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- Herausgeber: GAEditori
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
The Iron Mask was an individual whose identity has never really been ascertained and which of the historical records say he was a prisoner during the reign of Louis XIV of France. Among the authors who took an interest in his case were Voltaire above all and Alexandre Dumas father, who made him a character in the novel The Viscount of Bragelonne. Numerous films were inspired by that episode of Dumas' novel, with varying degrees of fidelity. Casanova also mentions the Iron Mask in his biographical work History of my life, in Chapter XXIV, where he affirms that his French teacher, Crébillion, the old man who had been Royal Censor, received from King Louis XIV the confidence that he was not no iron mask ever existed and that it was a legend. It is also said that it was a minister of the Duke of Mantua, named Mattioli, who was simultaneously in the service of Louis XIV and would have betrayed him.
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Alexandre Dumas
Indice dei contenuti
Alexandre Dumas
Printed in March 2022
Alexandre Dumas
The Man in the Iron Mask
Chapter I. The Prisoner.
Since Aramis’s singular transformation into a confessor of the order,
Baisemeaux was no longer the same man. Up to that period, the place which Aramis had held in the worthy governor’s estimation was that of a prelate whom
he respected and a friend to whom he owed a debt of gratitude; but now he felt
himself an inferior, and that Aramis was his master. He himself lighted a lantern,
summoned a turnkey, and said, returning to Aramis, “I am at your orders,
monseigneur.” Aramis merely nodded his head, as much as to say, “Very good”;
and signed to him with his hand to lead the way. Baisemeaux advanced, and Aramis followed him. It was a calm and lovely starlit night; the steps of three men resounded on the flags of the terraces, and the clinking of the keys hanging
from the jailer’s girdle made itself heard up to the stories of the towers, as if to
remind the prisoners that the liberty of earth was a luxury beyond their reach. It
might have been said that the alteration effected in Baisemeaux extended even to
the prisoners. The turnkey, the same who, on Aramis’s first arrival had shown himself so inquisitive and curious, was now not only silent, but impassible. He
held his head down, and seemed afraid to keep his ears open. In this wise they
reached the basement of the Bertaudiere, the two first stories of which were mounted silently and somewhat slowly; for Baisemeaux, though far from
disobeying, was far from exhibiting any eagerness to obey. On arriving at the door, Baisemeaux showed a disposition to enter the prisoner’s chamber; but
Aramis, stopping him on the threshold, said, “The rules do not allow the
governor to hear the prisoner’s confession.”
Baisemeaux bowed, and made way for Aramis, who took the lantern and
entered; and then signed to them to close the door behind him. For an instant he
remained standing, listening whether Baisemeaux and the turnkey had retired; but as soon as he was assured by the sound of their descending footsteps that they had left the tower, he put the lantern on the table and gazed around. On a
bed of green serge, similar in all respect to the other beds in the Bastile, save that it was newer, and under curtains half-drawn, reposed a young man, to whom we
have already once before introduced Aramis. According to custom, the prisoner
was without a light. At the hour of curfew, he was bound to extinguish his lamp,
and we perceive how much he was favored, in being allowed to keep it burning
even till then. Near the bed a large leathern armchair, with twisted legs, sustained
his clothes. A little table—without pens, books, paper, or ink—stood neglected
in sadness near the window; while several plates, still unemptied, showed that the prisoner had scarcely touched his evening meal. Aramis saw that the young
man was stretched upon his bed, his face half concealed by his arms. The arrival
of a visitor did not caused any change of position; either he was waiting in expectation, or was asleep. Aramis lighted the candle from the lantern, pushed back the armchair, and approached the bed with an evident mixture of interest and respect. The young man raised his head. “What is it?” said he.
“You desired a confessor?” replied Aramis.
“Yes.”
“Because you were ill?”
“Yes.”
“Very ill?”
The young man gave Aramis a piercing glance, and answered, “I thank
you.” After a moment’s silence, “I have seen you before,” he continued. Aramis
bowed.
Doubtless the scrutiny the prisoner had just made of the cold, crafty, and imperious character stamped upon the features of the bishop of Vannes was little
reassuring to one in his situation, for he added, “I am better.”
“And so?” said Aramis.
“Why, then—being better, I have no longer the same need of a confessor, I
think.”
“Not even of the hair-cloth, which the note you found in your bread
informed you of?”
The young man started; but before he had either assented or denied, Aramis
continued, “Not even of the ecclesiastic from whom you were to hear an
important revelation?”
“If it be so,” said the young man, sinking again on his pillow, “it is
different; I am listening.”
Aramis then looked at him more closely, and was struck with the easy
majesty of his mien, one which can never be acquired unless Heaven has
implanted it in the blood or heart. “Sit down, monsieur,” said the prisoner.
Aramis bowed and obeyed. “How does the Bastile agree with you?” asked
the bishop.
“Very well.”
“You do not suffer?”
“No.”
“You have nothing to regret?”
“Nothing.”
“Not even your liberty?”
“What do you call liberty, monsieur?” asked the prisoner, with the tone of a
man who is preparing for a struggle.
“I call liberty, the flowers, the air, light, the stars, the happiness of going whithersoever the sinewy limbs of one-and-twenty chance to wish to carry you.”
The young man smiled, whether in resignation or contempt, it was difficult
to tell. “Look,” said he, “I have in that Japanese vase two roses gathered yesterday evening in the bud from the governor’s garden; this morning they have
blown and spread their vermilion chalice beneath my gaze; with every opening
petal they unfold the treasures of their perfumes, filling my chamber with a fragrance that embalms it. Look now on these two roses; even among roses these
are beautiful, and the rose is the most beautiful of flowers. Why, then, do you bid
me desire other flowers when I possess the loveliest of all?”
Aramis gazed at the young man in surprise.
“If flowers constitute liberty,” sadly resumed the captive, “I am free, for I possess them.”
“But the air!” cried Aramis; “air is so necessary to life!”
“Well, monsieur,” returned the prisoner; “draw near to the window; it is
open. Between high heaven and earth the wind whirls on its waftages of hail and
lightning, exhales its torrid mist or breathes in gentle breezes. It caresses my face. When mounted on the back of this armchair, with my arm around the bars
of the window to sustain myself, I fancy I am swimming the wide expanse
before me.” The countenance of Aramis darkened as the young man continued:
“Light I have! what is better than light? I have the sun, a friend who comes to
visit me every day without the permission of the governor or the jailer’s company. He comes in at the window, and traces in my room a square the shape
of the window, which lights up the hangings of my bed and floods the very floor.
This luminous square increases from ten o’clock till midday, and decreases from
one till three slowly, as if, having hastened to my presence, it sorrowed at bidding me farewell. When its last ray disappears I have enjoyed its presence for
five hours. Is not that sufficient? I have been told that there are unhappy beings
who dig in quarries, and laborers who toil in mines, who never behold it at all.”
Aramis wiped the drops from his brow. “As to the stars which are so delightful
to view,” continued the young man, “they all resemble each other save in size and brilliancy. I am a favored mortal, for if you had not lighted that candle you
would have been able to see the beautiful stars which I was gazing at from my
couch before your arrival, whose silvery rays were stealing through my brain.”
