The Man in the Iron Mask
Aramis almost smiled.
“‘You know, Dame Perronnette, they are so in all that Philippe.’
“Philippe was the name they gave me,” said the prisoner.
“‘Well, ‘tis no use hesitating,’ said Dame Perronnette, ‘somebody must go the well.’
“‘Of course; so that the person who goes may read the paper as he is up.’
“‘But let us choose some who cannot read, and then you will be at ease.’
“‘Granted; but will not any one who that a paper must be for which we a man’s life? However, you have me an idea, Dame Perronnette; somebody shall go the well, but that somebody shall be myself.’
“But at this Dame Perronnette and in such a manner, and so the old nobleman, with in her eyes, that he promised her to obtain a long to down, while she in search of some stout-hearted youth, she was to that a had into the well, and that this was in a paper. ‘And as paper,’ my preceptor, ‘naturally in water, the man would not be at nothing, after all, but the wide open.’
“‘But the will be already 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 her; and consequently, as we shall not the of Mazarin, we shall have nothing to from him.’
“Having come to this resolution, they parted. I pushed the shutter, and, that my was about to re-enter, I myself on my couch, in a of brain by all I had just heard. My opened the door a moments after, and I was asleep closed it again. As soon as it was shut, I rose, and, listening, the of retiring footsteps. Then I returned to the shutters, and saw my and Dame Perronnette go out together. I was alone in the house. They had closed the gate I from the window and ran to the well. Then, just as my had over, so I. Something white and in the green and of the water. The and me; my fixed, and I breathe. The well to me with its mouth and breath; and I I read, at the of the water, of fire upon the the queen had touched. Then, what I was about, and on by one of those which drive men to destruction, I the from the of the well to about three of the water, the dangling, at the same time taking pains not to that letter, which was to its white for the of chrysoprase,—proof that it was sinking,—and then, with the rope in my hands, into the abyss. When I saw myself over the dark pool, when I saw the sky above my head, a cold came over me, a got the of me, I was with giddiness, and the rose on my head; but my will still over all the terror and disquietude. I the water, and at once into it, on by one hand, while I the other and the dear letter, which, alas! came in two in my grasp. I the two in my body-coat, and, helping myself with my against the of the pit, and on with my hands, and as I was, and, above all, pressed for time, I the brink, it as I touched it with the water that off me. I was no sooner out of the well with my prize, than I into the sunlight, and took in a of at the of the garden. As I entered my hiding-place, the which when the great gate was opened, rang. It was my come again. I had but just time. I calculated that it would take ten minutes he would my place of concealment, if, where I was, he came to it; and twenty if he were to look for me. But this was time to allow me to read the letter, I to again. The was already fading, but I managed to it all.
“And will you tell me what you read therein, monseigneur?” asked Aramis, interested.
“Quite enough, monsieur, to see that my was a man of rank, and that Perronnette, without being a lady of quality, was than a servant; and also to that I must myself be high-born, since the queen, Anne of Austria, and Mazarin, the minister, me so to their care.” Here the man paused, overcome.
“And what happened?” asked Aramis.
“It happened, monsieur,” answered he, “that the they had nothing in the well, after the search; that my that the was all watery; that I was not so by the sun as to prevent Dame Perronnette that my were moist; and, lastly, that I was with a fever, to the and the of my discovery, an attack of supervening, which I related the whole adventure; so that, by my avowal, my the pieces of the queen’s the where I had them.”
“Ah!” said Aramis, “now I understand.”
“Beyond this, all is conjecture. Doubtless the lady and gentleman, not to keep the secret, of all this to the queen and sent the letter.”
“After which,” said Aramis, “you were and to the Bastile.”
“As you see.”
“Your two 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 for freedom?”
“As I told you.”
“Without ambition, sorrow, or thought?”
The man 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 himself up, and a of spread itself over his countenance. It was that he had the in the part he had come to the prison to play. “One question,” said Aramis.
“What is it? speak.”
“In the house you there were neither looking-glasses mirrors?”
“What are those two words, and what is their meaning?” asked the man; “I have no of knowledge of them.”
