The Man in the Iron Mask
Porthos’s Epitaph.
Aramis, and sad as ice, like a child, from the stone. A Christian not walk on tombs. But, though of standing, he was not of walking. It might be said that something of Porthos had just died him. His Bretons him; Aramis to their exertions, and the three sailors, him up, him to the canoe. Then, having him upon the bench near the rudder, they took to their oars, this to sail, which might them.
On all that surface of the of Locmaria, one single their eyes. Aramis his from it; and, at a out in the sea, in as the receded, that proud of to itself up, as Porthos used to himself up, a smiling, yet heaven, like that of his dear old friend, the of the four, yet the dead. Strange of these men of brass! The most of to the most crafty; of by of mind; and in the moment, when alone save mind and body, a stone, a rock, a material weight, over strength, and upon the body, out the mind.
Worthy Porthos! to help other men, always to himself for the safety of the weak, as if God had only him for that purpose; when he only he was out the of his with Aramis, a compact, however, which Aramis alone had up, and which Porthos had only to by its terrible solidarity. Noble Porthos! of what good now are overflowing with furniture, overflowing with game, overflowing with fish, overflowing with wealth! Of what service to now in liveries, and in the of them Mousqueton, proud of the power by thee! Oh, Porthos! heaper-up of treasure, was it while to labor to and life, to come upon a shore, by the of seagulls, and thyself, with bones, a stone? Was it while, in short, Porthos, to so much gold, and not have the of a upon monument? Valiant Porthos! he still, without doubt, sleeps, lost, forgotten, the the of the take for the of a dolmen. And so many branches, so many mosses, by the wind of ocean, so many to earth, that no passers-by will such a of have been supported by the of one man.
Aramis, still pale, still icy-cold, his upon his lips, looked, till, with the last of daylight, the on the horizon. Not a word him, not a rose from his breast. The Bretons looked upon him, trembling. Such was not that of a man, it was the of a statue. In the meantime, with the lines that up the heavens, the its little sail, which, with the of the breeze, and them from the coast, way Spain, across the Gulf of Gascony, so with storms. But an hour after the sail had been hoisted, the inactive, on their benches, and, making an eye-shade with their hands, pointed out to each other a white spot which appeared on the as as a by the of the waves. But that which might have appeared to ordinary was moving at a quick to the of the sailor; that which appeared upon the was a way through it. For some time, the in which their master was plunged, they did not to him, and satisfied themselves with their in whispers. Aramis, in fact, so vigilant, so active—Aramis, eye, like that of the lynx, without ceasing, and saw by night than by day—Aramis to sleep in this of soul. An hour passed thus, which disappeared, but which also the sail in view so on the bark, that Goenne, one of the three sailors, to say aloud:
“Monseigneur, we are being chased!”
Aramis no reply; the ship still upon them. Then, of their own accord, two of the sailors, by the direction of the Yves, the sail, in order that that single point upon the surface of the should to be a to the of the enemy them. On the part of the ship in sight, on the contrary, two more small were up at the of the masts. Unfortunately, it was the time of the and days of the year, and the moon, in all her brilliancy, succeeded daylight. The balancelle, which was the little the wind, had then still an hour of twilight, and a whole night almost as light as day.
“Monseigneur! monseigneur! we are lost!” said the captain. “Look! they see us plainly, though we have sail.”
“That is not to be at,” one of the sailors, “since they say that, by the of the devil, the Paris-folk have with which they see as well at a as near, by night as well as by day.”
Aramis took a from the of the boat, it silently, and it to the sailor, “Here,” said he, “look!” The hesitated.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said the bishop, “there is no in it; and if there is any sin, I will take it on myself.”
The the to his eye, and a cry. He that the vessel, which appeared to be about cannon-shot, had at a single the whole distance. But, on the from his eye, he saw that, the way which the had been able to make that instant, it was still at the same distance.
“So,” the sailor, “they can see us as we see them.”
“They see us,” said Aramis, and again into impassibility.
“What!—they see us!” said Yves. “Impossible!”
“Well, captain, look yourself,” said the sailor. And he passed him the glass.
“Monseigneur me that the has nothing to do with this?” asked Yves.
Aramis his shoulders.
The the to his eye. “Oh! monseigneur,” said he, “it is a miracle—there they are; it as if I were going to touch them. Twenty-five men at least! Ah! I see the captain forward. He a like this, and is looking at us. Ah! he round, and an order; they are a piece of forward—they are it—pointing it. Misericorde! they are at us!”
