The Man in the Iron Mask
The King’s Friend.
Fouquet was waiting with anxiety; he had already sent away many of his and friends, who, the hour of his ordinary receptions, had called at his door to after him. Preserving the the which by a above his head, he only asked them, as he did every one, indeed, who came to the door, where Aramis was. When he saw D’Artagnan return, and when he the of Vannes him, he his delight; it was equal to his previous uneasiness. The of Aramis was a complete to the for the he had in his arrest. The was and grave; D’Artagnan by such an of events.
“Well, captain, so you have M. d’Herblay to me.”
“And something still, monseigneur.”
“What is that?”
“Liberty.”
“I am free!”
“Yes; by the king’s order.”
Fouquet his serenity, that he might Aramis with a look.
“Oh! yes, you can thank M. l’eveque de Vannes,” D’Artagnan, “for it is to him that you the that has taken place in the king.”
“Oh!” said Fouquet, more at the service than at its success.
“But you,” D’Artagnan, Aramis—“you, who have M. Fouquet’s protector and patron, can you not do something for me?”
“Anything in the wide world you like, my friend,” the bishop, in his tones.
“One thing only, then, and I shall be perfectly satisfied. How on earth did you manage to the of the king, you who have spoken to him more than twice in your life?”
“From a friend such as you are,” said Aramis, “I cannot anything.”
“Ah! very good, tell me, then.”
“Very well. You think that I have the king only twice, the is I have him more than a hundred times; only we have it very secret, that is all.” And without trying to remove the color which at this D’Artagnan’s scarlet, Aramis M. Fouquet, who was as much as the musketeer. “Monseigneur,” he resumed, “the king me to you that he is more than your friend, and that your fete, so offered by you on his behalf, has touched him to the very heart.”
And he M. Fouquet with so much of manner, that the latter, of a man was of so a character, of a single syllable, and of or movement. D’Artagnan he that these two men had something to say to each other, and he was about to to that of which in such a case a man the door, when he his presence is an for others; but his curiosity, on by so many mysteries, him to remain.
Aramis him, and said, in a tone, “You will not forget, my friend, the king’s order those he to this on rising.” These were clear enough, and the them; he therefore to Fouquet, and then to Aramis,—to the with a of respect,—and disappeared.
No sooner had he left, than Fouquet, had been able to wait for that moment, the door to close it, and then returning to the bishop, he said, “My dear D’Herblay, I think it now high time you should all that has passed, for, in plain and truth, I do not anything.”
“We will all that to you,” said Aramis, down, and making Fouquet also. “Where shall I begin?”
“With this of all. Why the king set me at liberty?”
“You ought to ask me what his was for having you arrested.”
“Since my arrest, I have had time to think over it, and my idea is that it out of some of jealousy. My put M. Colbert out of temper, and M. Colbert some of against me; Belle-Isle, for instance.”
“No; there is no question at all just now of Belle-Isle.”
“What is it, then?”
“Do you those for thirteen millions which M. de Mazarin to from you?”
“Yes, of course!”
“Well, you are a public robber.”
“Good heavens!”
“Oh! that is not all. Do you also that you to La Valliere?”
“Alas! yes.”
“And that you a and a suborner.”
“Why should he have me, then?”
“We have not yet at that part of our argument. I wish you to be of the itself. Observe this well: the king you to be of an of public funds. Oh! of I know that you have done nothing of the kind; but, at all events, the king has the receipts, and he can do no other than you are incriminated.”
“I your pardon, I do not see—”
“You will see presently, though. The king, moreover, having read your love-letter to La Valliere, and the offers you there her, cannot any of your with to that lady; you will admit that, I suppose?”
“Certainly. Pray conclude.”
“In the words. The king, we may assume, is your powerful, implacable, and enemy.”
“Agreed. But am I, then, so powerful, that he has not to me, his hatred, with all the means which my weakness, or my misfortunes, may have him as a upon me?”
“It is clear, all doubt,” Aramis, coldly, “that the king has with you—irreconcilably.”
“But, since he has me—”
“Do you it likely?” asked the bishop, with a look.
“Without in his sincerity, I it in the fact.”
Aramis his shoulders.
“But why, then, should Louis XIV. have you to tell me what you have just stated?”
“The king me with no message for you.”
“With nothing!” said the superintendent, stupefied. “But, that order—”
“Oh! yes. You are right. There is an order, certainly;” and these were by Aramis in so a tone, that Fouquet not starting.