Aramis lowered his head; he felt himself overwhelmed with the bitter flow
of that sinister philosophy which is the religion of the captive.
“So much, then, for the flowers, the air, the daylight, and the stars,”
tranquilly continued the young man; “there remains but exercise. Do I not walk
all day in the governor’s garden if it is fine—here if it rains? in the fresh air if it is warm; in perfect warmth, thanks to my winter stove, if it be cold? Ah!
monsieur, do you fancy,” continued the prisoner, not without bitterness, “that men have not done everything for me that a man can hope for or desire?”
“Men!” said Aramis; “be it so; but it seems to me you are forgetting
Heaven.”
“Indeed I have forgotten Heaven,” murmured the prisoner, with emotion;
“but why do you mention it? Of what use is it to talk to a prisoner of Heaven?”
Aramis looked steadily at this singular youth, who possessed the
resignation of a martyr with the smile of an atheist. “Is not Heaven in
everything?” he murmured in a reproachful tone.
“Say rather, at the end of everything,” answered the prisoner, firmly.
“Be it so,” said Aramis; “but let us return to our starting-point.”
“I ask nothing better,” returned the young man.
“I am your confessor.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, you ought, as a penitent, to tell me the truth.”
“My whole desire is to tell it you.”
“Every prisoner has committed some crime for which he has been
imprisoned. What crime, then, have you committed?”
“You asked me the same question the first time you saw me,” returned the
prisoner.
“And then, as now you evaded giving me an answer.”
“And what reason have you for thinking that I shall now reply to you?”
“Because this time I am your confessor.”
“Then if you wish me to tell what crime I have committed, explain to me in
what a crime consists. For as my conscience does not accuse me, I aver that I am
not a criminal.”
“We are often criminals in the sight of the great of the earth, not alone for
having ourselves committed crimes, but because we know that crimes have been
committed.”
The prisoner manifested the deepest attention.
“Yes, I understand you,” he said, after a pause; “yes, you are right,
monsieur; it is very possible that, in such a light, I am a criminal in the eyes of
the great of the earth.”
“Ah! then you know something,” said Aramis, who thought he had pierced
not merely through a defect in the harness, but through the joints of it.
“No, I am not aware of anything,” replied the young man; “but sometimes I
think—and I say to myself—”
“What do you say to yourself?”
“That if I were to think but a little more deeply I should either go mad or I
should divine a great deal.”
“And then—and then?” said Aramis, impatiently.
“Then I leave off.”
“You leave off?”
“Yes; my head becomes confused and my ideas melancholy; I feel ennui
overtaking me; I wish—”
“What?”
“I don’t know; but I do not like to give myself up to longing for things which I do not possess, when I am so happy with what I have.”
“You are afraid of death?” said Aramis, with a slight uneasiness.
“Yes,” said the young man, smiling.
Aramis felt the chill of that smile, and shuddered. “Oh, as you fear death, you know more about matters than you say,” he cried.
“And you,” returned the prisoner, “who bade me to ask to see you; you,
who, when I did ask to see you, came here promising a world of confidence; how is it that, nevertheless, it is you who are silent, leaving it for me to speak?
Since, then, we both wear masks, either let us both retain them or put them aside
together.”
Aramis felt the force and justice of the remark, saying to himself, “This is
no ordinary man; I must be cautious.—Are you ambitious?” said he suddenly to
the prisoner, aloud, without preparing him for the alteration.
“What do you mean by ambitious?” replied the youth.
“Ambition,” replied Aramis, “is the feeling which prompts a man to desire
more—much more—than he possesses.”
“I said that I was contented, monsieur; but, perhaps, I deceive myself. I am
ignorant of the nature of ambition; but it is not impossible I may have some. Tell
me your mind; that is all I ask.”
“An ambitious man,” said Aramis, “is one who covets that which is beyond
his station.”
“I covet nothing beyond my station,” said the young man, with an assurance
of manner which for the second time made the bishop of Vannes tremble.
He was silent. But to look at the kindling eye, the knitted brow, and the reflective attitude of the captive, it was evident that he expected something more
than silence,—a silence which Aramis now broke. “You lied the first time I saw
you,” said he.
“Lied!” cried the young man, starting up on his couch, with such a tone in
his voice, and such a lightning in his eyes, that Aramis recoiled, in spite of himself.
“I should say,” returned Aramis, bowing, “you concealed from me what you
knew of your infancy.”
“A man’s secrets are his own, monsieur,” retorted the prisoner, “and not at
the mercy of the first chance-comer.”
“True,” said Aramis, bowing still lower than before, “‘tis true; pardon me,
but to-day do I still occupy the place of a chance-comer? I beseech you to reply,
monseigneur.”
This title slightly disturbed the prisoner; but nevertheless he did not appear
astonished that it was given him. “I do not know you, monsieur,” said he.
“Oh, but if I dared, I would take your hand and kiss it!”
The young man seemed as if he were going to give Aramis his hand; but the
light which beamed in his eyes faded away, and he coldly and distrustfully withdrew his hand again. “Kiss the hand of a prisoner,” he said, shaking his head, “to what purpose?”
“Why did you tell me,” said Aramis, “that you were happy here? Why, that
you aspired to nothing? Why, in a word, by thus speaking, do you prevent me from being frank in my turn?”
The same light shone a third time in the young man’s eyes, but died
ineffectually away as before.
“You distrust me,” said Aramis.
“And why say you so, monsieur?”
“Oh, for a very simple reason; if you know what you ought to know, you
ought to mistrust everybody.”
“Then do not be astonished that I am mistrustful, since you suspect me of
knowing what I do not know.”
Aramis was struck with admiration at this energetic resistance. “Oh,
monseigneur! you drive me to despair,” said he, striking the armchair with his fist.
“And, on my part, I do not comprehend you, monsieur.”
“Well, then, try to understand me.” The prisoner looked fixedly at Aramis.
“Sometimes it seems to me,” said the latter, “that I have before me the man
whom I seek, and then—”
“And then your man disappears,—is it not so?” said the prisoner, smiling.
“So much the better.”
Aramis rose. “Certainly,” said he; “I have nothing further to say to a man who mistrusts me as you do.”
“And I, monsieur,” said the prisoner, in the same tone, “have nothing to say
to a man who will not understand that a prisoner ought to be mistrustful of everybody.”
“Even of his old friends,” said Aramis. “Oh, monseigneur, you are too
prudent!”
“Of my old friends?—you one of my old friends,—you?”
“Do you no longer remember,” said Aramis, “that you once saw, in the
village where your early years were spent—”
“Do you know the name of the village?” asked the prisoner.
“Noisy-le-Sec, monseigneur,” answered Aramis, firmly.
“Go on,” said the young man, with an immovable aspect.
