The Man in the Iron Mask
The King’s Gratitude.
The two men were on the point of each other when they and stopped, as a took place, and each a of horror.
“Have you come to me, monsieur?” said the king, when he Fouquet.
“The king in this state!” the minister.
Nothing be more terrible than the of the at the moment Fouquet had him; his were in tatters; his shirt, open and to rags, was with and with the blood which from his and arms. Haggard, pale, his in masses, Louis XIV. presented the most perfect picture of despair, distress, anger and that possibly be in one figure. Fouquet was so touched, so and by it, that he ran him with his arms out and his with tears. Louis up the piece of of which he had such a use.
“Sire,” said Fouquet, in a voice with emotion, “do you not the most of your friends?”
“A friend—you!” Louis, his teeth in a manner which his and for vengeance.
“The most of your servants,” added Fouquet, himself on his knees. The king let the from his grasp. Fouquet approached him, his knees, and took him in his arms with tenderness.
“My king, my child,” he said, “how you must have suffered!”
Louis, to himself by the of situation, looked at himself, and of the of his apparel, of his conduct, and of the air of and protection that was him, back. Fouquet did not this movement; he did not that the king’s of would him for having been a of such an of weakness.
“Come, sire,” he said, “you are free.”
“Free?” the king. “Oh! you set me at liberty, then, after having to up your hand against me.”
“You do not that!” Fouquet, indignantly; “you cannot me to be of such an act.”
And rapidly, even, he related the whole particulars of the intrigue, the of which are already to the reader. While the continued, Louis the most of mind; and when it was finished, the of the he had him more than the of the relative to his brother.
“Monsieur,” he said, to Fouquet, “this birth is a falsehood; it is impossible—you cannot have been the of it.”
“Sire!”
“It is impossible, I tell you, that the honor, the of my mother can be suspected, and my minister has not yet done on the criminals!”
“Reflect, sire, you are away by anger,” Fouquet. “The birth of your brother—”
“I have only one brother—and that is Monsieur. You know it as well as myself. There is a plot, I tell you, with the of the Bastile.”
“Be careful, sire, for this man has been as every one else has by the prince’s to yourself.”
“Likeness? Absurd!”
“This Marchiali must be like your majesty, to be able to every one’s eye,” Fouquet persisted.
“Ridiculous!”
“Do not say so, sire; those who had prepared in order to and your ministers, your mother, your officers of state, the members of your family, must be of the you.”
“But where are these persons, then?” the king.
“At Vaux.”
“At Vaux! and you them to there!”
“My most appeared to me to be your majesty’s release. I have that duty; and now, your may command, shall be done. I your orders.”
Louis for a moments.
“Muster all the in Paris,” he said.
“All the necessary orders are for that purpose,” Fouquet.
“You have orders!” the king.
“For that purpose, yes, sire; your will be at the of ten thousand men in less than an hour.”
The only reply the king was to take of Fouquet’s hand with such an of feeling, that it was very easy to how he had, until that remark, his of the minister, the latter’s intervention.
“And with these troops,” he said, “we shall go at once and in your house the who by this time will have and themselves therein.”
“I should be if that were the case,” Fouquet.
“Why?”
“Because their chief—the very of the enterprise—having been by me, the whole plan to me to have miscarried.”
“You have this false also?”
“No, I have not him.”
“Whom have you seen, then?”
“The leader of the enterprise, not that man; the is an instrument, through his whole life to wretchedness, I perceive.”
“Most certainly.”
“It is M. l’Abbe d’Herblay, Eveque de Vannes.”
“Your friend?”
“He was my friend, sire,” Fouquet, nobly.
“An for you,” said the king, in a less of voice.
“Such friendships, sire, had nothing in them so long as I was of the crime.”
“You should have it.”
“If I am guilty, I place myself in your majesty’s hands.”
“Ah! Monsieur Fouquet, it was not that I meant,” returned the king, sorry to have the of his in such a manner. “Well! I you that, the with which the his face, I had something like a that he was the very man. But with this of the enterprise there was a man of strength, the one who me with a almost herculean; what is he?”
“It must be his friend the Baron du Vallon, one of the musketeers.”
“The friend of D’Artagnan? the friend of the Comte de la Fere? Ah!” the king, as he paused at the name of the latter, “we must not the that the and M. de Bragelonne.”
“Sire, sire, do not go too far. M. de la Fere is the most man in France. Be satisfied with those I deliver up to you.”
“With those you deliver up to me, you say? Very good, for you will deliver up those who are to me.”
“What your by that?” Fouquet.
“I understand,” the king, “that we shall soon arrive at Vaux with a large of troops, that we will hands upon that of vipers, and that not a shall escape.”
“Your will put these men to death!” Fouquet.
“To the very of them.”
“Oh! sire.”
“Let us one another, Monsieur Fouquet,” said the king, haughtily. “We no longer live in times when was the only and the last kings in at extremity. No, Heaven be praised! I have who and judge in my name, and I have on which authority is out.”
Fouquet pale. “I will take the of to your majesty, that any these would the upon the of the throne. The name of Anne of Austria must be allowed to pass the of the people by a smile.”
“Justice must be done, however, monsieur.”
“Good, sire; but blood must not be upon a scaffold.”
“The blood! you that!” the king with in his voice, his on the ground. “This birth is an invention; and in that invention, particularly, do I see M. d’Herblay’s crime. It is the I wish to than the violence, or the insult.”
“And it with death, sire?”
“With death; yes, monsieur, I have said it.”
“Sire,” said the surintendant, with firmness, as he his proudly, “your will take the life, if you please, of your Philippe of France; that you alone, and you will the queen-mother upon the subject. Whatever she may will be perfectly correct. I do not wish to mix myself up in it, not for the of your crown, but I have a to ask of you, and I to submit it to you.”