“You are something from me, I see. What is it?”
Aramis his white over his chin, but said nothing.
“Does the king me?”
“Do not act as if you were playing at the game children play at when they have to try and where a thing has been hidden, and are informed, by a being rung, when they are near to it, or going away from it.”
“Speak, then.”
“Guess.”
“You me.”
“Bah! that is you have not guessed, then.”
“What did the king say to you? In the name of our friendship, do not me.”
“The king has not said one word to me.”
“You are killing me with impatience, D’Herblay. Am I still superintendent?”
“As long as you like.”
“But what have you so over his majesty’s mind?”
“Ah! that’s the point.”
“He your bidding?”
“I so.”
“It is credible.”
“So any one would say.”
“D’Herblay, by our alliance, by our friendship, by you in the world, speak openly, I you. By what means have you succeeded in Louis XIV.‘s prejudices, for he did not like you, I am certain.”
“The king will like me now,” said Aramis, upon the last word.
“You have something particular, then, you?”
“Yes.”
“A secret, perhaps?”
“A secret.”
“A of such a nature as to his majesty’s interests?”
“You are, indeed, a man of intelligence, monseigneur, and have a particularly guess. I have, in fact, a secret, of a nature to the of the king of France.”
“Ah!” said Fouquet, with the of a man who not wish to ask any more questions.
“And you shall judge of it yourself,” Aramis; “and you shall tell me if I am with to the of this secret.”
“I am listening, since you are good to to me; only do not that I have asked you about nothing which it may be in you to communicate.”
Aramis seemed, for a moment, as if he were himself.
“Do not speak!” said Fouquet: “there is still time enough.”
“Do you remember,” said the bishop, his eyes, “the birth of Louis XIV.?”
“As if it were yesterday.”
“Have you anything particular his birth?”
“Nothing; that the king was not the son of Louis XIII.”
“That not to us, or the either; he is the son of his father, says the French law, father is by law.”
“True; but it is a matter, when the quality of is called into question.”
“A secondary question, after all. So that, in fact, you have learned or anything in particular?”
“Nothing.”
“That is where my begins. The queen, you must know, of being delivered of a son, was delivered of twins.”
Fouquet looked up as he replied:
“And the second is dead?”
“You will see. These likely to be as the of their mother, and the of France; but the weak nature of the king, his feelings, him a series of two children were equal; so he put out of the way—he suppressed—one of the twins.”
“Suppressed, do you say?”
“Have patience. Both the children up; the one on the throne, minister you are—the other, who is my friend, in and isolation.”
“Good heavens! What are you saying, Monsieur d’Herblay? And what is this doing?”
“Ask me, rather, what has he done.”
“Yes, yes.”
“He was up in the country, and then into a which goes by the name of the Bastile.”
“Is it possible?” the surintendant, his hands.
“The one was the most of men: the other the most and of all beings.”
“Does his mother not know this?”
“Anne of Austria it all.”
“And the king?”
“Knows nothing.”
“So much the better,” said Fouquet.
This to make a great on Aramis; he looked at Fouquet with the most of countenance.
“I your pardon; I you,” said Fouquet.
“I was saying,” Aramis, “that this was the of beings, when Heaven, are over all His creatures, to come to his assistance.”
“Oh! in what way? Tell me.”
“You will see. The king—I say the king—you can very well why?”
“No. Why?”
“Because of them, being princes, ought to have been kings. Is not that your opinion?”
“It is, certainly.”
“Unreservedly?”
“Most unreservedly; are one person in two bodies.”
“I am pleased that a of your learning and authority should have such an opinion. It is agreed, then, that each of them equal rights, is it not?”
“Incontestably! but, heavens, what an circumstance!”
“We are not at the end of it yet.—Patience.”
“Oh! I shall ‘patience’ enough.”
“Heaven to up for that child an avenger, or a supporter, or vindicator, if you it. It that the king, the usurper—you are of my opinion, I believe, that it is an act of to enjoy, and to assume the right over, an to which a man has only a right?”
“Yes, is the word.”
“In that case, I continue. It was Heaven’s will that the should possess, in the person of his minister, a man of great talent, of large and nature.”
“Well, well,” said Fouquet, “I you; you have upon me to repair the which has been done to this of Louis XIV. You have well; I will help you. I thank you, D’Herblay, I thank you.”
