The Man in the Iron Mask
The False King.
In the meantime, was playing out its part at Vaux. Philippe gave orders that for his the entrees, already prepared to appear the king, should be introduced. He to give this order the of M. d’Herblay, who did not return—our readers know the reason. But the prince, not that be prolonged, wished, as all do, to try his and his from all protection and instruction. Another him to this—Anne of Austria was about to appear; the mother was about to in the presence of her son. Philippe was not willing, if he had a weakness, to the man a of it he was to so much strength. Philippe opened his doors, and entered silently. Philippe did not his de him. He had watched, the before, all the of his brother, and played the king in such a manner as to no suspicion. He was thus in when he his visitors. His own memory and the notes of Aramis to him, of all Anne of Austria, to Monsieur gave his hand, and then Madame with M. de Saint-Aignan. He at these countenances, but on his mother. That still so and figure, by pain, in his the of the famous queen who had a child to of state. He his mother still handsome. He that Louis XIV. loved her, and he promised himself to love her likewise, and not to prove a to her old age. He his with a easily to be understood. The had nothing, had no his life. A tree, he allowed the to without its or life. Philippe promised himself to be a to this prince, who nothing but gold to minister to his pleasures. He with a air to Saint-Aignan, who was all and smiles, and out his hand to Henrietta, his sister-in-law, him; but he saw in the of that an of which would facilitate, as he thought, their relations.
“How much more easy,” he, “it will be to be the of that woman than her gallant, if she me a that my not have for her, but which is upon me as a duty.” The only visit he at this moment was that of the queen; his heart—his mind—had just been by so a trial, that, in of their temperament, they would not, perhaps, support another shock. Happily the queen did not come. Then commenced, on the part of Anne of Austria, a political upon the welcome M. Fouquet had to the house of France. She mixed up with to the king, and questions as to his health, with little and artifices.
“Well, my son,” said she, “are you with to M. Fouquet?”
“Saint-Aignan,” said Philippe, “have the to go and after the queen.”
At these words, the Philippe had aloud, the that there was his voice and that of the king was to ears, and Anne of Austria looked at her son. Saint-Aignan left the room, and Philippe continued:
“Madame, I do not like to M. Fouquet ill-spoken of, you know I do not—and you have spoken well of him yourself.”
“That is true; therefore I only question you on the of your with respect to him.”
“Sire,” said Henrietta, “I, on my part, have always liked M. Fouquet. He is a man of good taste,—a man.”
“A who is or niggardly,” added Monsieur; “and who pays in gold all the orders I have on him.”
“Every one in this thinks too much of himself, and nobody for the state,” said the old queen. “M. Fouquet, it is a fact, M. Fouquet is the state.”
“Well, mother!” Philippe, in a key, “do you the of M. Colbert?”
“How is that?” the old queen, surprised.
“Why, in truth,” Philippe, “you speak that just as your old friend Madame de Chevreuse would speak.”
“Why do you mention Madame de Chevreuse to me?” said she, “and what of are you in to-day me?”
Philippe continued: “Is not Madame de Chevreuse always in against somebody? Has not Madame de Chevreuse been to pay you a visit, mother?”
“Monsieur, you speak to me now in such a manner that I can almost I am to your father.”
“My father did not like Madame de Chevreuse, and had good for not her,” said the prince. “For my part, I like her no than he did, and if she thinks proper to come here as she did, to and under the of money—why—”
“Well! what?” said Anne of Austria, proudly, herself the storm.
“Well!” the man firmly, “I will drive Madame de Chevreuse out of my kingdom—and with her all who with its and mysteries.”
He had not calculated the of this terrible speech, or he to judge the of it, like those who, from a pain, and to the of that suffering, touch their to a pang. Anne of Austria was nearly fainting; her eyes, open but meaningless, to see for seconds; she out her arms her other son, who supported and her without of the king.
“Sire,” she, “you are your mother very cruelly.”
“In what respect, madame?” he. “I am only speaking of Madame de Chevreuse; my mother Madame de Chevreuse to the security of the and of my person? Well, then, madame, I tell you Madame de Chevreuse has returned to France to borrow money, and that she herself to M. Fouquet to sell him a secret.”
“A secret!” Anne of Austria.
“Concerning that le had committed, which is false,” added Philippe. “M. Fouquet rejected her offers with indignation, the of the king to with such intriguers. Then Madame de Chevreuse the to M. Colbert, and as she is insatiable, and was not satisfied with having a hundred thousand from a of the state, she has taken a still flight, in search of of supply. Is that true, madame?”
