The Man in the Iron Mask
The Shadow of M. Fouquet.
D’Artagnan, still and by the he had just had with the king, not asking himself if he were in of his senses, if he were and at Vaux; if he, D’Artagnan, were the captain of the musketeers, and M. Fouquet the owner of the in which Louis XIV. was at that moment of his hospitality. These were not those of a man, although was in at Vaux, and the surintendant’s had met with a at the fete. The Gascon, however, was a man of self-possession; and no sooner did he touch his blade, than he how to the cold, as his of action.
“Well,” he said, as he the apartment, “I now to be mixed up with the of the king and of the minister; it will be written, that M. d’Artagnan, a son of a Gascon family, his hand on the of M. Nicolas Fouquet, the of the of France. My descendants, if I have any, will themselves with the which this will confer, just as the members of the De Luynes family have done with to the of the Marechal d’Ancre. But the thing is, how best to the king’s in a proper manner. Any man would know how to say to M. Fouquet, ‘Your sword, monsieur.’ But it is not every one who would be able to take of M. Fouquet without others anything about it. How am I to manage, then, so that M. le pass from the of to the disgrace; that Vaux be into a for him; that after having been to his lips, as it were, in all the and of Ahasuerus, he is transferred to the of Haman; in other words, of Enguerrand de Marigny?” And at this reflection, D’Artagnan’s with perplexity. The had on the matter, it must be admitted. To deliver up to death (for not a that Louis Fouquet mortally) the man who had just himself so and a in every way, was a to one’s conscience. “It almost seems,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “that if I am not a poor, mean, fellow, I should let M. Fouquet know the opinion the king has about him. Yet, if I my master’s secret, I shall be a false-hearted, knave, a traitor, too, a provided for and by laws—so much so, indeed, that twenty times, in days when were rife, I have many a up to a tree for doing, in but a small degree, what my me to upon a great now. No, I think that a man of true of ought to out of this with more skill than that. And now, let us admit that I do a little of invention; it is not at all certain, though, for, after having for years so large a quantity, I shall be lucky if there were to be a pistole’s-worth left.” D’Artagnan his in his hands, at his in vexation, and added, “What can be the of M. Fouquet’s disgrace? There to be three good ones: the first, M. Colbert doesn’t like him; the second, he to in love with Mademoiselle de la Valliere; and lastly, the king M. Colbert and loves Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Oh! he is lost! But shall I put my on his neck, I, of all men, when he is a to the of a pack of and clerks? For shame! If he be dangerous, I will him low enough; if, however, he be only persecuted, I will look on. I have come to such a determination, that neither king man shall my mind. If Athos were here, he would do as I have done. Therefore, of going, in cold blood, up to M. Fouquet, and him off-hand and him up altogether, I will try and myself like a man who what good manners are. People will talk about it, of course; but they shall talk well of it, I am determined.” And D’Artagnan, by a to himself his shoulder-belt over his shoulder, off to M. Fouquet, who, after he had taken of his guests, was preparing to retire for the night and to sleep after the of the day. The air was still perfumed, or infected, way it may be considered, with the of the and the fireworks. The wax-lights were away in their sockets, the flowers from the garlands, the groups of dancers and were in the salons. Surrounded by his friends, who him and his in return, the half-closed his eyes. He for and quiet; he upon the of which had been up for him for so many days past; it might almost have been said that he the weight of the new which he had for the purpose of the possible to this fete. Fouquet had just retired to his room, still smiling, but more than half-asleep. He to nothing more, he keep his open; his to a and for him. The god Morpheus, the of the painted by Lebrun, had his over the rooms, and his most sleep-inducing upon the master of the house. Fouquet, almost alone, was being by his de to undress, when M. d’Artagnan appeared at the entrance of the room. D’Artagnan had been able to succeed in making himself common at the court; and he was and on all occasions, he failed to produce an and he his appearance. Such is the happy of natures, which in that respect either or lightning; every one them; but their fails to and astonishment, and they occur, the is always left that the last was the most or most important.
“What! M. d’Artagnan?” said Fouquet, who had already taken his right arm out of the of his doublet.
“At your service,” the musketeer.
“Come in, my dear M. d’Artagnan.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you come to the fete? You are in your criticisms, I know.”
“By no means.”
“Are not your men looked after properly?”
“In every way.”
“You are not lodged, perhaps?”
