The Man in the Iron Mask
The Tempter.
“My prince,” said Aramis, in the his companion, “weak as I am, so in genius, so low in the of beings, it has yet to me to with a man without his through that which has been over our mind, in order to its expression. But to-night, in this darkness, in the which you maintain, I can read nothing on your features, and something tells me that I shall have great in from you a declaration. I you, then, not for love of me, for should as anything in the which hold, but for love of yourself, to every syllable, every which, under the present most circumstances, will all have a and value as as any every in the world.”
“I listen,” the prince, “decidedly, without either or anything you are about to say to me.” And he himself still in the thick of the carriage, trying to his not only of the of him, but of the very idea of his presence.
Black was the which wide and from the of the trees. The carriage, in by this roof, would not have a particle of light, not if a have through the of that were already in the avenue.
“Monseigneur,” Aramis, “you know the history of the government which to-day France. The king from an like yours, as yours, and as yours; only, of ending, like yourself, this in a prison, this in solitude, these in concealment, he was to all these miseries, humiliations, and distresses, in full daylight, under the sun of royalty; on an with light, where every a blemish, every a stain. The king has suffered; it in his mind; and he will himself. He will be a king. I say not that he will out his people’s blood, like Louis XI., or Charles IX.; for he has no to avenge; but he will the means and of his people; for he has himself in his own and money. In the place, then, I my conscience, when I openly the and the of this great prince; and if I him, my me.”
Aramis paused. It was not to if the of the undisturbed, but it was to up his from the very of his soul—to the he had time to eat into the mind of his companion.
“All that Heaven does, Heaven well,” the of Vannes; “and I am so of it that I have long been to have been of the which I have you to discover. To a just Providence was necessary an instrument, at once penetrating, persevering, and convinced, to a great work. I am this instrument. I penetration, perseverance, conviction; I a people, who has taken for its motto, the of God, ‘Patiens oeternus.’” The moved. “I divine, monseigneur, why you are your head, and are at the people I have under my command. You did not know you were with a king—oh! monseigneur, king of a people very humble, much disinherited; they have no save when creeping; disinherited, never, almost in this world, do my people the they sow, eat the fruit they cultivate. They labor for an idea; they together all the of their power, so from a single man; and this man, with the of their labor, they create a halo, which his shall, in turn, a with the of all the in Christendom. Such is the man you have you, monseigneur. It is to tell you that he has you from the for a great purpose, to you above the powers of the earth—above himself.” 1
The touched Aramis’s arm. “You speak to me,” he said, “of that religious order you are. For me, the result of your is, that the day you to the man you shall have raised, the event will be accomplished; and that you will keep under your hand your of yesterday.”
“Undeceive yourself, monseigneur,” the bishop. “I should not take the trouble to play this terrible game with your highness, if I had not a in it. The day you are elevated, you are forever; you will the footstool, as you rise, and will send it so far, that not the of it will again to you its right to gratitude.”
“Oh, monsieur!”
“Your movement, monseigneur, from an excellent disposition. I thank you. Be well assured, I to more than gratitude! I am that, when at the summit, you will judge me still more to be your friend; and then, monseigneur, we two will do such great deeds, that shall long speak of them.”
“Tell me plainly, monsieur—tell me without disguise—what I am to-day, and what you at my being to-morrow.”
“You are the son of King Louis XIII., of Louis XIV., natural and to the of France. In you near him, as Monsieur has been kept—Monsieur, your brother—the king to himself the right of being sovereign. The doctors only his legitimacy. But the doctors always the king who is to the king who is not. Providence has that you should be persecuted; this to-day you king of France. You had, then, a right to reign, that it is disputed; you had a right to be that you have been concealed; and you blood, since no one has to yours, as that of your has been shed. Now see, then, what this Providence, which you have so often of having in every way you, has done for you. It has you the features, figure, age, and voice of your brother; and the very of your are about to those of your restoration. To-morrow, after to-morrow—from the very first, phantom, of Louis XIV., you will upon his throne, the will of Heaven, in to the arm of man, will have him, without of return.”
“I understand,” said the prince, “my brother’s blood will not be shed, then.”
“You will be of his fate.”
“The of which they an use against me?”
“You will it against him. What did he do to it? He you. Living image of himself, you will the of Mazarin and Anne of Austria. You, my prince, will have the same in him, who will, as a prisoner, you, as you will him as a king.”
“I on what I was saying to you. Who will him?”
“Who you?”
“You know this secret—you have use of it with to myself. Who else it?”
“The queen-mother and Madame de Chevreuse.”
“What will they do?”
“Nothing, if you choose.”
“How is that?”
“How can they you, if you act in such a manner that no one can you?”
“‘Tis true; but there are difficulties.”
“State them, prince.”
“My is married; I cannot take my brother’s wife.”
“I will Spain to to a divorce; it is in the of your new policy; it is morality. All that is and useful in this world will its account therein.”
“The king will speak.”
“To do you think he will speak—to the walls?”
“You mean, by walls, the men in you put confidence.”
“If need be, yes. And besides, your highness—”
“Besides?”