“Stay, monseigneur,” said Aramis; “if you are positively resolved to carry
on this game, let us break off. I am here to tell you many things, ‘tis true; but you must allow me to see that, on your side, you have a desire to know them. Before
revealing the important matters I still withhold, be assured I am in need of some
encouragement, if not candor; a little sympathy, if not confidence. But you keep
yourself intrenched in a pretended which paralyzes me. Oh, not for the reason you think; for, ignorant as you may be, or indifferent as you feign to be, you are
none the less what you are, monseigneur, and there is nothing—nothing, mark me! which can cause you not to be so.”
“I promise you,” replied the prisoner, “to hear you without impatience.
Only it appears to me that I have a right to repeat the question I have already asked, ‘Who are you?’”
“Do you remember, fifteen or eighteen years ago, seeing at Noisy-le-Sec a
cavalier, accompanied by a lady in black silk, with flame-colored ribbons in her
hair?”
“Yes,” said the young man; “I once asked the name of this cavalier, and
they told me that he called himself the Abbe d’Herblay. I was astonished that the
abbe had so warlike an air, and they replied that there was nothing singular in that, seeing that he was one of Louis XIII.‘s musketeers.”
“Well,” said Aramis, “that musketeer and abbe, afterwards bishop of
Vannes, is your confessor now.”
“I know it; I recognized you.”
“Then, monseigneur, if you know that, I must further add a fact of which you are ignorant—that if the king were to know this evening of the presence of
this musketeer, this abbe, this bishop, this confessor, here—he, who has risked everything to visit you, to-morrow would behold the steely glitter of the
executioner’s axe in a dungeon more gloomy, more obscure than yours.”
While listening to these words, delivered with emphasis, the young man
had raised himself on his couch, and was now gazing more and more eagerly at
Aramis.
The result of his scrutiny was that he appeared to derive some confidence from it. “Yes,” he murmured, “I remember perfectly. The woman of whom you
speak came once with you, and twice afterwards with another.” He hesitated.
“With another, who came to see you every month—is it not so,
monseigneur?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who this lady was?”
The light seemed ready to flash from the prisoner’s eyes. “I am aware that
she was one of the ladies of the court,” he said.
“You remember that lady well, do you not?”
“Oh, my recollection can hardly be very confused on this head,” said the
young prisoner. “I saw that lady once with a gentleman about forty-five years old. I saw her once with you, and with the lady dressed in black. I have seen her
twice since then with the same person. These four people, with my master, and old Perronnette, my jailer, and the governor of the prison, are the only persons with whom I have ever spoken, and, indeed, almost the only persons I have ever
seen.”
“Then you were in prison?”
“If I am a prisoner here, then I was comparatively free, although in a very
narrow sense—a house I never quitted, a garden surrounded with walls I could
not climb, these constituted my residence, but you know it, as you have been there. In a word, being accustomed to live within these bounds, I never cared to
leave them. And so you will understand, monsieur, that having never seen
anything of the world, I have nothing left to care for; and therefore, if you relate
anything, you will be obliged to explain each item to me as you go along.”
“And I will do so,” said Aramis, bowing; “for it is my duty, monseigneur.”
“Well, then, begin by telling me who was my tutor.”
“A worthy and, above all, an honorable gentleman, monseigneur; fit guide
for both body and soul. Had you ever any reason to complain of him?”
“Oh, no; quite the contrary. But this gentleman of yours often used to tell me that my father and mother were dead. Did he deceive me, or did he speak the
truth?”
“He was compelled to comply with the orders given him.”
“Then he lied?”
“In one respect. Your father is dead.”
“And my mother?”
“She is dead for you.”
“But then she lives for others, does she not?”
“Yes.”
“And I—and I, then” (the young man looked sharply at Aramis) “am
compelled to live in the obscurity of a prison?”
“Alas! I fear so.”
“And that because my presence in the world would lead to the revelation of
a great secret?”
“Certainly, a very great secret.”
“My enemy must indeed be powerful, to be able to shut up in the Bastile a
child such as I then was.”
“He is.”
“More powerful than my mother, then?”
“And why do you ask that?”
“Because my mother would have taken my part.”
Aramis hesitated. “Yes, monseigneur; more powerful than your mother.”
“Seeing, then, that my nurse and preceptor were carried off, and that I, also,
was separated from them—either they were, or I am, very dangerous to my
enemy?”
“Yes; but you are alluding to a peril from which he freed himself, by
causing the nurse and preceptor to disappear,” answered Aramis, quietly.
“Disappear!” cried the prisoner, “how did they disappear?”
“In a very sure way,” answered Aramis—“they are dead.”
The young man turned pale, and passed his hand tremblingly over his face.
“Poison?” he asked.
“Poison.”
The prisoner reflected a moment. “My enemy must indeed have been very
cruel, or hard beset by necessity, to assassinate those two innocent people, my sole support; for the worthy gentleman and the poor nurse had never harmed a living being.”
“In your family, monseigneur, necessity is stern. And so it is necessity
which compels me, to my great regret, to tell you that this gentleman and the unhappy lady have been assassinated.”
“Oh, you tell me nothing I am not aware of,” said the prisoner, knitting his
brows.
“How?”
“I suspected it.”
“Why?”
“I will tell you.”
At this moment the young man, supporting himself on his two elbows, drew
close to Aramis’s face, with such an expression of dignity, of self-command and
of defiance even, that the bishop felt the electricity of enthusiasm strike in devouring flashes from that great heart of his, into his brain of adamant.
“Speak, monseigneur. I have already told you that by conversing with you I
endanger my life. Little value as it has, I implore you to accept it as the ransom
of your own.”
“Well,” resumed the young man, “this is why I suspected they had killed my nurse and my preceptor—”
“Whom you used to call your father?”
“Yes; whom I called my father, but whose son I well knew I was not.”
“Who caused you to suppose so?”
“Just as you, monsieur, are too respectful for a friend, he was also too respectful for a father.”
“I, however,” said Aramis, “have no intention to disguise myself.”
The young man nodded assent and continued: “Undoubtedly, I was not
destined to perpetual seclusion,” said the prisoner; “and that which makes me believe so, above all, now, is the care that was taken to render me as
accomplished a cavalier as possible. The gentleman attached to my person taught
me everything he knew himself—mathematics, a little geometry, astronomy,
fencing and riding. Every morning I went through military exercises, and
practiced on horseback. Well, one morning during the summer, it being very hot,
I went to sleep in the hall. Nothing, up to that period, except the respect paid me,
had enlightened me, or even roused my suspicions. I lived as children, as birds,
as plants, as the air and the sun do. I had just turned my fifteenth year—”
“This, then, is eight years ago?”
“Yes, nearly; but I have ceased to reckon time.”
“Excuse me; but what did your tutor tell you, to encourage you to work?”
“He used to say that a man was bound to make for himself, in the world, that fortune which Heaven had refused him at his birth. He added that, being a
poor, obscure orphan, I had no one but myself to look to; and that nobody either
did, or ever would, take any interest in me. I was, then, in the hall I have spoken
of, asleep from fatigue with long fencing. My preceptor was in his room on the
first floor, just over me. Suddenly I heard him exclaim, and then he called:
‘Perronnette! Perronnette!’ It was my nurse whom he called.”
“Yes, I know it,” said Aramis. “Continue, monseigneur.”
