The Man in the Iron Mask
A Night at the Bastile.
Pain, anguish, and in life are always in to the with which a man is endowed. We will not to say that Heaven always to a man’s of the with which he him; for that, indeed, would not be true, since Heaven the of death, which is, sometimes, the only open to those who are too closely pressed—too afflicted, as as the is concerned. Suffering is in to the which has been accorded; in other words, the weak more, where the trial is the same, than the strong. And what are the principles, we may ask, that strength? Is it not—more than anything else—exercise, habit, experience? We shall not take the trouble to this, for it is an in morals, as in physics. When the king, and in every and feeling, himself to a in the Bastile, he death itself is but a sleep; that it, too, has its as well; that the had through the of his room at Vaux; that death had resulted from the occurrence; and that, still out his dream, the king, Louis XIV., now no longer living, was one of those horrors, to in life, which is dethronement, imprisonment, and a who unlimited power. To be present at—an witness, too—of this of death; to float, indecisively, in an mystery, and reality; to everything, to see everything, without in a single detail of suffering, was—so the king himself—a more terrible, since it might last forever. “Is this what is eternity—hell?” he murmured, at the moment the door was closed upon him, which we Baisemeaux had with his own hands. He did not look him; and in the room, with his against the wall, he allowed himself to be away by the terrible that he was already dead, as he closed his eyes, in order to avoid looking upon something still. “How can I have died?” he said to himself, with terror. “The might have been let by some means? But no! I do not to have a bruise, any either. Would they not have me at my meals, or with the of wax, as they did my ancestress, Jeanne d’Albret?” Suddenly, the of the to like a wet upon Louis’s shoulders. “I have seen,” he said, “my father upon his couch, in his robes. That face, so and worn; those hands, once so skillful, by his side; those by the of death; nothing there a sleep that was by dreams. And yet, how were the which Heaven might have sent that corpse—him so many others had preceded, away by him into death! No, that king was still the king: he was still upon that couch, as upon a armchair; he had not one title of his majesty. God, who had not him, cannot, will not me, who have done nothing.” A the man’s attention. He looked him, and saw on the mantel-shelf, just an crucifix, painted in on the wall, a of size in a piece of bread, but all the time, an and look upon the new of the cell. The king not a of and disgust: he moved the door, a loud cry; and as if he but needed this cry, which from his almost unconsciously, to himself, Louis that he was alive and in full of his natural senses. “A prisoner!” he cried. “I—I, a prisoner!” He looked him for a to some one to him. “There are no in the Bastile,” he said, “and it is in the Bastile I am imprisoned. In what way can I have been a prisoner? It must have been to a of M. Fouquet. I have been to Vaux, as to a snare. M. Fouquet cannot be acting alone in this affair. His agent—That voice that I but just now was M. d’Herblay’s; I it. Colbert was right, then. But what is Fouquet’s object? To in my place and stead?—Impossible. Yet who knows!” the king, into again. “Perhaps my brother, the Duc d’Orleans, is doing that which my uncle to do the whole of his life against my father. But the queen?—My mother, too? And La Valliere? Oh! La Valliere, she will have been to Madame. Dear, dear girl! Yes, it is—it must be so. They have her up as they have me. We are forever!” And at this idea of the lover into a of and and groans.
“There is a in this place,” the king continued, in a of passion; “I will speak to him, I will him to me.”
He called—no voice to his. He of his chair, and it against the door. The against the door, and many a echo in the of the staircase; but from a creature, none.
This was a fresh proof for the king of the in which he was at the Bastile. Therefore, when his fit of anger had passed away, having a window through which there passed a of light, lozenge-shaped, which must be, he knew, the of day, Louis to call out, at enough, then louder and louder still; but no one replied. Twenty other which he made, one after another, no other or success. His blood to him, and to his head. His nature was such, that, to command, he at the idea of disobedience. The the chair, which was too for him to lift, and use of it as a to against the door. He so loudly, and so repeatedly, that the soon to his face. The and continuous; stifled, in different directions. This produced a upon the king. He paused to listen; it was the voice of the prisoners, his victims, now his companions. The voices like through the thick and the walls, and rose in against the author of this noise, as their and accused, in tones, the author of their captivity. After having so many people of their liberty, the king came among them to them of their rest. This idea almost him mad; it his strength, or his will, upon some information, or a to the affair. With a of the chair he the noise. At the end of an hour, Louis something in the corridor, the door of his cell, and a blow, which was returned upon the door itself, him his own.
