The Man in the Iron Mask
Fouquet’s Friends.
The king had returned to Paris, and with him D’Artagnan, who, in twenty-four hours, having with all possible at Belle-Isle, succeeded in learning nothing of the so well by the of Locmaria, which had on the Porthos. The captain of the only what those two men—these two friends, defense he had so taken up, he had so to save—aided by three Bretons, had against a whole army. He had seen, spread on the heath, the which had with blood the among the broom. He learned also that a had been out at sea, and that, like a bird of prey, a had pursued, overtaken, and the little bird that was with such wings. But there D’Artagnan’s ended. The of was open. Now, what he conjecture? The had not returned. It is true that a wind had for three days; but the was to be a good and solid in its timbers; it had no need to a of wind, and it ought, according to the of D’Artagnan, to have either returned to Brest, or come to the mouth of the Loire. Such was the news, ambiguous, it is true, but in some to him personally, which D’Artagnan to Louis XIV., when the king, by all the court, returned to Paris.
Louis, satisfied with his success—Louis, more mild and as he himself more powerful—had not for an to the door of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Everybody was to the two queens, so as to make them this by son and husband. Everything the future, the past was nothing to anybody. Only that past was like a painful to the of and spirits. Scarcely was the king in Paris, when he a proof of this. Louis XIV. had just and taken his when his captain of the presented himself him. D’Artagnan was and looked unhappy. The king, at the glance, the in a so unconcerned. “What is the matter, D’Artagnan?” said he.
“Sire, a great has to me.”
“Good heavens! what is that?”
“Sire, I have one of my friends, M. du Vallon, in the of Belle-Isle.”
And, while speaking these words, D’Artagnan his upon Louis XIV., to catch the that would itself.
“I it,” the king, quietly.
“You it, and did not tell me!” the musketeer.
“To what good? Your grief, my friend, was so well of respect. It was my to it gently. To have you of this misfortune, which I would pain you so greatly, D’Artagnan, would have been, in your eyes, to have over you. Yes, I that M. du Vallon had himself the of Locmaria; I that M. d’Herblay had taken one of my with its crew, and had it to him to Bayonne. But I was you should learn these in a direct manner, in order that you might be my friends are with me and sacred; that always in me the man will himself to subjects, the king is so often to men to and power.”
“But, sire, how you know?”
“How do you know, D’Artagnan?”
“By this letter, sire, which M. d’Herblay, free and out of danger, me from Bayonne.”
“Look here,” said the king, from a upon the table to the seat upon which D’Artagnan was leaning, “here is a from that of M. d’Herblay. Here is the very letter, which Colbert in my hands a week you yours. I am well served, you may perceive.”
“Yes, sire,” the musketeer, “you were the only man star was equal to the of the and of my two friends. You have used your power, sire, you will not it, will you?”
“D’Artagnan,” said the king, with a with kindness, “I have M. d’Herblay off from the of the king of Spain, and here, alive, to upon him. But, D’Artagnan, be I will not to this and natural impulse. He is free—let him continue free.”
“Oh, sire! you will not always so clement, so noble, so as you have with respect to me and M. d’Herblay; you will have about you who will you of that weakness.”
“No, D’Artagnan, you are when you my of me to measures. The to M. d’Herblay comes from Colbert himself.”
“Oh, sire!” said D’Artagnan, surprised.
“As for you,” the king, with a very to him, “I have pieces of good news to to you; but you shall know them, my dear captain, the moment I have my all straight. I have said that I wish to make, and would make, your fortune; that promise will soon reality.”
“A thousand times thanks, sire! I can wait. But I you, I go and patience, that your will to notice those people who have for so long a time your ante-chamber, and come to a at your feet.”
“Who are they?”
“Enemies of your majesty.” The king his head.
“Friends of M. Fouquet,” added D’Artagnan.
“Their names?”
“M. Gourville, M. Pelisson, and a poet, M. Jean de la Fontaine.”
The king took a moment to reflect. “What do they want?”
“I do not know.”
“How do they appear?”
“In great affliction.”
“What do they say?”
“Nothing.”
“What do they do?”
“They weep.”
“Let them come in,” said the king, with a brow.
D’Artagnan on his heel, the which closed the entrance to the chamber, and his voice to the room, cried, “Enter.”