“Very likely she was in the garden; for my preceptor came hastily
downstairs. I rose, anxious at seeing him anxious. He opened the garden-door, still crying out, ‘Perronnette! Perronnette!’ The windows of the hall looked into
the court; the shutters were closed; but through a chink in them I saw my tutor
draw near a large well, which was almost directly under the windows of his study. He stooped over the brim, looked into the well, and again cried out, and
made wild and affrighted gestures. Where I was, I could not only see, but hear—
and see and hear I did.”
“Go on, I pray you,” said Aramis.
“Dame Perronnette came running up, hearing the governor’s cries. He went
to meet her, took her by the arm, and drew her quickly towards the edge; after
which, as they both bent over it together, ‘Look, look,’ cried he, ‘what a misfortune!’
“‘Calm yourself, calm yourself,’ said Perronnette; ‘what is the matter?’
“‘The letter!’ he exclaimed; ‘do you see that letter?’ pointing to the bottom
of the well.
“‘What letter?’ she cried.
“‘The letter you see down there; the last letter from the queen.’
“At this word I trembled. My tutor—he who passed for my father, he who
was continually recommending me modesty and humility—in correspondence
with the queen!
“‘The queen’s last letter!’ cried Perronnette, without showing more
astonishment than at seeing this letter at the bottom of the well; ‘but how came it
there?’
“‘A chance, Dame Perronnette—a singular chance. I was entering my room,
and on opening the door, the window, too, being open, a puff of air came suddenly and carried off this paper—this letter of her majesty’s; I darted after it,
and gained the window just in time to see it flutter a moment in the breeze and
disappear down the well.’
“‘Well,’ said Dame Perronnette; ‘and if the letter has fallen into the well,
‘tis all the same as if it was burnt; and as the queen burns all her letters every time she comes—’
“And so you see this lady who came every month was the queen,” said the
prisoner.
“‘Doubtless, doubtless,’ continued the old gentleman; ‘but this letter
contained instructions—how can I follow them?’
“‘Write immediately to her; give her a plain account of the accident, and the
queen will no doubt write you another letter in place of this.’
“‘Oh! the queen would never believe the story,’ said the good gentleman,
shaking his head; ‘she will imagine that I want to keep this letter instead of giving it up like the rest, so as to have a hold over her. She is so distrustful, and M. de Mazarin so—Yon devil of an Italian is capable of having us poisoned at
the first breath of suspicion.’”
Aramis almost imperceptibly smiled.
“‘You know, Dame Perronnette, they are both so suspicious in all that
concerns Philippe.’
“Philippe was the name they gave me,” said the prisoner.
“‘Well, ‘tis no use hesitating,’ said Dame Perronnette, ‘somebody must go
down the well.’
“‘Of course; so that the person who goes down may read the paper as he is
coming up.’
“‘But let us choose some villager who cannot read, and then you will be at
ease.’
“‘Granted; but will not any one who descends guess that a paper must be
important for which we risk a man’s life? However, you have given me an idea,
Dame Perronnette; somebody shall go down the well, but that somebody shall be
myself.’
“But at this notion Dame Perronnette lamented and cried in such a manner,
and so implored the old nobleman, with tears in her eyes, that he promised her to
obtain a ladder long enough to reach down, while she went in search of some stout-hearted youth, whom she was to persuade that a jewel had fallen into the
well, and that this jewel was wrapped in a paper. ‘And as paper,’ remarked my
preceptor, ‘naturally unfolds in water, the young man would not be surprised at
finding nothing, after all, but the letter wide open.’
“‘But perhaps the writing will be already effaced by that time,’ said Dame
Perronnette.
“‘No consequence, provided we secure the letter. On returning it to the
queen, she will see at once that we have not betrayed her; and consequently, as
we shall not rouse the distrust of Mazarin, we shall have nothing to fear from him.’
“Having come to this resolution, they parted. I pushed back the shutter, and,
seeing that my tutor was about to re-enter, I threw myself on my couch, in a confusion of brain caused by all I had just heard. My governor opened the door a
few moments after, and thinking I was asleep gently closed it again. As soon as
ever it was shut, I rose, and, listening, heard the sound of retiring footsteps. Then I returned to the shutters, and saw my tutor and Dame Perronnette go out together. I was alone in the house. They had hardly closed the gate before I sprang from the window and ran to the well. Then, just as my governor had leaned over, so leaned I. Something white and luminous glistened in the green
and quivering silence of the water. The brilliant disk fascinated and allured me; my eyes became fixed, and I could hardly breathe. The well seemed to draw me
downwards with its slimy mouth and icy breath; and I thought I read, at the bottom of the water, characters of fire traced upon the letter the queen had touched. Then, scarcely knowing what I was about, and urged on by one of those
instinctive impulses which drive men to destruction, I lowered the cord from the
windlass of the well to within about three feet of the water, leaving the bucket dangling, at the same time taking infinite pains not to disturb that coveted letter,
which was beginning to change its white tint for the hue of chrysoprase,—proof
enough that it was sinking,—and then, with the rope weltering in my hands, slid
down into the abyss. When I saw myself hanging over the dark pool, when I saw
the sky lessening above my head, a cold shudder came over me, a chill fear got
the better of me, I was seized with giddiness, and the hair rose on my head; but
my strong will still reigned supreme over all the terror and disquietude. I gained
the water, and at once plunged into it, holding on by one hand, while I immersed
the other and seized the dear letter, which, alas! came in two in my grasp. I concealed the two fragments in my body-coat, and, helping myself with my feet
against the sides of the pit, and clinging on with my hands, agile and vigorous as
I was, and, above all, pressed for time, I regained the brink, drenching it as I touched it with the water that streamed off me. I was no sooner out of the well
with my prize, than I rushed into the sunlight, and took refuge in a kind of shrubbery at the bottom of the garden. As I entered my hiding-place, the bell which resounded when the great gate was opened, rang. It was my preceptor come back again. I had but just time. I calculated that it would take ten minutes
before he would gain my place of concealment, even if, guessing where I was,
he came straight to it; and twenty if he were obliged to look for me. But this was
time enough to allow me to read the cherished letter, whose fragments I hastened
to unite again. The writing was already fading, but I managed to decipher it all.
“And will you tell me what you read therein, monseigneur?” asked Aramis,
deeply interested.
“Quite enough, monsieur, to see that my tutor was a man of noble rank, and
that Perronnette, without being a lady of quality, was far better than a servant; and also to perceived that I must myself be high-born, since the queen, Anne of
Austria, and Mazarin, the prime minister, commended me so earnestly to their care.” Here the young man paused, quite overcome.
“And what happened?” asked Aramis.
“It happened, monsieur,” answered he, “that the workmen they had
summoned found nothing in the well, after the closest search; that my governor
perceived that the brink was all watery; that I was not so dried by the sun as to prevent Dame Perronnette spying that my garments were moist; and, lastly, that I
was seized with a violent fever, owing to the chill and the excitement of my discovery, an attack of delirium supervening, during which I related the whole adventure; so that, guided by my avowal, my governor found the pieces of the queen’s letter inside the bolster where I had concealed them.”