“Nothing be better.”
“In that case, I have to thank you for being so disposed, and I must not fail to my to you for all your kindness.”
These were as much as to say, “My dear D’Artagnan, pray go to bed, since you have a to on, and let me do the same.”
D’Artagnan did not to it.
“Are you going to already?” he said to the superintendent.
“Yes; have you anything to say to me?”
“Nothing, monsieur, nothing at all. You sleep in this room, then?”
“Yes; as you see.”
“You have a most to the king.”
“Do you think so?”
“Oh! beautiful!”
“Is the king pleased?”
“Enchanted.”
“Did he you to say as much to me?”
“He would not choose so a messenger, monseigneur.”
“You do not do justice, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Is that your bed, there?”
“Yes; but why do you ask? Are you not satisfied with your own?”
“My I speak to you?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Well, then, I am not.”
Fouquet started; and then replied, “Will you take my room, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“What! you of it, monseigneur? never!”
“What am I to do, then?”
“Allow me to yours with you.”
Fouquet looked at the fixedly. “Ah! ah!” he said, “you have just left the king.”
“I have, monseigneur.”
“And the king you to pass the night in my room?”
“Monseigneur—”
“Very well, Monsieur d’Artagnan, very well. You are the master here.”
“I you, monseigneur, that I do not wish to abuse—”
Fouquet to his valet, and said, “Leave us.” When the man had left, he said to D’Artagnan, “You have something to say to me?”
“I?”
“A man of your cannot have come to talk with a man like myself, at such an hour as the present, without motives.”
“Do not me.”
“On the contrary. What do you want with me?”
“Nothing more than the of your society.”
“Come into the garden, then,” said the suddenly, “or into the park.”
“No,” the musketeer, hastily, “no.”
“Why?”
“The fresh air—”
“Come, admit at once that you me,” said the to the captain.
“Never!” said the latter.
“You to look after me, then?”
“Yes, monseigneur, I do, upon my honor.”
“Upon your honor—ah! that is another thing! So I am to be in my own house.”
“Do not say such a thing.”
“On the contrary, I will it aloud.”
“If you do so, I shall be to you to be silent.”
“Very good! Violence me, and in my own house, too.”
“We do not to one another at all. Stay a moment; there is a chess-board there; we will have a game, if you have no objections.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, I am in disgrace, then?”
“Not at all; but—”
“I am prohibited, I suppose, from from your sight.”
“I do not a word you are saying, monseigneur; and if you wish me to withdraw, tell me so.”
“My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, your mode of action is to drive me mad; I was almost for want of sleep, but you have me.”
“I shall myself, I am sure; and if you wish to me with myself, why, go to sleep in your in my presence; and I shall be delighted.”
“I am under surveillance, I see.”
“I will the room if you say any such thing.”
“You are my comprehension.”
“Good night, monseigneur,” said D’Artagnan, as he to withdraw.
Fouquet ran after him. “I will not down,” he said. “Seriously, and since you to me as a man, and since you with me, I will try and set you at bay, as a a wild boar.”
“Bah!” D’Artagnan, to smile.
“I shall order my horses, and set off for Paris,” said Fouquet, the captain of the musketeers.
“If that be the case, monseigneur, it is very difficult.”
“You will me, then?”
“No, but I shall go along with you.”
“That is sufficient, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” returned Fouquet, coldly. “It was not for nothing you your as a man of and resource; but with me all this is superfluous. Let us come to the point. Do me a service. Why do you me? What have I done?”
“Oh! I know nothing about what you may have done; but I do not you—this evening, at least!”
“This evening!” said Fouquet, pale, “but to-morrow?”
“It is not to-morrow just yet, monseigneur. Who can answer for the morrow?”
“Quick, quick, captain! let me speak to M. d’Herblay.”
“Alas! that is impossible, monseigneur. I have orders to see that you no with any one.”
“With M. d’Herblay, captain—with your friend!”
“Monseigneur, is M. d’Herblay the only person with you ought to be any communication?”
Fouquet colored, and then an air of resignation, he said: “You are right, monsieur; you have me a lesson I ought not to have evoked. A man cannot his right to anything, from those he may have made; for a still reason, he cannot anything from those to he may have had the of doing a service.”
“Monseigneur!”
“It is perfectly true, Monsieur d’Artagnan; you have always in the most manner me—in such a manner, indeed, as most the man who is to me. You, at least, have asked me anything.”