“Oh, no, it is not that at all; you have not allowed me to finish,” said Aramis, perfectly unmoved.
“I will not say another word, then.”
“M. Fouquet, I was observing, the minister of the sovereign, was taken into the aversion, and with the of his fortune, of liberty, of life even, by and personal hatred, to which the king gave too an ear. But Heaven (still, however, out of for the who had been sacrificed) that M. Fouquet should in his turn have a friend who this secret, and that he and to this secret, after having had the to it locked up in his own for twenty years.
“Go no farther,” said Fouquet, full of feelings. “I you, and can now. You to see the king when the of my you; you him, he to to you; then you him with that secret, to it, and Louis XIV., at the of its betrayal, to the terror of your what he to your intercession. I understand, I understand; you have the king in your power; I understand.”
“You nothing—as yet,” Aramis, “and again you me. Then, too, allow me to that you pay no attention to logical reasoning, and to what you ought most to remember.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know upon what I the at the of our conversation?”
“Yes, his majesty’s hate, for me; yes, but what of the threat of such a revelation?”
“Such a revelation, do you say? that is the very point where your logic fails you. What! do you that if I had such a to the king, I should have been alive now?”
“It is not ten minutes ago that you were with the king.”
“That may be. He might not have had the time to me killed outright, but he would have had the time to me and in a dungeon. Come, come, a little in your reasoning, mordieu!”
And by the use of this word, which was so his old musketeer’s expression, by one who to anything, Fouquet not but to what a of the calm, of Vannes had himself. He shuddered.
“And then,” the latter, after having his feelings, “should I be the man I am, should I be the true friend you me, if I were to you, the king already so bitterly, to a more than to be in that man? To have him, is nothing; to have the woman he loves, is not much; but to in your his and his honor, why, he would out your with his own hands.”
“You have not allowed him to your secret, then?”
“I would sooner, sooner, have at one all the that Mithridates in twenty years, in order to try and avoid death, than have my to the king.”
“What have you done, then?”
“Ah! now we are to the point, monseigneur. I think I shall not fail to in you a little interest. You are listening, I hope.”
“How can you ask me if I am listening? Go on.”
Aramis walked all the room, satisfied himself that they were alone, and that all was silent, and then returned and himself close to the in which Fouquet was seated, with the the he had to make.
“I to tell you,” Aramis, himself to Fouquet, who to him with the most attention—“I to mention a most these twins, namely, that God had them so startlingly, so miraculously, like each other, that it would be to the one from the other. Their own mother would not be able to them.”
“Is it possible?” Fouquet.
“The same in their features, the same carriage, the same stature, the same voice.”
“But their thoughts? of intelligence? their knowledge of life?”
“There is there, I admit, monseigneur. Yes; for the of the Bastile is, most incontestably, in every way to his brother; and if, from his prison, this were to pass to the throne, France would not, from the period of its history, perhaps, have had a master more powerful in and of character.”
Fouquet his in his hands, as if he were by the weight of this secret. Aramis approached him.
“There is a inequality,” he said, his work of temptation, “an which yourself, monseigneur, the twins, sons of Louis XIII., namely, the last not know M. Colbert.”
Fouquet his immediately—his were and distorted. The had its mark—not his heart, but his mind and comprehension.
“I you,” he said to Aramis; “you are a to me?”
“Something like it.”
“One of those which, as you said at the of this conversation, the of empires?”
“And of superintendents, too; yes, monseigneur.”
“In a word, you that I should agree to the of the son of Louis XIII., who is now a in the Bastile, for the son of Louis XIII., who is at this moment asleep in the Chamber of Morpheus?”
Aramis with the of the which was through his brain. “Exactly,” he said.
“Have you thought,” Fouquet, with that of which in a originates, and the of a plan, and with that of view which all consequences, and every result at a glance—“have you that we must the nobility, the clergy, and the third of the realm; that we shall have to the sovereign, to by so a the of their father, to the life, the of a woman, Anne of Austria, the life and peace of mind and of another woman, Maria Theresa; and that it were all done, if we were to succeed in doing it—”
“I do not you,” Aramis, coldly. “There is not a single of in all you have just said.”
“What!” said the superintendent, surprised, “a man like you to view the practical of the case! Do you to the of a political illusion, and neglect the of its being into execution; in other words, the itself, is it possible?”