“Ah!” said Aramis, “now I understand.”
“Beyond this, all is conjecture. Doubtless the unfortunate lady and
gentleman, not daring to keep the occurrence secret, wrote of all this to the queen and sent back the torn letter.”
“After which,” said Aramis, “you were arrested and removed to the
Bastile.”
“As you see.”
“Your two attendants disappeared?”
“Alas!”
“Let us not take up our time with the dead, but see what can be done with
the living. You told me you were resigned.”
“I repeat it.”
“Without any desire for freedom?”
“As I told you.”
“Without ambition, sorrow, or thought?”
The young man made no answer.
“Well,” asked Aramis, “why are you silent?”
“I think I have spoken enough,” answered the prisoner, “and that now it is
your turn. I am weary.”
Aramis gathered himself up, and a shade of deep solemnity spread itself
over his countenance. It was evident that he had reached the crisis in the part he
had come to the prison to play. “One question,” said Aramis.
“What is it? speak.”
“In the house you inhabited there were neither looking-glasses nor
mirrors?”
“What are those two words, and what is their meaning?” asked the young
man; “I have no sort of knowledge of them.”
“They designate two pieces of furniture which reflect objects; so that, for instance, you may see in them your own lineaments, as you see mine now, with
the naked eye.”
“No; there was neither a glass nor a mirror in the house,” answered the
young man.
Aramis looked round him. “Nor is there anything of the kind here, either,”
he said; “they have again taken the same precaution.”
“To what end?”
“You will know directly. Now, you have told me that you were instructed in
mathematics, astronomy, fencing, and riding; but you have not said a word about
history.”
“My tutor sometimes related to me the principal deeds of the king, St.
Louis, King Francis I., and King Henry IV.”
“Is that all?”
“Very nearly.”
“This also was done by design, then; just as they deprived you of mirrors,
which reflect the present, so they left you in ignorance of history, which reflects
the past. Since your imprisonment, books have been forbidden you; so that you
are unacquainted with a number of facts, by means of which you would be able
to reconstruct the shattered mansion of your recollections and your hopes.”
“It is true,” said the young man.
“Listen, then; I will in a few words tell you what has passed in France during the last twenty-three or twenty-four years; that is, from the probable date
of your birth; in a word, from the time that interests you.”
“Say on.” And the young man resumed his serious and attentive attitude.
“Do you know who was the son of Henry IV.?”
“At least I know who his successor was.”
“How?”
“By means of a coin dated 1610, which bears the effigy of Henry IV.; and
another of 1612, bearing that of Louis XIII. So I presumed that, there being only
two years between the two dates, Louis was Henry’s successor.”
“Then,” said Aramis, “you know that the last reigning monarch was Louis
XIII.?”
“I do,” answered the youth, slightly reddening.
“Well, he was a prince full of noble ideas and great projects, always, alas!
deferred by the trouble of the times and the dread struggle that his minister Richelieu had to maintain against the great nobles of France. The king himself was of a feeble character, and died young and unhappy.”
“I know it.”
“He had been long anxious about having a heir; a care which weighs
heavily on princes, who desire to leave behind them more than one pledge that
their best thoughts and works will be continued.”
“Did the king, then, die childless?” asked the prisoner, smiling.
“No, but he was long without one, and for a long while thought he should
be the last of his race. This idea had reduced him to the depths of despair, when
suddenly, his wife, Anne of Austria—”
The prisoner trembled.
“Did you know,” said Aramis, “that Louis XIII.‘s wife was called Anne of
Austria?”
“Continue,” said the young man, without replying to the question.
“When suddenly,” resumed Aramis, “the queen announced an interesting
event. There was great joy at the intelligence, and all prayed for her happy delivery. On the 5th of September, 1638, she gave birth to a son.”
Here Aramis looked at his companion, and thought he observed him turning
pale. “You are about to hear,” said Aramis, “an account which few indeed could
now avouch; for it refers to a secret which they imagined buried with the dead,
entombed in the abyss of the confessional.”
“And you will tell me this secret?” broke in the youth.
“Oh!” said Aramis, with unmistakable emphasis, “I do not know that I
ought to risk this secret by intrusting it to one who has no desire to quit the Bastile.”
“I hear you, monsieur.”
“The queen, then, gave birth to a son. But while the court was rejoicing over the event, when the king had shown the new-born child to the nobility and
people, and was sitting gayly down to table, to celebrate the event, the queen, who was alone in her room, was again taken ill and gave birth to a second son.”
“Oh!” said the prisoner, betraying a better acquaintance with affairs than he
had owned to, “I thought that Monsieur was only born in—”
Aramis raised his finger; “Permit me to continue,” he said.
The prisoner sighed impatiently, and paused.
“Yes,” said Aramis, “the queen had a second son, whom Dame Perronnette,
the midwife, received in her arms.”
“Dame Perronnette!” murmured the young man.
“They ran at once to the banqueting-room, and whispered to the king what
had happened; he rose and quitted the table. But this time it was no longer happiness that his face expressed, but something akin to terror. The birth of twins changed into bitterness the joy to which that of an only son had given rise,
seeing that in France (a fact you are assuredly ignorant of) it is the oldest of the
king’s sons who succeeds his father.”
“I know it.”
“And that the doctors and jurists assert that there is ground for doubting whether the son that first makes his appearance is the elder by the law of heaven
and of nature.”
The prisoner uttered a smothered cry, and became whiter than the coverlet
under which he hid himself.
“Now you understand,” pursued Aramis, “that the king, who with so much
pleasure saw himself repeated in one, was in despair about two; fearing that the
second might dispute the first’s claim to seniority, which had been recognized only two hours before; and so this second son, relying on party interests and caprices, might one day sow discord and engender civil war throughout the
kingdom; by these means destroying the very dynasty he should have
strengthened.”
“Oh, I understand!—I understand!” murmured the young man.
“Well,” continued Aramis; “this is what they relate, what they declare; this
is why one of the queen’s two sons, shamefully parted from his brother,
shamefully sequestered, is buried in profound obscurity; this is why that second
son has disappeared, and so completely, that not a soul in France, save his mother, is aware of his existence.”
“Yes! his mother, who has cast him off,” cried the prisoner in a tone of despair.
“Except, also,” Aramis went on, “the lady in the black dress; and, finally, excepting—”
“Excepting yourself—is it not? You who come and relate all this; you, who
rouse in my soul curiosity, hatred, ambition, and, perhaps, even the thirst of
vengeance; except you, monsieur, who, if you are the man to whom I expect, whom the note I have received applies to, whom, in short, Heaven ought to send
me, must possess about you—”
“What?” asked Aramis.
“A portrait of the king, Louis XIV., who at this moment reigns upon the
throne of France.”
“Here is the portrait,” replied the bishop, handing the prisoner a miniature
in enamel, on which Louis was depicted life-like, with a handsome, lofty mien.
The prisoner eagerly seized the portrait, and gazed at it with devouring eyes.