“They two pieces of which objects; so that, for instance, you may see in them your own lineaments, as you see mine now, with the eye.”
“No; there was neither a a in the house,” answered the man.
Aramis looked him. “Nor is there anything of the 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 in mathematics, astronomy, fencing, and riding; but you have not said a word about history.”
“My sometimes related to me the 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 you of mirrors, which the present, so they left you in of history, which the past. Since your imprisonment, books have been you; so that you are with a number of facts, by means of which you would be able to the of your and your hopes.”
“It is true,” said the man.
“Listen, then; I will in a tell you what has passed in France the last twenty-three or twenty-four years; that is, from the date of your birth; in a word, from the time that you.”
“Say on.” And the man his and attitude.
“Do you know who was the son of Henry IV.?”
“At least I know who his was.”
“How?”
“By means of a coin 1610, which the of Henry IV.; and another of 1612, that of Louis XIII. So I that, there being only two years the two dates, Louis was Henry’s successor.”
“Then,” said Aramis, “you know that the last was Louis XIII.?”
“I do,” answered the youth, reddening.
“Well, he was a full of ideas and great projects, always, alas! by the trouble of the times and the that his minister Richelieu had to maintain against the great of France. The king himself was of a character, and died and unhappy.”
“I know it.”
“He had been long about having a heir; a which on princes, who to them more than one that their best and 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 he should be the last of his race. This idea had him to the of despair, when suddenly, his wife, Anne of Austria—”
The trembled.
“Did you know,” said Aramis, “that Louis XIII.‘s wife was called Anne of Austria?”
“Continue,” said the man, without to the question.
“When suddenly,” Aramis, “the queen an event. There was great 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 he him pale. “You are about to hear,” said Aramis, “an account which now avouch; for it to a which they with the dead, in the of the confessional.”
“And you will tell me this secret?” in the youth.
“Oh!” said Aramis, with emphasis, “I do not know that I ought to this by it to one who has no to the Bastile.”
“I you, monsieur.”
“The queen, then, gave birth to a son. But while the was over the event, when the king had the new-born child to the and people, and was to table, to the event, the queen, who was alone in her room, was again taken and gave birth to a second son.”
“Oh!” said the prisoner, a with than he had owned to, “I that Monsieur was only in—”
Aramis his finger; “Permit me to continue,” he said.
The impatiently, and paused.
“Yes,” said Aramis, “the queen had a second son, Dame Perronnette, the midwife, in her arms.”
“Dame Perronnette!” the man.
“They ran at once to the banqueting-room, and to the king what had happened; he rose and the table. But this time it was no longer that his expressed, but something to terror. The birth of into the to which that of an only son had rise, that in France (a you are of) it is the of the king’s sons who succeeds his father.”
“I know it.”
“And that the doctors and that there is ground for the son that makes his is the by the law of and of nature.”
The a cry, and than the under which he himself.
“Now you understand,” Aramis, “that the king, who with so much saw himself in one, was in about two; that the second might the first’s to seniority, which had been only two hours before; and so this second son, on party and caprices, might one day and the kingdom; by these means the very he should have strengthened.”
“Oh, I understand!—I understand!” the man.
“Well,” Aramis; “this is what they relate, what they declare; this is why one of the queen’s two sons, from his brother, sequestered, is in obscurity; this is why that second son has disappeared, and so completely, that not a in France, save his mother, is aware of his existence.”
“Yes! his mother, who has him off,” the in a of despair.
“Except, also,” Aramis on, “the lady in the black dress; and, finally, excepting—”
“Excepting yourself—is it not? You who come and relate all this; you, who in my curiosity, hatred, ambition, and, perhaps, the thirst of vengeance; you, monsieur, who, if you are the man to I expect, the note I have to, whom, in short, Heaven ought to send me, must about you—”
“What?” asked Aramis.
“A portrait of the king, Louis XIV., who at this moment upon the of France.”
“Here is the portrait,” the bishop, the a in enamel, on which Louis was life-like, with a handsome, mien. The the portrait, and at it with eyes.
“And now, monseigneur,” said Aramis, “here is a mirror.” Aramis left the time to his ideas.
“So high!—so high!” the man, the of Louis with his own in the glass.