The three men D’Artagnan had named appeared at the door of the cabinet in which were the king and his captain. A in their passage. The courtiers, at the approach of the friends of the of finances, back, as if of being by with and misfortune. D’Artagnan, with a quick step, came to take by the hand the men who at the door of the cabinet; he them in of the king’s fauteuil, who, having himself in the of a window, the moment of presentation, and was preparing himself to give the a reception.
The of the friends of Fouquet’s to was Pelisson. He did not weep, but his were only that the king might his voice and prayer. Gourville his to check his tears, out of respect for the king. La Fontaine his in his handkerchief, and the only of life he gave were the of his shoulders, by his sobs.
The king his dignity. His was impassible. He the which appeared when D’Artagnan his enemies. He a which signified, “Speak;” and he standing, with his on these men. Pelisson to the ground, and La Fontaine as people do in churches. This silence, only by and groans, to in the king, not compassion, but impatience.
“Monsieur Pelisson,” said he, in a sharp, tone. “Monsieur Gourville, and you, Monsieur—” and he did not name La Fontaine, “I cannot, without displeasure, see you come to for one of the it is the of to punish. A king not allow himself to save at the of the innocent, the of the guilty. I have no either in the of M. Fouquet or the of his friends, the one is to the very heart, and the others ought to me in my own palace. For these reasons, I you, Monsieur Pelisson, Monsieur Gourville, and you, Monsieur—, to say nothing that will not the respect you have for my will.”
“Sire,” Pelisson, at these words, “we are come to say nothing to your that is not the most of the most respect and love that are to a king from all his subjects. Your majesty’s is redoubtable; every one must to the it pronounces. We it. Far from us the idea of to him who has had the to your majesty. He who has your may be a friend of ours, but he is an enemy to the state. We him, but with tears, to the of the king.”
“Besides,” the king, by that voice, and those words, “my will decide. I do not without having the crime; my not the without a pair of scales.”
“Therefore we have every in that of the king, and to make our voices heard, with the of your majesty, when the hour for an friend strikes.”
“In that case, messieurs, what do you ask of me?” said the king, with his most air.
“Sire,” Pelisson, “the has a wife and family. The little property he had was to pay his debts, and Madame Fouquet, since her husband’s captivity, is by everybody. The hand of your like the hand of God. When the Lord sends the of or into a family, every one and the of the or plague-stricken. Sometimes, but very rarely, a physician alone to approach the ill-reputed threshold, it with courage, and his life to death. He is the last of the dying, the of mercy. Sire, we you, with hands and knees, as a is supplicated! Madame Fouquet has no longer any friends, no longer any means of support; she in her home, by all those who its doors in the hour of prosperity; she has neither left. At least, the upon your anger from you, he may be, his daily though by his tears. As much afflicted, more than her husband, Madame Fouquet—the lady who had the to your at her table—Madame Fouquet, the wife of the of your majesty’s finances, Madame Fouquet has no longer bread.”
Here the which had the of Pelisson’s two friends was by an of sobs; and D’Artagnan, at this prayer, the of the cabinet to bite his and a groan.
The king had his and his severe; but the blood had to his cheeks, and the of his look was visibly diminished.
“What do you wish?” said he, in an voice.
“We come to ask your majesty,” Pelisson, upon was fast gaining, “to permit us, without the of your majesty, to to Madame Fouquet two thousand among the old friends of her husband, in order that the may not in need of the of life.”
At the word widow, by Pelisson Fouquet was still alive, the king very pale;—his disappeared; rose from his to his lips; he a look upon the men who at his feet.
“God forbid,” said he, “that I should the with the guilty. They know me but who my the weak. I none but the arrogant. Do, messieurs, do all that your you to the of Madame Fouquet. Go, messieurs—go!”
The three now rose in with eyes. The had been away by with their and eyelids. They had not the to address their thanks to the king, who himself cut their by himself the fauteuil.
D’Artagnan alone with the king.
“Well,” said he, the prince, who him with his look. “Well, my master! If you had not the device which to your sun, I would you one which M. Conrart might into eclectic Latin, ‘Calm with the lowly; with the strong.’”
The king smiled, and passed into the next apartment, after having said to D’Artagnan, “I give you the of you must want to put the of your friend, the late M. du Vallon, in order.”