“And now, monseigneur,” said Aramis, “here is a mirror.” Aramis left the
prisoner time to recover his ideas.
“So high!—so high!” murmured the young man, eagerly comparing the
likeness of Louis with his own countenance reflected in the glass.
“What do you think of it?” at length said Aramis.
“I think that I am lost,” replied the captive; “the king will never set me free.”
“And I—I demand to know,” added the bishop, fixing his piercing eyes
significantly upon the prisoner, “I demand to know which of these two is king;
the one this miniature portrays, or whom the glass reflects?”
“The king, monsieur,” sadly replied the young man, “is he who is on the
throne, who is not in prison; and who, on the other hand, can cause others to be
entombed there. Royalty means power; and you behold how powerless I am.”
“Monseigneur,” answered Aramis, with a respect he had not yet manifested,
“the king, mark me, will, if you desire it, be the one that, quitting his dungeon,
shall maintain himself upon the throne, on which his friends will place him.”
“Tempt me not, monsieur,” broke in the prisoner bitterly.
“Be not weak, monseigneur,” persisted Aramis; “I have brought you all the
proofs of your birth; consult them; satisfy yourself that you are a king’s son; it is for us to act.”
“No, no; it is impossible.”
“Unless, indeed,” resumed the bishop ironically, “it be the destiny of your
race, that the brothers excluded from the throne should be always princes void of
courage and honesty, as was your uncle, M. Gaston d’Orleans, who ten times conspired against his brother Louis XIII.”
“What!” cried the prince, astonished; “my uncle Gaston ‘conspired against
his brother’; conspired to dethrone him?”
“Exactly, monseigneur; for no other reason. I tell you the truth.”
“And he had friends—devoted friends?”
“As much so as I am to you.”
“And, after all, what did he do?—Failed!”
“He failed, I admit; but always through his own fault; and, for the sake of
purchasing—not his life—for the life of the king’s brother is sacred and
inviolable—but his liberty, he sacrificed the lives of all his friends, one after another. And so, at this day, he is a very blot on history, the detestation of a hundred noble families in this kingdom.”
“I understand, monsieur; either by weakness or treachery, my uncle slew his
friends.”
“By weakness; which, in princes, is always treachery.”
“And cannot a man fail, then, from incapacity and ignorance? Do you really
believe it possible that a poor captive such as I, brought up, not only at a distance from the court, but even from the world—do you believe it possible that such a
one could assist those of his friends who should attempt to serve him?” And as
Aramis was about to reply, the young man suddenly cried out, with a violence which betrayed the temper of his blood, “We are speaking of friends; but how can I have any friends—I, whom no one knows; and have neither liberty, money, nor influence, to gain any?”
“I fancy I had the honor to offer myself to your royal highness.”
“Oh, do not style me so, monsieur; ‘tis either treachery or cruelty. Bid me
not think of aught beyond these prison-walls, which so grimly confine me; let me again love, or, at least, submit to my slavery and my obscurity.”
“Monseigneur, monseigneur; if you again utter these desperate words—if,
after having received proof of your high birth, you still remain poor-spirited in body and soul, I will comply with your desire, I will depart, and renounce forever the service of a master, to whom so eagerly I came to devote my assistance and my life!”
“Monsieur,” cried the prince, “would it not have been better for you to have
reflected, before telling me all that you have done, that you have broken my heart forever?”
“And so I desire to do, monseigneur.”
“To talk to me about power, grandeur, eye, and to prate of thrones! Is a prison the fit place? You wish to make me believe in splendor, and we are lying
lost in night; you boast of glory, and we are smothering our words in the curtains of this miserable bed; you give me glimpses of power absolute whilst I hear the
footsteps of the every-watchful jailer in the corridor—that step which, after all,
makes you tremble more than it does me. To render me somewhat less
incredulous, free me from the Bastile; let me breathe the fresh air; give me my
spurs and trusty sword, then we shall begin to understand each other.”
“It is precisely my intention to give you all this, monseigneur, and more; only, do you desire it?”
“A word more,” said the prince. “I know there are guards in every gallery,
bolts to every door, cannon and soldiery at every barrier. How will you
overcome the sentries—spike the guns? How will you break through the bolts and bars?”
“Monseigneur,—how did you get the note which announced my arrival to
you?”
“You can bribe a jailer for such a thing as a note.”
“If we can corrupt one turnkey, we can corrupt ten.”
“Well; I admit that it may be possible to release a poor captive from the Bastile; possible so to conceal him that the king’s people shall not again ensnare
him; possible, in some unknown retreat, to sustain the unhappy wretch in some
suitable manner.”
“Monseigneur!” said Aramis, smiling.
“I admit that, whoever would do this much for me, would seem more than
mortal in my eyes; but as you tell me I am a prince, brother of the king, how can
you restore me the rank and power which my mother and my brother have
deprived me of? And as, to effect this, I must pass a life of war and hatred, how
can you cause me to prevail in those combats—render me invulnerable by my enemies? Ah! monsieur, reflect on all this; place me, to-morrow, in some dark cavern at a mountain’s base; yield me the delight of hearing in freedom sounds
of the river, plain and valley, of beholding in freedom the sun of the blue heavens, or the stormy sky, and it is enough. Promise me no more than this, for,
indeed, more you cannot give, and it would be a crime to deceive me, since you
call yourself my friend.”
Aramis waited in silence. “Monseigneur,” he resumed, after a moment’s
reflection, “I admire the firm, sound sense which dictates your words; I am happy to have discovered my monarch’s mind.”
“Again, again! oh, God! for mercy’s sake,” cried the prince, pressing his icy
hands upon his clammy brow, “do not play with me! I have no need to be a king to be the happiest of men.”
“But I, monseigneur, wish you to be a king for the good of humanity.”
“Ah!” said the prince, with fresh distrust inspired by the word; “ah! with what, then, has humanity to reproach my brother?”
“I forgot to say, monseigneur, that if you would allow me to guide you, and
if you consent to become the most powerful monarch in Christendom, you will
have promoted the interests of all the friends whom I devote to the success of your cause, and these friends are numerous.”
“Numerous?”
“Less numerous than powerful, monseigneur.”
“Explain yourself.”
“It is impossible; I will explain, I swear before Heaven, on that day that I
see you sitting on the throne of France.”
“But my brother?”
“You shall decree his fate. Do you pity him?”
“Him, who leaves me to perish in a dungeon? No, no. For him I have no
pity!”
“So much the better.”
“He might have himself come to this prison, have taken me by the hand,
and have said, ‘My brother, Heaven created us to love, not to contend with one
another. I come to you. A barbarous prejudice has condemned you to pass your
days in obscurity, far from mankind, deprived of every joy. I will make you sit
down beside me; I will buckle round your waist our father’s sword. Will you take advantage of this reconciliation to put down or restrain me? Will you employ that sword to spill my blood?’ ‘Oh! never,’ I would have replied to him,
‘I look on you as my preserver, I will respect you as my master. You give me far
more than Heaven bestowed; for through you I possess liberty and the privilege
of loving and being loved in this world.’”
“And you would have kept your word, monseigneur?”