“My friend,” said Aramis, the word with a of familiarity, “what Heaven do in order to one king for another?”
“Heaven!” Fouquet—“Heaven to its agent, who upon the victim, him away, and seats the on the empty throne. But you that this agent is called death. Oh! Monsieur d’Herblay, in Heaven’s name, tell me if you have had the idea—”
“There is no question of that, monseigneur; you are going the object in view. Who spoke of Louis XIV.‘s death? who spoke of the example which Heaven sets in out the of its decrees? No, I wish you to that Heaven its purposes without or disturbance, without or remark, without or exertion; and that men, by Heaven, succeed like Heaven itself, in all their undertakings, in all they attempt, in all they do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my friend,” returned Aramis, with the same on the word friend that he had to it the time—“I that if there has been any confusion, scandal, and in the of the for the king, I you to prove it.”
“What!” Fouquet, than the with which he his temples, “what do you say?”
“Go to the king’s apartment,” Aramis, tranquilly, “and you who know the mystery, I you to that the of the Bastile is in his brother’s bed.”
“But the king,” Fouquet, with at the intelligence.
“What king?” said Aramis, in his tone; “the one who you, or the one who you?”
“The king—of—yesterday.”
“The king of yesterday! be easy on that score; he has gone to take the place in the Bastile which his for so many years.”
“Great God! And who took him there?”
“I.”
“You?”
“Yes, and in the way. I him away last night. While he was into midnight, the other was into day. I do not think there has been any whatever. A of without nobody.”
Fouquet a thick, cry, as if he had been by some blow, and his his hands, he murmured: “You did that?”
“Cleverly enough, too; what do you think of it?”
“You the king? him, too?”
“Yes, that has been done.”
“And such an action was here, at Vaux?”
“Yes, here, at Vaux, in the Chamber of Morpheus. It would almost that it had been in of such an act.”
“And at what time did it occur?”
“Last night, twelve and one o’clock.”
Fouquet a movement as if he were on the point of upon Aramis; he himself. “At Vaux; under my roof!” he said, in a half-strangled voice.
“I so! for it is still your house, and it is likely to continue so, since M. Colbert cannot you of it now.”
“It was under my roof, then, monsieur, that you this crime?”
“This crime?” said Aramis, stupefied.
“This crime!” Fouquet, more and more excited; “this more than an assassination! this which my name forever, and upon me the of posterity.”
“You are not in your senses, monsieur,” Aramis, in an of voice; “you are speaking too loudly; take care!”
“I will call out so loudly, that the whole world shall me.”
“Monsieur Fouquet, take care!”
Fouquet the prelate, he looked at full in the face. “You have me,” he said, “in so an act of treason, so a upon my guest, upon one who was peacefully my roof. Oh! woe, is me!”
“Woe to the man, rather, who your the of your fortune, your life. Do you that?”
“He was my guest, my sovereign.”
Aramis rose, his bloodshot, his mouth convulsively. “Have I a man out of his to with?” he said.
“You have an man to with.”
“You are mad.”
“A man who will prevent you your crime.”
“You are mad, I say.”
“A man who would sooner, oh! sooner, die; who would kill you even, than allow you to complete his dishonor.”
And Fouquet up his sword, which D’Artagnan had at the of his bed, and it in his hand. Aramis frowned, and his hand into his as if in search of a weapon. This movement did not Fouquet, who, full of and in his magnanimity, his to a from him, and approached Aramis so close as to touch his with his hand. “Monsieur,” he said, “I would sooner die here on the spot than this terrible disgrace; and if you have any left for me, I you to take my life.”
Aramis and motionless.
“You do not reply?” said Fouquet.
Aramis his gently, and a of might be once more to his eyes. “Reflect, monseigneur,” he said, “upon we have to expect. As the now stands, the king is still alive, and his saves your life.”
“Yes,” Fouquet, “you may have been acting on my behalf, but I will not, do not, accept your services. But, of all, I do not wish your ruin. You will this house.”
Aramis the which almost his heart.
“I am all who are my roof,” Fouquet, with an air of majesty; “you will not be more than he you have consummated.”
“You will be so,” said Aramis, in a hoarse, voice, “you will be so, me.”
“I accept the augury, Monsieur d’Herblay; but nothing shall prevent me, nothing shall stop me. You will Vaux—you must France; I give you four hours to place out of the king’s reach.”
“Four hours?” said Aramis, and incredulously.