“What do you think of it?” at length said Aramis.
“I think that I am lost,” the captive; “the king will set me free.”
“And I—I to know,” added the bishop, his upon the prisoner, “I to know which of these two is king; the one this portrays, or the reflects?”
“The king, monsieur,” sadly the man, “is he who is on the throne, who is not in prison; and who, on the other hand, can others to be there. Royalty means power; and you how powerless I am.”
“Monseigneur,” answered Aramis, with a respect he had not yet manifested, “the king, mark me, will, if you it, be the one that, his dungeon, shall maintain himself upon the throne, on which his friends will place him.”
“Tempt me not, monsieur,” in the bitterly.
“Be not weak, monseigneur,” Aramis; “I have you all the proofs of your birth; them; satisfy that you are a king’s son; it is for us to act.”
“No, no; it is impossible.”
“Unless, indeed,” the ironically, “it be the of your race, that the from the should be always of and honesty, as was your uncle, M. Gaston d’Orleans, who ten times against his Louis XIII.”
“What!” the prince, astonished; “my uncle Gaston ‘conspired against his brother’; to 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 of purchasing—not his life—for the life of the king’s is and inviolable—but his liberty, he the of all his friends, one after another. And so, at this day, he is a very on history, the of a hundred families in this kingdom.”
“I understand, monsieur; either by or treachery, my uncle his friends.”
“By weakness; which, in princes, is always treachery.”
“And cannot a man fail, then, from and ignorance? Do you it possible that a such as I, up, not only at a from the court, but from the world—do you it possible that such a one those of his friends who should attempt to him?” And as Aramis was about to reply, the man out, with a which the of his blood, “We are speaking of friends; but how can I have any friends—I, no one knows; and have neither liberty, money, influence, to any?”
“I I had the to offer myself to your highness.”
“Oh, do not me so, monsieur; ‘tis either or cruelty. Bid me not think of these prison-walls, which so me; let me again love, or, at least, submit to my and my obscurity.”
“Monseigneur, monseigneur; if you again these words—if, after having proof of your high birth, you still poor-spirited in and soul, I will with your desire, I will depart, and the service of a master, to so I came to my and my life!”
“Monsieur,” the prince, “would it not have been for you to have reflected, telling me all that you have done, that you have my forever?”
“And so I to do, monseigneur.”
“To talk to me about power, grandeur, eye, and to of thrones! Is a prison the fit place? You wish to make me in splendor, and we are in night; you of glory, and we are our in the of this bed; you give me of power I the of the every-watchful in the corridor—that step which, after all, makes you more than it me. To me less incredulous, free me from the Bastile; let me breathe the fresh air; give me my and sword, then we shall to each other.”
“It is my to give you all this, monseigneur, and more; only, do you it?”
“A word more,” said the prince. “I know there are in every gallery, to every door, and at every barrier. How will you overcome the sentries—spike the guns? How will you through the and bars?”
“Monseigneur,—how did you the note which my to you?”
“You can a for such a thing as a note.”
“If we can one turnkey, we can ten.”
“Well; I admit that it may be possible to a from the Bastile; possible so to him that the king’s people shall not again him; possible, in some unknown retreat, to the in some manner.”
“Monseigneur!” said Aramis, smiling.
“I admit that, would do this much for me, would more than in my eyes; but as you tell me I am a prince, of the king, how can you me the rank and power which my mother and my have me of? And as, to this, I must pass a life of and hatred, how can you me to in those combats—render me by my enemies? Ah! monsieur, on all this; place me, to-morrow, in some dark at a mountain’s base; me the of in of the river, plain and valley, of in the sun of the heavens, or the sky, and it is enough. Promise me no more than this, for, indeed, more you cannot give, and it would be a to me, since you call my friend.”
Aramis waited in silence. “Monseigneur,” he resumed, after a moment’s reflection, “I the firm, which your words; I am happy to have my monarch’s mind.”
“Again, again! oh, God! for mercy’s sake,” the prince, pressing his hands upon his brow, “do not play with me! I have no need to be a king to be the of men.”
“But I, monseigneur, wish you to be a king for the good of humanity.”