“On my life! While now—now that I have guilty ones to punish—”
“In what manner, monseigneur?”
“What do you say as to the resemblance that Heaven has given me to my
brother?”
“I say that there was in that likeness a providential instruction which the
king ought to have heeded; I say that your mother committed a crime in rendering those different in happiness and fortune whom nature created so
startlingly alike, of her own flesh, and I conclude that the object of punishment
should be only to restore the equilibrium.”
“By which you mean—”
“That if I restore you to your place on your brother’s throne, he shall take
yours in prison.”
“Alas! there’s such infinity of suffering in prison, especially it would be so
for one who has drunk so deeply of the cup of enjoyment.”
“Your royal highness will always be free to act as you may desire; and if it
seems good to you, after punishment, you will have it in your power to pardon.”
“Good. And now, are you aware of one thing, monsieur?”
“Tell me, my prince.”
“It is that I will hear nothing further from you till I am clear of the Bastile.”
“I was going to say to your highness that I should only have the pleasure of
seeing you once again.”
“And when?”
“The day when my prince leaves these gloomy walls.”
“Heavens! how will you give me notice of it?”
“By myself coming to fetch you.”
“Yourself?”
“My prince, do not leave this chamber save with me, or if in my absence you are compelled to do so, remember that I am not concerned in it.”
“And so I am not to speak a word of this to any one whatever, save to you?”
“Save only to me.” Aramis bowed very low. The prince offered his hand.
“Monsieur,” he said, in a tone that issued from his heart, “one word more,
my last. If you have sought me for my destruction; if you are only a tool in the
hands of my enemies; if from our conference, in which you have sounded the depths of my mind, anything worse than captivity result, that is to say, if death
befall me, still receive my blessing, for you will have ended my troubles and given me repose from the tormenting fever that has preyed on me for eight long,
weary years.”
“Monseigneur, wait the results ere you judge me,” said Aramis.
“I say that, in such a case, I bless and forgive you. If, on the other hand, you
are come to restore me to that position in the sunshine of fortune and glory to
which I was destined by Heaven; if by your means I am enabled to live in the memory of man, and confer luster on my race by deeds of valor, or by solid benefits bestowed upon my people; if, from my present depths of sorrow, aided
by your generous hand, I raise myself to the very height of honor, then to you,
whom I thank with blessings, to you will I offer half my power and my glory: though you would still be but partly recompensed, and your share must always
remain incomplete, since I could not divide with you the happiness received at your hands.”
“Monseigneur,” replied Aramis, moved by the pallor and excitement of the
young man, “the nobleness of your heart fills me with joy and admiration. It is
not you who will have to thank me, but rather the nation whom you will render
happy, the posterity whose name you will make glorious. Yes; I shall indeed have bestowed upon you more than life, I shall have given you immortality.”
The prince offered his hand to Aramis, who sank upon his knee and kissed
it.
“It is the first act of homage paid to our future king,” said he. “When I see
you again, I shall say, ‘Good day, sire.’”
“Till then,” said the young man, pressing his wan and wasted fingers over
his heart,—“till then, no more dreams, no more strain on my life—my heart would break! Oh, monsieur, how small is my prison—how low the window—
how narrow are the doors! To think that so much pride, splendor, and happiness,
should be able to enter in and to remain here!”
“Your royal highness makes me proud,” said Aramis, “since you infer it is I
who brought all this.” And he rapped immediately on the door. The jailer came
to open it with Baisemeaux, who, devoured by fear and uneasiness, was
beginning, in spite of himself, to listen at the door. Happily, neither of the speakers had forgotten to smother his voice, even in the most passionate
outbreaks.
“What a confessor!” said the governor, forcing a laugh; “who would believe
that a compulsory recluse, a man as though in the very jaws of death, could have
committed crimes so numerous, and so long to tell of?”
Aramis made no reply. He was eager to leave the Bastile, where the secret
which overwhelmed him seemed to double the weight of the walls. As soon as
they reached Baisemeaux’s quarters, “Let us proceed to business, my dear
governor,” said Aramis.
“Alas!” replied Baisemeaux.
“You have to ask me for my receipt for one hundred and fifty thousand
livres,” said the bishop.
“And to pay over the first third of the sum,” added the poor governor, with
a sigh, taking three steps towards his iron strong-box.
“Here is the receipt,” said Aramis.
“And here is the money,” returned Baisemeaux, with a threefold sigh.
“The order instructed me only to give a receipt; it said nothing about
receiving the money,” rejoined Aramis. “Adieu, monsieur le governeur!”
And he departed, leaving Baisemeaux almost more than stifled with joy and
surprise at this regal present so liberally bestowed by the confessor extraordinary
to the Bastile.
Chapter II. How Mouston Had Become Fatter without
Giving Porthos Notice Thereof, and of the Troubles
Which Consequently Befell that Worthy Gentleman.
Since the departure of Athos for Blois, Porthos and D’Artagnan were
seldom together. One was occupied with harassing duties for the king, the other
had been making many purchases of furniture which he intended to forward to his estate, and by aid of which he hoped to establish in his various residences something of the courtly luxury he had witnessed in all its dazzling brightness in
his majesty’s society. D’Artagnan, ever faithful, one morning during an interval
of service thought about Porthos, and being uneasy at not having heard anything
of him for a fortnight, directed his steps towards his hotel, and pounced upon him just as he was getting up. The worthy baron had a pensive—nay, more than
pensive—melancholy air. He was sitting on his bed, only half-dressed, and with
legs dangling over the edge, contemplating a host of garments, which with their
fringes, lace, embroidery, and slashes of ill-assorted hues, were strewed all over
the floor. Porthos, sad and reflective as La Fontaine’s hare, did not observe D’Artagnan’s entrance, which was, moreover, screened at this moment by M.
Mouston, whose personal corpulency, quite enough at any time to hide one man
from another, was effectually doubled by a scarlet coat which the intendant was
holding up for his master’s inspection, by the sleeves, that he might the better see it all over. D’Artagnan stopped at the threshold and looked in at the pensive
Porthos and then, as the sight of the innumerable garments strewing the floor caused mighty sighs to heave the bosom of that excellent gentleman, D’Artagnan
thought it time to put an end to these dismal reflections, and coughed by way of
announcing himself.
“Ah!” exclaimed Porthos, whose countenance brightened with joy; “ah! ah!
Here is D’Artagnan. I shall then get hold of an idea!”
At these words Mouston, doubting what was going on behind him, got out
of the way, smiling kindly at the friend of his master, who thus found himself freed from the material obstacle which had prevented his reaching D’Artagnan.
Porthos made his sturdy knees crack again in rising, and crossing the room in two strides, found himself face to face with his friend, whom he folded to his breast with a force of affection that seemed to increase with every day. “Ah!” he
repeated, “you are always welcome, dear friend; but just now you are more
welcome than ever.”
“But you seem to have the megrims here!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.
Porthos replied by a look expressive of dejection. “Well, then, tell me all about it, Porthos, my friend, unless it is a secret.”
“In the first place,” returned Porthos, “you know I have no secrets from
you. This, then, is what saddens me.”
