The Man in the Iron Mask
Among Women.
D’Artagnan had not been able to his from his friends so much as he would have wished. The soldier, the man-at-arms, overcome by and sad presentiments, had yielded, for a moments, to weakness. When, therefore, he had his and the of his nerves, his lackey, a servant, always listening, in order to the more promptly:
“Rabaud,” said he, “mind, we must travel thirty a day.”
“At your pleasure, captain,” Rabaud.
And from that moment, D’Artagnan, his action to the of the horse, like a true centaur, gave up his to nothing—that is to say, to everything. He asked himself why the king had sent for him back; why the Iron Mask had the plate at the of Raoul. As to the subject, the reply was negative; he right well that the king’s calling him was from necessity. He still that Louis XIV. must an for a private with one the of such a on a level with the powers of the kingdom. But as to saying what the king’s wish was, D’Artagnan himself at a loss. The had no doubts, either, upon the which had the Philippe to his and birth. Philippe, a of steel, to a country where the men little more than of the elements; Philippe, of the of D’Artagnan, who had him with and attentions, had nothing more to see than in this world, and, to him, he himself in complaints, in the that his would up some for him. The manner in which the had been near killing his two best friends, the which had so Athos to in the great secret, the of Raoul, the of the which to end in a death; all this D’Artagnan on and forebodings, which the of his did not dissipate, as it used to do. D’Artagnan passed from these to the of the Porthos and Aramis. He saw them both, fugitives, tracked, ruined—laborious of they had lost; and as the king called for his man of in hours of and malice, D’Artagnan at the very idea of some that would make his very bleed. Sometimes, hills, when the hard from his red nostrils, and his flanks, the captain, left to more of thought, on the of Aramis, a of and intrigue, a match to which the Fronde and the had produced but twice. Soldier, priest, diplomatist; gallant, avaricious, cunning; Aramis had taken the good of this life as stepping-stones to to ends. Generous in spirit, if not in heart, he did but for the of yet more brilliantly. Towards the end of his career, at the moment of the goal, like the Fuscus, he had a false step upon a plank, and had into the sea. But Porthos, good, Porthos! To see Porthos hungry, to see Mousqueton without gold lace, imprisoned, perhaps; to see Pierrefonds, Bracieux, to the very stones, to the timber,—these were so many for D’Artagnan, and every time that one of these him, he like a at the of a the of where he has from the sun. Never was the man of to ennui, if his was to fatigue; did the man of healthy fail to life light, if he had something to his mind. D’Artagnan, fast, as constantly, from his in Pairs, fresh and in his as the preparing for the gymnasium. The king did not him so soon, and had just for the Meudon. D’Artagnan, of after the king, as he would have done, took off his boots, had a bath, and waited till his should return and tired. He the of five hours in taking, as people say, the air of the house, and in himself against all chances. He learned that the king, the last fortnight, had been gloomy; that the queen-mother was and much depressed; that Monsieur, the king’s brother, was a turn; that Madame had the vapors; and that M. de Guiche was gone to one of his estates. He learned that M. Colbert was radiant; that M. Fouquet a fresh physician every day, who still did not him, and that his was one which physicians do not cure, unless they are political physicians. The king, D’Artagnan was told, in the manner to M. Fouquet, and did not allow him to be out of his sight; but the surintendant, touched to the heart, like one of those trees a has punctured, was daily, in of the smile, that sun of trees. D’Artagnan learned that Mademoiselle de la Valliere had to the king; that the king, his excursions, if he did not take her with him, to her frequently, no longer verses, but, which was much worse, prose, and that whole pages at a time. Thus, as the political Pleiad of the day said, the king in the world was from his with an compare, and on the of his phrases, which M. de Saint-Aignan, aide-de-camp in perpetuity, to La Valliere at the of his horses. During this time, deer and were left to the free of their nature, so that, it was said, the art of ran great of at the of France. D’Artagnan then of the of Raoul, of that for a woman who passed her life in hoping, and as D’Artagnan loved to a little occasionally, he to profit by the of the king to have a minute’s talk with Mademoiselle de la Valliere. This was a very easy affair; while the king was hunting, Louise was walking with some other ladies in one of the of the Palais Royal, where the captain of the had some to inspect. D’Artagnan did not that, if he but open the on Raoul, Louise might give him for a to the exile; and hope, or at least for Raoul, in the of in which he had left him, was the sun, was life to two men, who were very dear to our captain. He his course, therefore, to the spot where he he should Mademoiselle de la Valliere. D’Artagnan La Valliere the center of the circle. In her solitude, the king’s received, like a queen, more, perhaps, than the queen, a of which Madame had been so proud, when all the king’s looks were to her and the looks of the courtiers. D’Artagnan, although no of dames, received, nevertheless, and from the ladies; he was polite, as a man always is, and his terrible had as much among the men as among the women. On him enter, therefore, they him; and, as is not the case with ladies, opened the attack by questions. “Where had he been? What had of him so long? Why had they not him as make his in such style, to the and of the from the king’s balcony?”