“Speak,” said the king, in no little by his minister’s last words. “What do you require?”
“The of M. d’Herblay and of M. du Vallon.”
“My assassins?”
“Two rebels, sire, that is all.”
“Oh! I understand, then, you ask me to your friends.”
“My friends!” said Fouquet, wounded.
“Your friends, certainly; but the safety of the that an should be on the guilty.”
“I will not permit myself to your that I have just you to liberty, and have saved your life.”
“Monsieur!”
“I will not allow myself to your that had M. d’Herblay to out his of an assassin, he very easily have your this in the of Senart, and all would have been over.” The king started.
“A pistol-bullet through the head,” Fouquet, “and the of Louis XIV., which no one have recognized, would be M. d’Herblay’s complete and entire justification.”
The king and at the idea of the he had escaped.
“If M. d’Herblay,” Fouquet, “had been an assassin, he had no occasion to me of his plan in order to succeed. Freed from the king, it would have been in all to the false. And if the had been by Anne of Austria, he would still have been—her son. The usurper, as as Monsieur d’Herblay’s was concerned, was still a king of the blood of Louis XIII. Moreover, the conspirator, in that course, would have had security, secrecy, impunity. A pistol-bullet would have him all that. For the of Heaven, sire, me his forgiveness.”
The king, of being touched by the picture, so in all details, of Aramis’s generosity, himself most and humiliated. His at the idea that a man had at the end of his the of his life. Every word that from Fouquet’s lips, and which he most in his friend’s pardon, to another of into the already of Louis XIV. Nothing or him. Addressing himself to Fouquet, he said, “I don’t know, monsieur, why you should the of these men. What good is there in asking that which can be without solicitation?”
“I do not you, sire.”
“It is not difficult, either. Where am I now?”
“In the Bastile, sire.”
“Yes; in a dungeon. I am looked upon as a madman, am I not?”
“Yes, sire.”
“And no one is here but Marchiali?”
“Certainly.”
“Well; nothing in the position of affairs. Let the the of the Bastile, and M. d’Herblay and M. du Vallon will in no need of my forgiveness. Their new king will them.”
“Your me a great injustice, sire; and you are wrong,” Fouquet, dryly; “I am not child enough, is M. d’Herblay enough, to have to make all these reflections; and if I had to make a new king, as you say, I had no occasion to have come here to open the gates and doors of the Bastile, to free you from this place. That would a want of common sense. Your majesty’s mind is by anger; otherwise you would be from offending, groundlessly, the very one of your who has you the most service of all.”
Louis that he had gone too far; that the gates of the Bastile were still closed upon him, whilst, by degrees, the were being opened, which the generous-hearted Fouquet had his anger. “I did not say that to you, Heaven knows, monsieur,” he replied. “Only you are to me in order to obtain a pardon, and I answer according to my conscience. And so, by my conscience, the we speak of are not of or forgiveness.”
Fouquet was silent.
“What I do is as generous,” added the king, “as what you have done, for I am in your power. I will say it is more generous, as you place me upon which my liberty, my life, may depend; and to reject which is to make a of both.”
“I was wrong, certainly,” Fouquet. “Yes,—I had the of a favor; I it, and your majesty’s forgiveness.”
“And you are forgiven, my dear Monsieur Fouquet,” said the king, with a smile, which the of his features, which so many had since the evening.
“I have my own forgiveness,” the minister, with some of persistence; “but M. d’Herblay, and M. du Vallon?”
“They will obtain theirs, as long as I live,” the king. “Do me the not to speak of it again.”
“Your shall be obeyed.”
“And you will me no ill-will for it?”
“Oh! no, sire; for I the event.”
“You had ‘anticipated’ that I should to those gentlemen?”
“Certainly; and all my were taken in consequence.”
“What do you to say?” the king, surprised.
“M. d’Herblay came, as may be said, to deliver himself into my hands. M. d’Herblay left to me the of saving my king and my country. I not M. d’Herblay to death; I, on the other hand, him to your majesty’s wrath; it would have been just the same as if I had killed him myself.”
“Well! and what have you done?”
“Sire, I gave M. d’Herblay the best in my and four hours’ start over all those your might, probably, after him.”
“Be it so!” the king. “But still, the world is wide and large for those I may send to overtake your horses, the ‘four hours’ start’ which you have to M. d’Herblay.”
“In him these four hours, sire, I I was him his life, and he will save his life.”
“In what way?”
“After having as hard as possible, with the four hours’ start, your musketeers, he will my of Belle-Isle, where I have him a safe asylum.”
“That may be! But you that you have me a present of Belle-Isle.”
“But not for you to my friends.”
“You take it again, then?”
“As as that goes—yes, sire.”
“My shall it, and the will be at an end.”
“Neither your musketeers, your whole army take Belle-Isle,” said Fouquet, coldly. “Belle-Isle is impregnable.”
The king perfectly livid; a to from his eyes. Fouquet that he was lost, but he as not one to when the voice of spoke him. He the king’s gaze; the his rage, and after a moments’ silence, said, “Are we going to return to Vaux?”
“I am at your majesty’s orders,” Fouquet, with a low bow; “but I think that your can with your previous to appearing your court.”
“We shall pass by the Louvre,” said the king. “Come.” And they left the prison, Baisemeaux, who looked as he saw Marchiali once more leave; and, in his helplessness, out the major of his hairs. It was perfectly true, however, that Fouquet and gave him an authority for the prisoner’s release, and that the king it, “Seen and approved, Louis”; a piece of that Baisemeaux, of two ideas together, by himself a terrible on the with his own fist.