“Upon the word of Fouquet, no one shall you the of that time. You will therefore have four hours’ of those the king may wish to after you.”
“Four hours!” Aramis, in a thick, voice.
“It is more than you will need to on a and to Belle-Isle, which I give you as a place of refuge.”
“Ah!” Aramis.
“Belle-Isle is as much mine for you, as Vaux is mine for the king. Go, D’Herblay, go! as long as I live, not a of your shall be injured.”
“Thank you,” said Aramis, with a cold of manner.
“Go at once, then, and give me your hand, we away; you to save your life, I to save my honor.”
Aramis from his the hand he had there; it was with his blood. He had his into his flesh, as if in for having nursed so many projects, more vain, insensate, and than the life of the man himself. Fouquet was horror-stricken, and then his him with pity. He open his arms as if to him.
“I had no arms,” Aramis, as wild and terrible in his as the of Dido. And then, without Fouquet’s hand, he his aside, and a or two. His last word was an imprecation, his last a curse, which his blood-stained hand to invoke, as it on Fouquet’s a of blood which from his breast. And of them out of the room by the which to the courtyard. Fouquet ordered his best horses, while Aramis paused at the of the which to Porthos’s apartment. He and for some time, while Fouquet’s left the at full gallop.
“Shall I go alone?” said Aramis to himself, “or the prince? Oh! fury! Warn the prince, and then—do what? Take him with me? To this about with me everywhere? War, too, would follow—civil war, in its nature! And without any save myself—it is impossible! What he do without me? Oh! without me he will be destroyed. Yet who knows—let be fulfilled—condemned he was, let him so then! Good or Spirit—gloomy and Power, men call the of humanity, art a power more uncertain, more useless, than wild wind! Chance, term’st thyself, but art nothing; with breath, at approach, and art at the presence of the Cross of which another Power like thyself—whom deniest, perhaps, but hand is on thee, and in the and unnamed! Lost!—I am lost! What can be done? Flee to Belle-Isle? Yes, and Porthos me, to talk and relate the whole to every one! Porthos, too, who will have to for what he has done. I will not let Porthos suffer. He like one of the members of my own frame; and his or would be mine as well. Porthos shall with me, and shall my destiny. It must be so.”
And Aramis, of meeting any one to his movements might appear suspicious, the without being perceived. Porthos, so returned from Paris, was already in a sleep; his its fatigue, as his mind its thoughts. Aramis entered, light as a shadow, and his on the giant’s shoulder. “Come, Porthos,” he cried, “come.”
Porthos obeyed, rose from his bed, opened his eyes, his to be aroused.
“We immediately,” said Aramis.
“Ah!” returned Porthos.
“We shall go mounted, and than we have gone in our lives.”
“Ah!” Porthos.
“Dress yourself, my friend.”
And he helped the to dress himself, and his gold and diamonds into his pocket. Whilst he was thus engaged, a noise his attention, and on looking up, he saw D’Artagnan them through the half-opened door. Aramis started.
“What the are you doing there in such an manner?” said the musketeer.
“Hush!” said Porthos.
“We are going off on a mission of great importance,” added the bishop.
“You are very fortunate,” said the musketeer.
“Oh, dear me!” said Porthos, “I so wearied; I would sooner have been fast asleep. But the service of the king....”
“Have you M. Fouquet?” said Aramis to D’Artagnan.
“Yes, this very minute, in a carriage.”
“What did he say to you?”
“‘Adieu;’ nothing more.”
“Was that all?”
“What else do you think he say? Am I anything now, since you have got into such high favor?”
“Listen,” said Aramis, the musketeer; “your good times are returning again. You will have no occasion to be of any one.”
“Ah! bah!”
“I that something will to you to-day which will your more than ever.”
“Really?”
“You know that I know all the news?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Come, Porthos, are you ready? Let us go.”
“I am ready, Aramis.”
“Let us D’Artagnan first.”
“Most certainly.”
“But the horses?”
“Oh! there is no want of them here. Will you have mine?”
“No; Porthos has his own stud. So adieu! adieu!”
The their the very of the captain of the musketeers, who Porthos’s for him, and after them until they were out of sight.
“On any other occasion,” the Gascon, “I should say that those were making their escape; but in these days politics so that such an is going on a mission. I have no objection; let me to my own affairs, that is more than for me,”—and he entered his apartments.