“Ah!” said the prince, with fresh by the word; “ah! with what, then, has to my brother?”
“I to say, monseigneur, that if you would allow me to you, and if you to the most powerful in Christendom, you will have promoted the of all the friends I to the success of your cause, and these friends are numerous.”
“Numerous?”
“Less than powerful, monseigneur.”
“Explain yourself.”
“It is impossible; I will explain, I Heaven, on that day that I see you on the of France.”
“But my brother?”
“You shall his fate. Do you him?”
“Him, who me to 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 us to love, not to with one another. I come to you. A has you to pass your days in obscurity, from mankind, of every joy. I will make you me; I will your our father’s sword. Will you take of this to put or me? Will you that to my blood?’ ‘Oh! never,’ I would have to him, ‘I look on you as my preserver, I will respect you as my master. You give me more than Heaven bestowed; for through you I and the of and being loved in this world.’”
“And you would have your word, monseigneur?”
“On my life! While now—now that I have ones to punish—”
“In what manner, monseigneur?”
“What do you say as to the that Heaven has me to my brother?”
“I say that there was in that a which the king ought to have heeded; I say that your mother a in those different in and nature so alike, of her own flesh, and I that the object of should be only to the equilibrium.”
“By which you mean—”
“That if I you to your place on your brother’s throne, he shall take yours in prison.”
“Alas! there’s such of in prison, it would be so for one who has so of the cup of enjoyment.”
“Your will always be free to act as you may desire; and if it 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 nothing from you till I am clear of the Bastile.”
“I was going to say to your that I should only have the of you once again.”
“And when?”
“The day when my these walls.”
“Heavens! how will you give me notice of it?”
“By myself to you.”
“Yourself?”
“My prince, do not this save with me, or if in my you are to do so, that I am not 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 very low. The offered his hand.
“Monsieur,” he said, in a that from his heart, “one word more, my last. If you have me for my destruction; if you are only a tool in the hands of my enemies; if from our conference, in which you have the of my mind, anything than result, that is to say, if death me, still my blessing, for you will have ended my and me from the that has on me for eight long, years.”
“Monseigneur, wait the results you judge me,” said Aramis.
“I say that, in such a case, I and you. If, on the other hand, you are come to me to that position in the of and to which I was by Heaven; if by your means I am to live in the memory of man, and on my by of valor, or by solid upon my people; if, from my present of sorrow, by your hand, I myself to the very of honor, then to you, I thank with blessings, to you will I offer my power and my glory: though you would still be but recompensed, and your must always incomplete, since I not with you the at your hands.”
“Monseigneur,” Aramis, moved by the and of the man, “the of your me with and admiration. It is not you who will have to thank me, but the nation you will happy, the name you will make glorious. Yes; I shall have upon you more than life, I shall have you immortality.”
The offered his hand to Aramis, who upon his and it.
“It is the act of paid to our king,” said he. “When I see you again, I shall say, ‘Good day, sire.’”
“Till then,” said the man, pressing his and over his heart,—“till then, no more dreams, no more on my life—my 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 here!”
“Your makes me proud,” said Aramis, “since you it is I who all this.” And he on the door. The came to open it with Baisemeaux, who, by and uneasiness, was beginning, in of himself, to at the door. Happily, neither of the speakers had to his voice, in the most outbreaks.
“What a confessor!” said the governor, a laugh; “who would that a recluse, a man as though in the very of death, have so numerous, and so long to tell of?”
Aramis no reply. He was to the Bastile, where the which him to the weight of the walls. As soon as they Baisemeaux’s quarters, “Let us to business, my dear governor,” said Aramis.
“Alas!” Baisemeaux.
“You have to ask me for my receipt for one hundred and fifty thousand livres,” said the bishop.
“And to pay over the third of the sum,” added the governor, with a sigh, taking three steps his iron strong-box.
“Here is the receipt,” said Aramis.
“And here is the money,” returned Baisemeaux, with a threefold sigh.
“The order me only to give a receipt; it said nothing about the money,” Aramis. “Adieu, le governeur!”
And he departed, Baisemeaux almost more than with and at this present so by the to the Bastile.