“Are you mad?” said a rude, voice. “What is the with you this morning?”
“This morning!” the king; but he said aloud, politely, “Monsieur, are you the of the Bastile?”
“My good fellow, your is out of sorts,” the voice; “but that is no why you should make such a terrible disturbance. Be quiet; mordioux!”
“Are you the governor?” the king again.
He a door on the close; the had just left, not to reply a single word. When the king had himself of his departure, his no longer any bounds. As as a tiger, he from the table to the window, and the iron with all his might. He a of glass, the pieces of which into the below. He with hoarseness, “The governor, the governor!” This an hour, which time he was in a fever. With his in and on his forehead, his dress and with and plaster, his in shreds, the king rested until his was exhausted, and it was not until then that he the of the walls, the nature of the cement, to every but that of time, and that he no other but despair. He his against the door, and let the of his by degrees; it had as if one single additional would have it burst.
“A moment will come when the food which is to the will be to me. I shall then see some one, I shall speak to him, and an answer.”
And the king to at what hour the of the was at the Bastile; he was of this detail. The of at this him like the of a dagger, that he should have for five and twenty years a king, and in the of every happiness, without having a moment’s on the of those who had been of their liberty. The king for very shame. He that Heaven, in this humiliation, did no more than to the man the same as had been by that man upon so many others. Nothing be more for his mind to religious than the of his and mind and the of such wretchedness. But Louis not in prayer to God to him to his trial.
“Heaven is right,” he said; “Heaven wisely. It would be to pray to Heaven for that which I have so often my own fellow-creatures.”
He had this stage of his reflections, that is, of his of mind, when a noise was again his door, this time by the of the key in the lock, and of the being from their staples. The king to be nearer to the person who was about to enter, but, that it was a movement of a sovereign, he paused, a and expression, which for him was easy enough, and waited with his the window, in order, to some extent, to his from the of the person who was about to enter. It was only a with a of provisions. The king looked at the man with anxiety, and waited until he spoke.
“Ah!” said the latter, “you have your chair. I said you had done so! Why, you have gone mad.”
“Monsieur,” said the king, “be what you say; it will be a very for you.”
The the on the table, and looked at his steadily. “What do you say?” he said.
“Desire the to come to me,” added the king, in full of and dignity.
“Come, my boy,” said the turnkey, “you have always been very and reasonable, but you are vicious, it seems, and I wish you to know it in time. You have your chair, and a great disturbance; that is an by in one of the dungeons. Promise me not to over again, and I will not say a word about it to the governor.”
“I wish to see the governor,” the king, still his passions.
“He will send you off to one of the dungeons, I tell you; so take care.”
“I upon it, do you hear?”
“Ah! ah! your are wild again. Very good! I shall take away your knife.”
And the did what he said, the prisoner, and closed the door, the king more astounded, more wretched, more than ever. It was useless, though he it, to make the same noise again on his door, and that he the plates and out of the window; not a single was in recognition. Two hours he not be as a king, a gentleman, a man, a being; he might be called a madman, the door with his nails, trying to tear up the of his cell, and such wild and that the old Bastile to to its very for having against its master. As for the governor, the did not think of him; the and the had reported the to him, but what was the good of it? Were not these common in such a prison? and were not the still stronger? M. de Baisemeaux, with what Aramis had told him, and in perfect with the king’s order, only that one thing might happen; namely, that the Marchiali might be to himself to the of his bed, or to one of the of the window. In fact, the was anything but a investment for M. Baisemeaux, and more than to him. These of Seldon and Marchiali—the of setting at and then again, the from the in question—had at last a very proper denouement. Baisemeaux he had that D’Herblay himself was not with the result.
“And then, really,” said Baisemeaux to his next in command, “an ordinary is already in being a prisoner; he enough, indeed, to one to hope, enough, that his death may not be distant. With still reason, accordingly, when the has gone mad, and might bite and make a terrible in the Bastile; why, in such a case, it is not an act of to wish him dead; it would be almost a good and action, to have him put out of his misery.”
And the good-natured sat to his late breakfast.