“Wait a minute, Porthos; let me first get rid of all this litter of satin and velvet!”
“Oh, never mind,” said Porthos, contemptuously; “it is all trash.”
“Trash, Porthos! Cloth at twenty-five livres an ell! gorgeous satin! regal
velvet!”
“Then you think these clothes are—”
“Splendid, Porthos, splendid! I’ll wager that you alone in France have so
many; and suppose you never had any more made, and were to live to be a hundred years of age, which wouldn’t astonish me in the very least, you could still wear a new dress the day of your death, without being obliged to see the nose of a single tailor from now till then.”
Porthos shook his head.
“Come, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “this unnatural melancholy in you
frightens me. My dear Porthos, pray get it out, then. And the sooner the better.”
“Yes, my friend, so I will: if, indeed, it is possible.”
“Perhaps you have received bad news from Bracieux?”
“No: they have felled the wood, and it has yielded a third more than the estimate.”
“Then there has been a falling-off in the pools of Pierrefonds?”
“No, my friend: they have been fished, and there is enough left to stock all
the pools in the neighborhood.”
“Perhaps your estate at Vallon has been destroyed by an earthquake?”
“No, my friend; on the contrary, the ground was struck with lightning a
hundred paces from the chateau, and a fountain sprung up in a place entirely destitute of water.”
“What in the world is the matter, then?”
“The fact is, I have received an invitation for the fete at Vaux,” said Porthos, with a lugubrious expression.
“Well! do you complain of that? The king has caused a hundred mortal heart-burnings among the courtiers by refusing invitations. And so, my dear friend, you are really going to Vaux?”
“Indeed I am!”
“You will see a magnificent sight.”
“Alas! I doubt it, though.”
“Everything that is grand in France will be brought together there!”
“Ah!” cried Porthos, tearing out a lock of hair in his despair.
“Eh! good heavens, are you ill?” cried D’Artagnan.
“I am as firm as the Pont-Neuf! It isn’t that.”
“But what is it, then?”
“‘Tis that I have no clothes!”
D’Artagnan stood petrified. “No clothes! Porthos, no clothes!” he cried,
“when I see at least fifty suits on the floor.”
“Fifty, truly; but not one which fits me!”
“What? not one that fits you? But are you not measured, then, when you
give an order?”
“To be sure he is,” answered Mouston; “but unfortunately I have gotten stouter!”
“What! you stouter!”
“So much so that I am now bigger than the baron. Would you believe it,
monsieur?”
“ Parbleu! it seems to me that is quite evident.”
“Do you see, stupid?” said Porthos, “that is quite evident!”
“Be still, my dear Porthos,” resumed D’Artagnan, becoming slightly
impatient, “I don’t understand why your clothes should not fit you, because Mouston has grown stouter.”
“I am going to explain it,” said Porthos. “You remember having related to
me the story of the Roman general Antony, who had always seven wild boars kept roasting, each cooked up to a different point; so that he might be able to have his dinner at any time of the day he chose to ask for it. Well, then, I resolved, as at any time I might be invited to court to spend a week, I resolved to
have always seven suits ready for the occasion.”
“Capitally reasoned, Porthos—only a man must have a fortune like yours to
gratify such whims. Without counting the time lost in being measured, the fashions are always changing.”
“That is exactly the point,” said Porthos, “in regard to which I flattered myself I had hit on a very ingenious device.”
“Tell me what it is; for I don’t doubt your genius.”
“You remember what Mouston once was, then?”
“Yes; when he used to call himself Mousqueton.”
“And you remember, too, the period when he began to grow fatter?”
“No, not exactly. I beg your pardon, my good Mouston.”
“Oh! you are not in fault, monsieur,” said Mouston, graciously. “You were
in Paris, and as for us, we were at Pierrefonds.”
“Well, well, my dear Porthos; there was a time when Mouston began to
grow fat. Is that what you wished to say?”
“Yes, my friend; and I greatly rejoice over the period.”
“Indeed, I believe you do,” exclaimed D’Artagnan.
“You understand,” continued Porthos, “what a world of trouble it spared for
me.”
“No, I don’t—by any means.”
“Look here, my friend. In the first place, as you have said, to be measured
is a loss of time, even though it occur only once a fortnight. And then, one may
be travelling; and then you wish to have seven suits always with you. In short, I
have a horror of letting any one take my measure. Confound it! either one is a nobleman or not. To be scrutinized and scanned by a fellow who completely analyzes you, by inch and line—‘tis degrading! Here, they find you too hollow;
there, too prominent. They recognize your strong and weak points. See, now, when we leave the measurer’s hands, we are like those strongholds whose angles
and different thicknesses have been ascertained by a spy.”
“In truth, my dear Porthos, you possess ideas entirely original.”
“Ah! you see when a man is an engineer—”
“And has fortified Belle-Isle—‘tis natural, my friend.”
“Well, I had an idea, which would doubtless have proved a good one, but
for Mouston’s carelessness.”
D’Artagnan glanced at Mouston, who replied by a slight movement of his
body, as if to say, “You will see whether I am at all to blame in all this.”
“I congratulated myself, then,” resumed Porthos, “at seeing Mouston get
fat; and I did all I could, by means of substantial feeding, to make him stout—
always in the hope that he would come to equal myself in girth, and could then
be measured in my stead.”
“Ah!” cried D’Artagnan. “I see—that spared you both time and
humiliation.”
“Consider my joy when, after a year and a half’s judicious feeding—for I
used to feed him up myself—the fellow—”
“Oh! I lent a good hand myself, monsieur,” said Mouston, humbly.
“That’s true. Consider my joy when, one morning, I perceived Mouston was
obliged to squeeze in, as I once did myself, to get through the little secret door
that those fools of architects had made in the chamber of the late Madame du Vallon, in the chateau of Pierrefonds. And, by the way, about that door, my friend, I should like to ask you, who know everything, why these wretches of architects, who ought to have the compasses run into them, just to remind them,
came to make doorways through which nobody but thin people can pass?”
“Oh, those doors,” answered D’Artagnan, “were meant for gallants, and
they have generally slight and slender figures.”
“Madame du Vallon had no gallant!” answered Porthos, majestically.
“Perfectly true, my friend,” resumed D’Artagnan; “but the architects were
probably making their calculations on a basis of the probability of your marrying
again.”
“Ah! that is possible,” said Porthos. “And now I have received an
explanation of how it is that doorways are made too narrow, let us return to the
subject of Mouston’s fatness. But see how the two things apply to each other. I
have always noticed that people’s ideas run parallel. And so, observe this phenomenon, D’Artagnan. I was talking to you of Mouston, who is fat, and it led
us on to Madame du Vallon—”
“Who was thin?”
“Hum! Is it not marvelous?”
“My dear friend, a savant of my acquaintance, M. Costar, has made the same observation as you have, and he calls the process by some Greek name which I forget.”
“What! my remark is not then original?” cried Porthos, astounded. “I
thought I was the discoverer.”
“My friend, the fact was known before Aristotle’s days—that is to say,
nearly two thousand years ago.”
