Man in the Iron Mask (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Alexandre Dumas

  “Yes, I; but we have nothing to unravel together, seeing that you are not one of the affiliated.”

  “Monseigneur!”

  “And I understand, that not being so, you refuse to comply with its demands.”

  “Monseigneur, I beseech you, condescend to hear me.”

  “And wherefore?”

  “Monseigneur, I do not say that I have nothing to do with the society.”

  “Ah, ah!”

  “I say not that I refuse to obey.”

  “Nevertheless, M. de Baisemeaux, what has passed wears very much the air of resistance.”

  “Oh, no! monseigneur, no; I only wished to be certain.”

  “To be certain of what?” said Aramis, in a tone of supreme contempt.

  “Of nothing at all, monseigneur.” Baisemeaux lowered his voice and, bending before the prelate, said, “I am at all times and in all places at the disposal of my masters, but—”

  “Very good. I like you better thus, monsieur,” said Aramis, as he resumed his seat, and put out his glass to Baisemeaux, whose hand trembled so that he could not fill it. “You were saying ‘but’—” continued Aramis.

  “But,” replied the unhappy man, “having no notice, I was far from expecting.”

  “Does not the Gospel say, ‘Watch, for the moment is known only of God.’ Do not the rules of the order say, ‘Watch, for that which I will you ought always to will also.’ And on what pretext is it that you did not expect the confessor, M. de Baisemeaux?”

  “Because, monseigneur, there is at present in the Bastille no prisoner ill.”

  Aramis shrugged his shoulders, “What do you know about that?” said he.

  “But, nevertheless, it appears to me—”

  “M. de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, turning round in his chair, “here is your servant, who wishes to speak with you;” and, at this moment, de Baisemeaux’s servant appeared at the threshold of the door.

  “What is it?” asked Baisemeaux sharply.

  “Monsieur,” said the man, “they are bringing you the doctor’s return.”

  Aramis looked at Baisemeaux with a calm and confident eye.

  “Well,” said he, “let the messenger enter.”

  The messenger entered, saluted, and handed in the report. Baisemeaux ran his eye over it, and raising his head said, in surprise, “No. 12 is ill.”

  “How was it then,” said Aramis carelessly, “that you told me everybody was well in your hotel, M. de Baisemeaux?” And he emptied his glass without removing his eyes from Baisemeaux.

  The governor then made a sign to the messenger, and when he had quitted the room said, still trembling, “I think there is in the article, ‘on the prisoner’s demand.’ ”

  “Yes, it is so,” answered Aramis. “But see what it is they want with you now.”

  At that moment, a sergeant put his head in at the door. “What do you want now?” cried Baisemeaux. “Can you not leave me in peace for ten minutes?”

  “Monsieur,” said the sergeant, “the sick man, No. 12, has commissioned the turnkey to request you to send him a confessor.”

  Baisemeaux very nearly sank on the floor; but Aramis disdained to reassure him, just as he had disdained to terrify him. “What must I answer?” inquired Baisemeaux.

  “Just what you please,” replied Aramis, compressing his lips; ”that is your business. I am not governor of the Bastille.”

  “Tell the prisoner,” cried Baisemeaux quickly—“tell the prisoner that his request is granted.” The sergeant left the room. “O monseigneur, monseigneur,” murmured Baisemeaux, “how could I have suspected!—how could I have foreseen this!”

  “Who requested you to suspect, and who besought you to foresee?” contemptuously answered Aramis. “The order suspects; the order knows; the order foresees—is not that enough?”

  “What do you command?” added Baisemeaux.

  “I?—nothing at all. I am nothing but a poor priest, a simple confessor. Have I your orders to go and see the sufferer?”

  “Oh, monseigneur, I do not order; I pray you to go.”

  “’Tis well; then conduct me to him.”

  29

  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 beautiful starry night; the steps of the 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 storeys of the towers, as if to remind the prisoners that liberty was out of their reach. It might have been said that the alteration effected in Baisemeaux had extended itself even to the prisoners. The turnkey, the same who on Aramis’s first arrival had shown himself so inquisitive and curious, had now become not only silent, but even impassible. He held his head down, and seemed afraid to keep his ears open. In this wise they reached the basement of the Bertaudière, the two first storeys 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 dying 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 respects to the other beds in the Bastille, save that it was newer, and under curtains half-drawn, reposed a young man. 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 favoured in being allowed to keep it burning even till then. Near the bed a large leather 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 recent repast. 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 cause 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.

  “Have you not desired a confessor,” replied Aramis.

  “Yes.”

  “Because you are 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 then?” said Aramis.

  “Why, then—being better, I have no longer the same need of a confessor, I think.”

  “Not even of the haircloth, 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 listen.”

  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 Bastille 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 nervous limbs of twenty years of age may 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 perfume, 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 so necessary to life!”

  “Well, monsieur,” returned the prisoner; “draw near to the window; it is open. Between heaven and earth the wind whirls on its storms of hail and lightning, wafts its warm mists 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 in 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, and which lights up the hangings of my bed down to the border. This luminous square increases from ten o’clock to midday and decreases from one till three slowly, as if, having hastened to come, it sorrowed at leaving me. 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 labourers who toil in mines, and 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 favoured 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, and whose rays were playing over my eyes.” 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 my 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 the warm, 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 forget Heaven.”

  “Indeed I have forgotten Heaven,” answered 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.

  “So be it,” said Aramis; “but let us return to our starting point.”

  “I desire nothing better,” returned the young man.

  “I am your confessor.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, you ought, as a penitent, to tell me the truth.”

  “All that I wish is to tell it to 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 that 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, but through the joints of the harness.

  “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 any further 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 for you, came here promising a world of confidence; how is it that, nevertheless, it is you who are silent, and ’tis I who 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 ambition?” replied the youth.

  “It is,” replied Aramis, “a feeling which prompts a man to desire more than he has.”

  “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; ’tis all I wish.”

  “An ambitious man,” said Aramis, “is one who covets what 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, if I but dared, I would take your hand and would 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 be not astonished that I am mistrustful, since you suspect me of knowing what I know not.”

  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.”