“Monsieur,” the Gascon, touched by his and of grief, “will you—I ask it as a favor—pledge me your word as a man of that you will not this room?”
“What is the use of it, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, since you keep watch and over me? Do you I should against the most in the kingdom?”
“It is not that, at all, monseigneur; but that I am going to look for M. d’Herblay, and, consequently, to you alone.”
Fouquet a of and surprise.
“To look for M. d’Herblay! to me alone!” he exclaimed, his hands together.
“Which is M. d’Herblay’s room? The room is it not?”
“Yes, my friend, yes.”
“Your friend! thank you for that word, monseigneur; you it upon me to-day, at least, if you have done so before.”
“Ah! you have saved me.”
“It will take a good ten minutes to go from hence to the room, and to return?” said D’Artagnan.
“Nearly so.”
“And then to wake Aramis, who very soundly, when he is asleep, I put that at another five minutes; making a total of fifteen minutes’ absence. And now, monseigneur, give me your word that you will not in any way attempt to make your escape, and that when I return I shall you here again.”
“I give it, monsieur,” Fouquet, with an of the and gratitude.
D’Artagnan disappeared. Fouquet looked at him as he the room, waited with a until the door was closed him, and as soon as it was shut, to his keys, opened two or three doors in articles of in the room, looked for papers, which he had left at Saint-Mande, and which he to not having in them; then of letters, contracts, papers, writings, he them up into a pile, which he in the upon the marble of the fireplace, not taking time to from the of it the and of flowers with which it was filled. As soon as he had finished, like a man who has just an danger, and him as soon as the is past, he down, overcome, on a couch. When D’Artagnan returned, he Fouquet in the same position; the had not the that Fouquet, having his word, would not think of to keep it, but he had it most likely that Fouquet would turn his (D’Artagnan’s) to the best in of all the papers, memorandums, and contracts, which might possibly his position, which was now enough, more than ever. And so, up his like a dog who has the scent, he an odor he had on in the atmosphere, and having it, a movement of his in of satisfaction. As D’Artagnan entered, Fouquet, on his side, his head, and not one of D’Artagnan’s movements him. And then the looks of the two men met, and they saw that they had each other without a syllable.
“Well!” asked Fouquet, the to speak, “and M. d’Herblay?”
“Upon my word, monseigneur,” D’Artagnan, “M. d’Herblay must be of walking out at night, and by moonlight in the park of Vaux, with some of your poets, in all probability, for he is not in his own room.”
“What! not in his own room?” Fouquet, last thus him; for unless he in what way the of Vannes him, he perfectly well that he from no other quarter.
“Or, indeed,” D’Artagnan, “if he is in his own room, he has very good for not answering.”
“But surely you did not call him in such a manner that he have you?”
“You can suppose, monseigneur, that having already my orders, which me you a single moment—you can suppose, I say, that I should have been to the whole house and allow myself to be in the of the of Vannes, in order that M. Colbert might with positive that I gave you time to your papers.”
“My papers?”
“Of course; at least that is what I should have done in your place. When any one opens a door for me I always myself of it.”
“Yes, yes, and I thank you, for I have myself of it.”
“And you have done perfectly right. Every man has his own with which others have nothing to do. But let us return to Aramis, monseigneur.”
“Well, then, I tell you, you not have called loud enough, or Aramis would have you.”
“However any one may call Aramis, monseigneur, Aramis always when he has an in hearing. I repeat what I said before—Aramis was not in his own room, or Aramis had for not my voice, of which I am ignorant, and of which you may be yourself, your liege-man is His Greatness the Lord Bishop of Vannes.”
Fouquet a sigh, rose from his seat, took three or four in his room, and by seating himself, with an of dejection, upon his with hangings, and lace. D’Artagnan looked at Fouquet with of the and pity.