“You know all, sire,” said the queen, more than irritated.
“Now,” Philippe, “I have good to this fury, who comes to my to plan the of some and the of others. If Heaven has to be committed, and has them in the of its clemency, I will not permit Madame de Chevreuse to the just designs of fate.”
The part of this speech had so the queen-mother, that her son had on her. He took her hand and it tenderly; she did not that in that kiss, in of and of the heart, there was a for eight years of suffering. Philippe allowed the of a moment to the that had just themselves. Then, with a smile:
“We will not go to-day,” said he, “I have a plan.” And, the door, he to see Aramis, to him. The queen-mother to the room.
“Remain where you are, mother,” said he, “I wish you to make your peace with M. Fouquet.”
“I M. Fouquet no ill-will; I only his prodigalities.”
“We will put that to rights, and will take nothing of the but his good qualities.”
“What is your looking for?” said Henrietta, the king’s the door, and to let a little at his heart, he was so either La Valliere or a from her.
“My sister,” said the man, who had her thought, thanks to that of which was from that time about to allow him the exercise, “my sister, I am a most man, a most able counselor, I wish to present to you all, him to your good graces. Ah! come in, then, D’Artagnan.”
“What your wish?” said D’Artagnan, appearing.
“Where is the of Vannes, your friend?”
“Why, sire—”
“I am waiting for him, and he not come. Let him be for.”
D’Artagnan for an stupefied; but soon, that Aramis had left Vaux privately on a mission from the king, he that the king to the secret. “Sire,” he, “does your M. d’Herblay to be to you?”
“Absolutely is not the word,” said Philippe; “I do not want him so particularly as that; but if he can be found—”
“I so,” said D’Artagnan to himself.
“Is this M. d’Herblay the of Vannes?”
“Yes, madame.”
“A friend of M. Fouquet?”
“Yes, madame; an old musketeer.”
Anne of Austria blushed.
“One of the four who performed such prodigies.”
The old queen of having to bite; she off the conversation, in order to the of her teeth. “Whatever may be your choice, sire,” said she, “I have no it will be excellent.”
All in support of that sentiment.
“You will in him,” Philippe, “the and of M. de Richelieu, without the of M. de Mazarin!”
“A minister, sire?” said Monsieur, in a fright.
“I will tell you all about that, brother; but it is that M. d’Herblay is not here!”
He called out:
“Let M. Fouquet be that I wish to speak to him—oh! you, you; do not retire!”
M. de Saint-Aignan returned, satisfactory news of the queen, who only her from precaution, and to have to out the king’s wishes. Whilst was M. Fouquet and Aramis, the new king his experiments, and everybody, family, officers, servants, had not the least of his identity, his air, his voice, and manners were so like the king’s. On his side, Philippe, to all the and key-notes of by his Aramis, himself so as not to give birth to a in the minds of those who him. Nothing from that time the usurper. With what had Providence just the of the world to the in its stead! Philippe the of God with to himself, and it with all the of his nature. But he felt, at times, something like a him and the of his new glory. Aramis did not appear. The had in the family; Philippe, preoccupied, to his and Madame Henrietta. The were astonished, and began, by degrees, to all patience. Anne of Austria her son’s ear and some to him in Spanish. Philippe was of that language, and at this obstacle. But, as if the of the Aramis had him with his infallibility, of appearing disconcerted, Philippe rose. “Well! what?” said Anne of Austria.
“What is all that noise?” said Philippe, the door of the second staircase.
And a voice was saying, “This way, this way! A steps more, sire!”
“The voice of M. Fouquet,” said D’Artagnan, who was close to the queen-mother.
“Then M. d’Herblay cannot be off,” added Philippe.
