramis, who
is paying Baisemeaux another visit. Raoul learns of Athos’s arrest,
and with Porthos in tow, they effect a daring rescue, surprising the
carriage containing D’Artagnan and Athos as they leave the Bastile.
Although quite impressive, the intrepid raid is in vain, as D’Artagnan
has already secured Athos’s pardon from the king. Instead, everybody
switches modes of transport; D’Artagnan and Porthos take the horses back
to Paris, and Athos and Raoul take the carriage back to La Fere, where
they intend to reside permanently, as the king is now their sworn enemy,
Raoul cannot bear to see Louise, and they have no more dealings in
Paris.
Aramis, left alone with Baisemeaux, inquires the governor of the prison
about his loyalties, in particular to the Jesuits. The bishop reveals
that he is a confessor of the society, and invokes their regulations
in order to obtain access to this mysterious prisoner who bears such a
striking resemblance to Louis XIV...
And so Baisemeaux is conducting Aramis to the prisoner as the final
section of The Vicomte de Bragelonne and this final story of the
D’Artagnan Romances opens. I have written a “Cast of Historical
Characters,” Etext 2760, that will enable curious readers to compare
personages in the novel with their historical counterparts. Also of
interest may be an essay Dumas wrote on the possible identity of the
real Man in the Iron Mask, which is Etext 2751. Enjoy!
John Bursey Mordaunt@aol.com August, 2000
*****
Chapter I. The Prisoner.
Since Aramis’s 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 calm and lovely starlit night; the steps of 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 the liberty of earth was a luxury
beyond their reach. It might have been said that the alteration effected
in Baisemeaux extended even to the prisoners. The turnkey, the same who,
on Aramis’s first arrival had shown himself so inquisitive and curious,
was now not only silent, but 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
descending 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
respect to the other beds in the Bastile, 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 evening meal. 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 caused 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.
“You desired a confessor?” replied Aramis.
“Yes.”
“Because you were 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 so?” said Aramis.
“Why, then--being better, I have no longer the same need of a confessor,
I think.”
“Not even of the hair-cloth, 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 am listening.”
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 Bastile 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 sinewy limbs of one-and-twenty chance to 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 chalice beneath
my gaze; with every opening petal they unfold the treasures of their
perfumes, 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 is so necessary to life!”
“Well, monsieur,” returned the prisoner; “draw near to the window; it is
open. Between high heaven and earth the wind whirls on its waftages
of hail and lightning, exhales its torrid mist 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 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,
which lights up the hangings of my bed and floods the very floor. This
luminous square increases from ten o’clock till midday, and decreases
from one till three slowly, as if, having hastened to my presence, it
sorrowed at bidding me farewell. When its last ray disappears I have
enjoyed its presence for five hours. Is not that sufficient? I have been
told that there are unhappy beings who dig in quarries, and laborers who
toil in mines, 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, whose silvery rays were
stealing through my brain.”
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 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 perfect warmth, 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 are forgetting
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 ask nothing better,” returned the young man.
“I am your confessor.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, you ought, as a penitent, to tell me the truth.”
“My whole desire 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 such a 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 the harness, but through the joints of
it.
“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 but a little more deeply 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 to see you, came here promising a world of
confidence; how is it that, nevertheless, it is you who are silent,
leaving it for me to 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 ambitious?” replied the youth.
“Ambition,” replied Aramis, “is the feeling which prompts a man to
desire more--much more--than he possesses.”
“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; that is all I ask.”
“An ambitious man,” said Aramis, “is one who covets that which 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, but if I dared, I would take your hand and 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 do not be astonished that I am mistrustful, since you suspect me
of knowing what I do not know.”
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 still
withhold, be assured I am in need of some encouragement, if not candor;
a little sympathy, if not confidence. But you keep yourself intrenched
in a pretended 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 that 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, afterwards 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, to-morrow would
behold the steely glitter of the executioner’s axe in a dungeon more
gloomy, more obscure than yours.”