“I have a good many men in my life,” said the musketeer, sadly; “I have M. de Cinq-Mars and M. de Chalais arrested, though I was very then. I have M. de Conde with the princes; I have M. de Retz arrested; I have M. Broussel arrested. Stay a moment, monseigneur, it is to have to say, but the very one of all those you most at this moment was that Broussel. You were very near doing as he did, your dinner in your portfolio, and your mouth with your papers. Mordioux! Monseigneur Fouquet, a man like you ought not to be in this manner. Suppose your friends saw you?”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” returned the surintendant, with a full of gentleness, “you do not me; it is my friends are not looking on, that I am as you see me now. I do not live, even, from others; I am nothing when left to myself. Understand that my whole life I have passed every moment of my time in making friends, I to my and support. In times of prosperity, all these cheerful, happy voices—rendered so through and by my means—formed in my a of and actions. In the least disfavor, these voices in the of my own heart. Isolation I have yet known. Poverty (a I have sometimes beheld, in rags, me at the end of my through life)—poverty has been the with which many of my own friends have for years past, which they and caress, and which has me them. Poverty! I accept it, it, it, as a sister; for is neither solitude, exile, imprisonment. Is it likely I shall be poor, with such friends as Pelisson, as La Fontaine, as Moliere? with such a as—Oh! if you how and I at this moment, and how you, who me from all I love, to the image of solitude, of annihilation—death itself.”
“But I have already told you, Monsieur Fouquet,” D’Artagnan, moved to the of his soul, “that you are exaggerating. The king you.”
“No, no,” said Fouquet, his head.
“M. Colbert you.”
“M. Colbert! What that to me?”
“He will you.”
“Ah! I him to do that, for I am already.”
At this of the superintendent, D’Artagnan his all the room; and although he did not open his lips, Fouquet him so thoroughly, that he added: “What can be done with such of as us, when a man can no longer his taste for the magnificent? Do you know what good the part of the and the which we rich enjoy, upon us? to us, by their very even, with which not equal it! Vaux! you will say, and the of Vaux! What of it? What these wonders? If I am ruined, how shall I with water the which my Naiads in their arms, or the air into the of my Tritons? To be rich enough, Monsieur d’Artagnan, a man must be too rich.”
D’Artagnan his head.
“Oh! I know very well what you think,” Fouquet, quickly. “If Vaux were yours, you would sell it, and would purchase an in the country; an which should have woods, orchards, and land attached, so that the should be to support its master. With millions you might—”
“Ten millions,” D’Artagnan.
“Not a million, my dear captain. No one in France is rich to give two millions for Vaux, and to continue to maintain it as I have done; no one do it, no one would know how.”
“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “in any case, a is not misery.”
“It is not from it, my dear monsieur. But you do not me. No; I will not sell my at Vaux; I will give it to you, if you like;” and Fouquet these with a movement of the to which it would be to do justice.
“Give it to the king; you will make a bargain.”
“The king not me to give it to him,” said Fouquet; “he will take it away from me with the most and grace, if it him to do so; and that is the very I should to see it perish. Do you know, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that if the king did not to be under my roof, I would take this candle, go to the dome, and set fire to a of of and which are in there, and would my to ashes.”
“Bah!” said the musketeer, negligently. “At all events, you would not be able to the gardens, and that is the of the place.”
“And yet,” Fouquet, thoughtfully, “what was I saying? Great heavens! Vaux! my palace! But Vaux is not mine; these are, it is true, the property, as as of goes, of the man who has paid for them; but as as is concerned, they to those who them. Vaux to Lebrun, to Lenotre, to Pelisson, to Levau, to La Fontaine, to Moliere; Vaux to posterity, in fact. You see, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that my very house has to be my own.”
“That is all well and good,” said D’Artagnan; “the idea is enough, and I M. Fouquet himself in it. That idea, indeed, makes me that Broussel altogether; and I now fail to in you the of that old Frondeur. If you are ruined, monsieur, look at the manfully, for you too, mordioux! to posterity, and have no right to in any way. Stay a moment; look at me, I who to in some a of over you, I am you; fate, which their different parts to the of this world, me a less and less part to than yours has been. I am one of those who think that the parts which kings and powerful are called upon to act are of more than the parts of or lackeys. It is on the stage—on the stage, I mean, of another than the of this world—it is to wear a and to talk a language, than to walk the with a pair of old shoes, or to one’s by a with a stick. In one word, you have been a with money, you have ordered and been obeyed—have been to the in enjoyment; while I have my after me, have been and have obeyed, and have my life away. Well, although I may of such you, monseigneur, I do to you, that the of what I have done me as a spur, and me from my old too soon. I shall the very end a trooper; and when my turn comes, I shall perfectly straight, all in a heap, still alive, after having my place beforehand. Do as I do, Monsieur Fouquet, you will not the for it; a only once in a lifetime to men like yourself, and the thing is, to take it when the presents itself. There is a Latin proverb—the have me, but I the of it very well, for I have over it more than once—which says, ‘The end the work!’”