“I was going to say, that the designs of Providence do not stop on such a road. Every of this is by its results, like a calculation. The king, in prison, will not be for you the of that you have been for the king enthroned. His is naturally proud and impatient; it is, moreover, and enfeebled, by being to honors, and by the of power. The same Providence which has that the step in the I have had the of to your should be your to the throne, and the of him who is to you, has also that the one shall soon end his own and your sufferings. Therefore, his and have been for but a agony. Put into prison as a private individual, left alone with your doubts, of everything, you have the most sublime, of life in all this. But your brother, a captive, forgotten, and in bonds, will not long the calamity; and Heaven will his at the time—that is to say, soon.”
At this point in Aramis’s analysis, a bird of night from the of the that and which makes every tremble.
“I will the king,” said Philippe, shuddering; “‘twill be more human.”
“The king’s good will decide the point,” said Aramis. “But has the problem been well put? Have I out of the according to the or the of your highness?”
“Yes, monsieur, yes; you have nothing—except, indeed, two things.”
“The first?”
“Let us speak of it at once, with the same we have already in. Let us speak of the which may about the of all the we have conceived. Let us speak of the we are running.”
“They would be immense, infinite, terrific, insurmountable, if, as I have said, all did not to them of no account. There is no either for you or for me, if the and of your are equal to that perfection of to your which nature has upon you. I repeat it, there are no dangers, only obstacles; a word, indeed, which I in all languages, but have always ill-understood, and, were I king, would have as and absurd.”
“Yes, indeed, monsieur; there is a very obstacle, an danger, which you are forgetting.”
“Ah!” said Aramis.
“There is conscience, which aloud; remorse, that dies.”
“True, true,” said the bishop; “there is a of of which you me. You are right, too, for that, indeed, is an obstacle. The of the ditch, into the middle of it, and is killed! The man who his with that of another his enemy has him in his power.”
“Have you a brother?” said the man to Aramis.
“I am alone in the world,” said the latter, with a hard, voice.
“But, surely, there is some one in the world you love?” added Philippe.
“No one!—Yes, I love you.”
The man into so a silence, that the of his like a for Aramis. “Monseigneur,” he resumed, “I have not said all I had to say to your highness; I have not offered you all the and useful which I have at my disposal. It is to the of one who and loves darkness: useless, too, is it to let the of the cannon’s make itself in the ears of one who loves and the of the country. Monseigneur, I have your spread out me in my thoughts; to my words; they are, in their and their sense, for you who look with such upon the heavens, the meadows, the pure air. I know a country with of every kind, an unknown paradise, a of the world—where alone, and unknown, in the thick of the woods, flowers, and of water, you will all the that has so you. Oh! to me, my prince. I do not jest. I have a heart, and mind, and soul, and can read your own,—aye, to its depths. I will not take you for your task, in order to you into the of my own desires, of my caprice, or my ambition. Let it be all or nothing. You are and galled, at heart, overcome by of the which but one hour’s has produced in you. For me, that is a and that you do not wish to continue at liberty. Would you a more life, a life more to your strength? Heaven is my witness, that I wish your to be the result of the trial to which I have you.”
“Speak, speak,” said the prince, with a which did not Aramis.
“I know,” the prelate, “in the Bas-Poitou, a canton, of which no one in France the existence. Twenty of country is immense, is it not? Twenty leagues, monseigneur, all with water and herbage, and of the most nature; the whole with with of the foliage. These large marshes, with as with a thick mantle, sleep and the sun’s soft and rays. A with their families pass their away there, with their great living-rafts of and alder, the of reeds, and the out of thick rushes. These barks, these floating-houses, are to and by the winds. Whenever they touch a bank, it is but by chance; and so gently, too, that the sleeping is not by the shock. Should he wish to land, it is he has a large of or plovers, of wild ducks, teal, widgeon, or woodchucks, which an easy pray to or gun. Silver shad, eels, pike, red and mullet, swim in into his nets; he has but to choose the and largest, and return the others to the waters. Never yet has the food of the stranger, be he soldier or citizen, has any one, indeed, into that district. The sun’s there are soft and tempered: in plots of solid earth, is and fertile, the vine, with juice its purple, white, and grapes. Once a week, a is sent to deliver the which has been at an oven—the common property of all. There—like the of early days—powerful in of your dogs, your fishing-lines, your guns, and your reed-built house, would you live, rich in the produce of the chase, in of secrecy. There would years of your life roll away, at the end of which, no longer recognizable, for you would have been perfectly transformed, you would have succeeded in a to you by Heaven. There are a thousand in this bag, monseigneur—more, more, than to purchase the whole of which I have spoken; more than to live there as many years as you have days to live; more than to you the richest, the freest, and the man in the country. Accept it, as I offer it you—sincerely, cheerfully. Forthwith, without a moment’s pause, I will two of my horses, which are to the yonder, and they, by my servant—my and attendant—shall you—traveling the night, sleeping the day—to the I have described; and I shall, at least, have the of that I have to my the major service he himself preferred. I shall have one being happy; and Heaven for that will me in account than if I had one man powerful; the is more difficult. And now, monseigneur, your answer to this proposition? Here is the money. Nay, do not hesitate. At Poitou, you can nothing, the of the there; and of them, the so-called of the country will you, for the of your pistoles. If you play the other game, you the of being on a throne, in a prison-cell. Upon my soul, I you, now I to them together, I myself should which I should accept.”
“Monsieur,” the prince, “before I determine, let me from this carriage, walk on the ground, and that still voice me, which Heaven us all to to. Ten minutes is all I ask, and then you shall have your answer.”
“As you please, monseigneur,” said Aramis, him with respect, so and in and address had these words.