While listening to these words, delivered with emphasis, the young
man had raised himself on his couch, and was now gazing more and more
eagerly at Aramis.
The result of his 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 afterwards with
another.” He hesitated.
“With another, 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 then 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, then I was comparatively free, although in
a very narrow sense--a house I never quitted, a garden surrounded with
walls I could not climb, 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 having never seen anything of the world, I have nothing
left to care for; and therefore, if you relate anything, you will be
obliged to explain each item to me as you go along.”
“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
for both 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 Bastile
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; but you are alluding to a peril from which he freed himself, by
causing the nurse and preceptor to disappear,” answered Aramis, quietly.
“Disappear!” cried the prisoner, “how did they disappear?”
“In a very sure way,” answered Aramis--“they are dead.”
The young man turned pale, and passed his hand tremblingly over his
face. “Poison?” he asked.
“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’s 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 great 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 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?”
“Just as 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
the 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 with long
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, and 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 towards 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 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 burnt; 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--Yon 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
shutters, 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 silence 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 downwards with its slimy 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 to destruction, I lowered the cord from the windlass of the well to
within about three feet of the water, leaving the bucket dangling, at
the same time taking infinite pains not to disturb that coveted
letter, which was beginning to change its white tint for the hue of
chrysoprase,--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 sides 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 will you tell me what you read therein, 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 perceived 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
dried by the sun as to prevent Dame Perronnette spying 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 the pieces of the queen’s letter inside
the bolster where I had concealed them.”
“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 of all this
to the queen and sent back the torn letter.”
“After which,” said Aramis, “you were arrested and removed to the
Bastile.”
“As you see.”
“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 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; there was neither a glass nor a mirror in the house,” answered the
young man.
Aramis looked round him. “Nor is there anything of the kind 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 mansion
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 trouble of the times and the dread 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 a heir; a care which weighs
heavily on princes, who desire to leave behind them more than one pledge
that their best thoughts and 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 indeed
could now avouch; for it refers to a secret which they imagined buried
with the dead, 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 Bastile.”
“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 in--”
Aramis raised his finger; “Permit me to 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 the son that 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 throughout 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 profound 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 to
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 to know,” added the bishop, fixing his piercing eyes
significantly upon the prisoner, “I demand to know which of these two is
king; the one 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 means power; and you behold 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 the one that,
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 you all
the proofs of your birth; consult them; satisfy yourself that you are a
king’s son; it is for _us_ to 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 friends?”
“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 a very
blot on history, 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 beyond these prison-walls, which so grimly
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 desire to do, monseigneur.”
“To talk to me about power, grandeur, eye, and to prate of thrones! Is
a prison the fit place? You wish to make me believe in splendor, and we
are lying lost in night; you boast of glory, and we are smothering our
words in the curtains of this miserable bed; you give me glimpses of
power absolute whilst I hear the footsteps of the every-watchful 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
Bastile; 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 Bastile; 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 this much for me, would seem more than
mortal in my eyes; but as you tell me I am a prince, brother of the
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 can you cause me to prevail in those
combats--render me invulnerable by my enemies? Ah! monsieur, reflect on
all this; place me, to-morrow, in some dark cavern at a mountain’s base;
yield me the delight of hearing in freedom sounds of the river, plain
and valley, 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, God! 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 in Christendom,
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, no. For him I have no
pity!”
“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 mankind, 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 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,
I 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 startlingly alike, of her own flesh, 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’s such infinity of suffering in prison, especially it would
be so for one 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, you will have it in your
power to 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
Bastile.”
“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 on me for eight long, weary years.”
“Monseigneur, wait the results 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 indeed have bestowed upon you more than
life, 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 on my
life--my heart 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 to 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 compulsory recluse, a man as though in the very jaws of
death, could have committed crimes so numerous, and so long to tell of?”
Aramis made no reply. He was eager to leave the Bastile, 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 towards 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 governeur!”
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 Bastile.