Fouquet rose from his seat, passed his arm D’Artagnan’s neck, and him in a close embrace, with the other hand he pressed his hand. “An excellent homily,” he said, after a moment’s pause.
“A soldier’s, monseigneur.”
“You have a for me, in telling me all that.”
“Perhaps.”
Fouquet his once more, and then, a moment after, he said: “Where can M. d’Herblay be? I not ask you to send for him.”
“You would not ask me, I would not do it, Monsieur Fouquet. People would learn it, and Aramis, who is not mixed up with the affair, might possibly be and in your disgrace.”
“I will wait here till daylight,” said Fouquet.
“Yes; that is best.”
“What shall we do when comes?”
“I know nothing at all about it, monseigneur.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, will you do me a favor?”
“Most willingly.”
“You me, I remain; you are acting in the full of your duty, I suppose?”
“Certainly.”
“Very good, then; as close to me as my if you like; and I such a to any one else.”
D’Artagnan to the compliment.
“But, that you are Monsieur d’Artagnan, captain of the musketeers; that I am Monsieur Fouquet, of the finances; and let us talk about my affairs.”
“That is a subject.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes; but, for your sake, Monsieur Fouquet, I will do what may almost be as an impossibility.”
“Thank you. What did the king say to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Ah! is that the way you talk?”
“The deuce!”
“What do you think of my situation?”
“I do not know.”
“However, unless you have some against me—”
“Your position is a difficult one.”
“In what respect?”
“Because you are under your own roof.”
“However difficult it may be, I it very well.”
“Do you that, with any one else but yourself, I should have so much frankness?”
“What! so much frankness, do you say? you, who to tell me the thing?”
“At all events, then, so much and consideration.”
“Ah! I have nothing to say in that respect.”
“One moment, monseigneur: let me tell you how I should have any one but yourself. It might be that I to arrive at your door just as your guests or your friends had left you—or, if they had not gone yet, I should wait until they were leaving, and should then catch them one after the other, like rabbits; I should lock them up enough, I should along the of your corridor, and with one hand upon you, you the thing amiss, I should keep you safely until my master’s in the morning. In this way, I should just the same have all publicity, all disturbance, all opposition; but there would also have been no for M. Fouquet, no for his feelings, none of those which are by who are in their natures, the moment may arrive. Are you satisfied with the plan?”
“It makes me shudder.”
“I you would not like it. It would have been very to have my to-morrow, without any preparation, and to have asked you to deliver up your sword.”
“Oh! monsieur, I should have died of and anger.”
“Your is too expressed. I have not done to it, I you.”
“Most certainly, monsieur, you will me to that.”
“Well, then, monseigneur, if you are satisfied with what I have done, and have from the which I prepared you for as much as I possibly could, let us allow the hours that to pass away undisturbed. You are harassed, and should your thoughts; I you, therefore, go to sleep, or to go to sleep, either on your bed, or in your bed; I will sleep in this armchair; and when I asleep, my is so that a would not wake me.”
Fouquet smiled. “I expect, however,” the musketeer, “the case of a door being opened, a door, or any other; or the case of any one going out of, or into, the room—for anything like that my ear is as quick and as the ear of a mouse. Creaking make me start. It arises, I suppose, from a natural to anything of the kind. Move about as much as you like; walk up and in any part of the room, write, efface, destroy, burn,—nothing like that will prevent me from going to sleep or prevent me from snoring, but do not touch either the key or the of the door, for I should start up in a moment, and that would shake my nerves and make me ill.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Fouquet, “you are the most and the most man I met with; and you will me only one regret, that of having your so late.”
D’Artagnan a sigh, which to say, “Alas! you have it too soon.” He then settled himself in his armchair, while Fouquet, on his and on his arm, was on his misadventures. In this way, of them, the burning, the of the day; and when Fouquet to too loudly, D’Artagnan only the louder. Not a single visit, not from Aramis, their quietude: not a was the whole palace. Outside, however, the of on duty, and the of musketeers, up and down; and the of their be on the walks. It to act as an additional for the sleepers, while the of the wind through the trees, and the music of the in the basin, still on uninterruptedly, without being at the and of little moment that the life and death of nature.