And by a movement, the put the telescope, and the ship, to the horizon, appeared again in its true aspect. The was still at the of nearly a league, but the thus was not less real. A light cloud of appeared the sails, more than they, and like a flower opening; then, at about a mile from the little canoe, they saw the take the off two or three waves, a white in the sea, and at the end of it, as as the with which, in play, a boy makes and drakes. It was at once a and a warning.
“What is to be done?” asked the patron.
“They will us!” said Goenne, “give us absolution, monseigneur!” And the on their him.
“You that they can see you,” said he.
“That is true!” said the sailors, of their weakness. “Give us your orders, monseigneur, we are prepared to die for you.”
“Let us wait,” said Aramis.
“How—let us wait?”
“Yes; do you not see, as you just now said, that if we to fly, they will us?”
“But, perhaps,” the to say, “perhaps under of night, we them.”
“Oh!” said Aramis, “they have, no doubt, Greek fire with which to their own and ours likewise.”
At the same moment, as if the was to the of Aramis, a second cloud of slowly to the heavens, and from the of that cloud an of flame, which a like a rainbow, and into the sea, where it to burn, a space of a of a in diameter.
The Bretons looked at each other in terror. “You see plainly,” said Aramis, “it will be to wait for them.”
The from the hands of the sailors, and the bark, to make way, upon the of the waves. Night came on, but still the ship nearer. It might be it its speed with darkness. From time to time, as a its out of its nest, the Greek fire from its sides, and its upon the like an snowfall. At last it came musket-shot. All the men were on deck, arms in hand; the were at their guns, the matches burning. It might be they were about to a and to a in number to their own, not to attempt the of a by four people.
“Surrender!” the of the balancelle, with the of his speaking-trumpet.
The looked at Aramis. Aramis a with his head. Yves a white cloth at the end of a gaff. This was like their flag. The came on like a race-horse. It a fresh Greek fire, which twenty of the little canoe, and a light upon them as white as sunshine.
“At the of resistance,” the of the balancelle, “fire!” The soldiers their to the present.
“Did we not say we surrendered?” said Yves.
“Alive, alive, captain!” one soldier, “they must be taken alive.”
“Well, yes—living,” said the captain. Then the Bretons, “Your are safe, my friends!” he, “all but the Chevalier d’Herblay.”
Aramis imperceptibly. For an his was upon the of the ocean, by the last of the Greek fire, which ran along the of the waves, played on the like plumes, and still and more terrible the they covered.
“Do you hear, monseigneur?” said the sailors.
“Yes.”
“What are your orders?”
“Accept!”
“But you, monseigneur?”
Aramis still more forward, and the ends of his long white in the green of the sea, to which he with as to a friend.
“Accept!” he.
“We accept,” the sailors; “but what security have we?”
“The word of a gentleman,” said the officer. “By my rank and by my name I that all M. le Chevalier d’Herblay shall have their spared. I am of the king’s the ‘Pomona,’ and my name is Louis Constant de Pressigny.”
With a gesture, Aramis—already over the of the the sea—drew himself up, and with a eye, and a upon his lips, “Throw out the ladder, messieurs,” said he, as if the had to him. He was obeyed. When Aramis, the rope ladder, walked up to the commander, with a step, looked at him earnestly, a to him with his hand, a and unknown at of which the officer pale, trembled, and his head, the were astonished. Without a word Aramis then his hand to the of the and him the of a ring he on the ring-finger of his left hand. And while making this Aramis, in cold and majesty, had the air of an his hand to be kissed. The commandant, who for a moment had his head, a second time with marks of the most respect. Then his hand out, in his turn, the poop, that is to say, his own cabin, he to allow Aramis to go first. The three Bretons, who had come on after their bishop, looked at each other, stupefied. The were to silence. Five minutes after, the called the second lieutenant, who returned immediately, ordering the to be put Corunna. Whilst this order was being executed, Aramis upon the deck, and took a seat near the bastingage. Night had fallen; the moon had not yet risen, yet Aramis looked Belle-Isle. Yves then approached the captain, who had returned to take his post in the stern, and said, in a low and voice, “What are we to follow, captain?”
“We take what pleases,” the officer.
Aramis passed the night upon the bastingage. Yves, on him next morning, that “the night must have been a very one, for the on which the bishop’s had rested was with dew.” Who knows?—that was, it may be, the that had from the of Aramis!
What would have been that, good Porthos?