He that he had just come from the land of oranges. This set all the ladies laughing. Those were times in which traveled, but in which, notwithstanding, a of a hundred was a problem often solved by death.
“From the land of oranges?” Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente. “From Spain?”
“Eh! eh!” said the musketeer.
“From Malta?” Montalais.
“Ma foi! You are very near, ladies.”
“Is it an island?” asked La Valliere.
“Mademoiselle,” said D’Artagnan; “I will not give you the trouble of any further; I come from the country where M. de Beaufort is, at this moment, for Algiers.”
“Have you the army?” asked ones.
“As as I see you,” D’Artagnan.
“And the fleet?”
“Yes, I saw everything.”
“Have we any of us any friends there?” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, coldly, but in a manner to attention to a question that was not without its calculated aim.
“Why,” D’Artagnan, “yes; there were M. de la Guillotiere, M. de Manchy, M. de Bragelonne—”
La Valliere pale. “M. de Bragelonne!” the Athenais. “Eh, what!—is he gone to the wars?—he!”
Montalais on her toe, but all in vain.
“Do you know what my opinion is?” she, D’Artagnan.
“No, mademoiselle; but I should like very much to know it.”
“My opinion is, then, that all the men who go to this are desperate, men, love has ill; and who go to try if they cannot jet-complexioned more than ones have been.”
Some of the ladies laughed; La Valliere was confused; Montalais loud to the dead.
“Mademoiselle,” D’Artagnan, “you are in error when you speak of black at Gigelli; the there have not faces; it is true they are not white—they are yellow.”
“Yellow!” the of beauties.
“Eh! do not it. I have a color to match with black and a mouth.”
“So much the for M. de Bragelonne,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, with malice. “He will make for his loss. Poor fellow!”
A these words; and D’Artagnan had time to and that women—mild doves—treat each other more than tigers. But making La Valliere did not satisfy Athenais; she to make her likewise. Resuming the without pause, “Do you know, Louise,” said she, “that there is a great on your conscience?”
“What sin, mademoiselle?” the girl, looking her for support, without it.
“Eh!—why,” Athenais, “the man was to you; he loved you; you him off.”
“Well, that is a right which every woman has,” said Montalais, in an tone. “When we know we cannot the of a man, it is much to him off.”
“Cast him off! or him!—that’s all very well,” said Athenais, “but that is not the Mademoiselle de la Valliere has to herself with. The is sending Bragelonne to the wars; and to in which death is so very likely to be met with.” Louise pressed her hand over her brow. “And if he dies,” her tormentor, “you will have killed him. That is the sin.”
Louise, half-dead, at the arm of the captain of the musketeers, emotion. “You to speak with me, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said she, in a voice by anger and pain. “What had you to say to me?”