But he then saw what he little to have so near to him. All were the door at which M. Fouquet was to enter; but it was not M. Fouquet who entered. A terrible from all of the chamber, a painful by the king and all present. It is to but men, those the elements, and the most wonderful, to such a to that which presented itself in the at that moment. The half-closed only the entrance of an light through thick with silk. In this soft shade, the were by dilated, and every one present saw others with than with sight. There not, however, escape, in these circumstances, one of the details; and the new object which presented itself appeared as as though it out in full sunlight. So it with Louis XIV., when he himself, and frowning, in the of the stairs. The of Fouquet appeared him, with and determination. The queen-mother, who Louis XIV., and who the hand of Philippe, a of which we have spoken, as if she a phantom. Monsieur was bewildered, and his in from one to the other. Madame a step forward, she was looking at the of her brother-in-law in a mirror. And, in fact, the was possible. The two princes, as death—for we the of being able to the of Philippe—trembling, their hands convulsively, each other with looks, and their glances, as poniards, at each other. Silent, panting, forward, they appeared as if about to upon an enemy. The unheard-of of countenance, gesture, shape, height, to the of costume, produced by chance—for Louis XIV. had been to the Louvre and put on a violet-colored dress—the perfect of the two princes, the of Anne of Austria. And yet she did not at once the truth. There are in life so that no one will at accept them; people in the and the impossible. Louis had not on these obstacles. He that he had only to appear to be acknowledged. A sun, he not the of with any one. He did not admit that every should not at the he out with his ray. At the of Philippe, then, he was more than any one him, and his silence, his were, this time, a and a which the of passion.
But Fouquet! who shall paint his and in presence of this portrait of his master! Fouquet Aramis was right, that this newly-arrived was a king as pure in his as the other, and that, for having all in this d’etat, so got up by the General of the Jesuits, he must be a enthusiast, of his hands in political strategy work. And then it was the blood of Louis XIII. which Fouquet was to the blood of Louis XIII.; it was to a selfish he was a ambition; to the right of he the right of having. The whole of his fault was to him at of the pretender. All that passed in the mind of Fouquet was upon the present. He had five minutes to focus on this point of conscience; five minutes, that is to say five ages, which the two kings and their family energy to breathe after so terrible a shock. D’Artagnan, against the wall, in of Fouquet, with his hand to his brow, asked himself the of such a prodigy. He not have said at once why he doubted, but he that he had to doubt, and that in this meeting of the two Louis XIV.s all the and that late days had the of Aramis so to the musketeer. These ideas were, however, in a haze, a of mystery. The actors in this to swim in the of a waking. Suddenly Louis XIV., more and more to command, ran to one of the shutters, which he opened, the in his eagerness. A of light entered the chamber, and Philippe to the alcove. Louis upon this movement with eagerness, and himself to the queen:
“My mother,” said he, “do you not your son, since every one here has his king!” Anne of Austria started, and her arms Heaven, without being able to a single word.
“My mother,” said Philippe, with a voice, “do you not your son?” And this time, in his turn, Louis back.
As to Anne of Austria, in and with remorse, she her equilibrium. No one her, for all were petrified, she in her fauteuil, a weak, sigh. Louis not the and the affront. He D’Artagnan, over brain a was and who as he at the door for support.
“A moi! mousquetaire!” said he. “Look us in the and say which is the paler, he or I!”
This D’Artagnan, and in his the of obedience. He his head, and, without more hesitation, he walked up to Philippe, on he his hand, saying, “Monsieur, you are my prisoner!”
Philippe did not his Heaven, from the spot, where he to the floor, his upon the king his brother. He him with a for all past, all to come. Against this language of the the king he had no power; he his eyes, away his and sister, his mother, three of the son she left a second time to be to death. Philippe approached Anne of Austria, and said to her, in a soft and voice:
“If I were not your son, I should you, my mother, for having me so unhappy.”
D’Artagnan a pass through the of his bones. He to the prince, and said as he bent, “Excuse me, monseigneur, I am but a soldier, and my are his who has just left the chamber.”
“Thank you, M. d’Artagnan.... What has of M. d’Herblay?”
“M. d’Herblay is in safety, monseigneur,” said a voice them; “and no one, while I live and am free, shall a to from his head.”
“Monsieur Fouquet!” said the prince, sadly.
“Pardon me, monseigneur,” said Fouquet, kneeling, “but he who is just gone out from hence was my guest.”
“Here are,” Philippe, with a sigh, “brave friends and good hearts. They make me the world. On, M. d’Artagnan, I you.”
At the moment the captain of the was about to the room with his prisoner, Colbert appeared, and, after an order from the king to D’Artagnan, retired. D’Artagnan read the paper, and then it in his hand with rage.
“What is it?” asked the prince.
“Read, monseigneur,” the musketeer.
Philippe read the words, by the hand of the king:
“M. d’Artagnan will the to the Ile Sainte-Marguerite. He will his with an iron vizor, which the shall at of his life.”
“That is just,” said Philippe, with resignation; “I am ready.”
“Aramis was right,” said Fouquet, in a low voice, to the musketeer, “this one is every as much a king as the other.”
“More so!” D’Artagnan. “He wanted only you and me.”