D’Artagnan steps along the gallery, Louise on his arm; then, when they were from the others—“What I had to say to you, mademoiselle,” he, “Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente has just expressed; and unkindly, it is true but still in its entirety.”
She a cry; to the by this new wound, she her way, like one of those which, death, the of the in which to die. She at one door, at the moment the king was entering by another. The of the king was the empty seat of his mistress. Not La Valliere, a came over his brow; but as soon as he saw D’Artagnan, who to him—“Ah! monsieur!” he, “you have been diligent! I am much pleased with you.” This was the of satisfaction. Many men would have been to their for such a speech from the king. The of and the courtiers, who had a circle the king on his entrance, back, on he to speak privately with his captain of the musketeers. The king the way out of the gallery, after having again, with his eyes, for La Valliere, he not account for. The moment they were out of the of ears, “Well! Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said he, “the prisoner?”
“Is in his prison, sire.”
“What did he say on the road?”
“Nothing, sire.”
“What did he do?”
“There was a moment at which the fisherman—who took me in his to Sainte-Marguerite—revolted, and did his best to kill me. The—the me of attempting to fly.”
The king pale. “Enough!” said he; and D’Artagnan bowed. Louis walked about his cabinet with steps. “Were you at Antibes,” said he, “when Monsieur de Beaufort came there?”
“No, sire; I was setting off when le arrived.”
“Ah!” which was by a fresh silence. “Whom did you see there?”
“A great many persons,” said D’Artagnan, coolly.
The king he was to speak. “I have sent for you, le capitaine, to you to go and prepare my at Nantes.”
“At Nantes!” D’Artagnan.
“In Bretagne.”
“Yes, sire, it is in Bretagne. Will you make so long a as to Nantes?”
“The States are assembled there,” the king. “I have two to make of them: I wish to be there.”
“When shall I set out?” said the captain.
“This evening—to-morrow—to-morrow evening; for you must in need of rest.”
“I have rested, sire.”
“That is well. Then this and to-morrow evening, when you please.”
D’Artagnan as if to take his leave; but, the king very much embarrassed, “Will you majesty,” said he, two forward, “take the with you?”
“Certainly I shall.”
“Then you will, doubtless, want the musketeers?” And the of the king the of the captain.
“Take a of them,” Louis.
“Is that all? Has your no other orders to give me?”
“No—ah—yes.”
“I am all attention, sire.”
“At the of Nantes, which I is very arranged, you will the of at the door of each of the I shall take with me.”
“Of the principal?”
“Yes.”
“For instance, at the door of M. de Lyonne?”
“Yes.”
“And that of M. Letellier?”
“Yes.”
“Of M. de Brienne?”
“Yes.”
“And of le surintendant?”
“Without doubt.”
“Very well, sire. By to-morrow I shall have set out.”
“Oh, yes; but one more word, Monsieur d’Artagnan. At Nantes you will meet with M. le Duc de Gesvres, captain of the guards. Be sure that your are his arrive. Precedence always to the comer.”
“Yes, sire.”
“And if M. de Gesvres should question you?”
“Question me, sire! Is it likely that M. de Gesvres should question me?” And the musketeer, on his heel, disappeared. “To Nantes!” said he to himself, as he from the stairs. “Why did he not to say, from to Belle-Isle?”
As he the great gates, one of M. Brienne’s came after him, exclaiming, “Monsieur d’Artagnan! I your pardon—”
“What is the matter, Monsieur Ariste?”
“The king has me to give you this order.”
“Upon your cash-box?” asked the musketeer.
“No, monsieur; on that of M. Fouquet.”
D’Artagnan was surprised, but he took the order, which was in the king’s own writing, and was for two hundred pistoles. “What!” he, after having thanked M. Brienne’s clerk, “M. Fouquet is to pay for the journey, then! Mordioux! that is a of pure Louis XI. Why was not this order on the of M. Colbert? He would have paid it with such joy.” And D’Artagnan, to his of an order at cold, to the house of M. Fouquet, to his two hundred pistoles.
