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

by Alexandre Dumas

  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; then there was neither a glass nor a mirror in the house,” answered the young man.

  Aramis looked round him. “Nor is there 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 edifice 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 presume 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 troubles of the times and the struggles 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 an heir; a care which weighs heavily on princes, who desire to leave behind them more than one pledge that their 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 could now give; for it refers to a secret which they think buried with the dead or 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 entrusting it to one who has no desire to quit the Bastille.”

  “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 gaily 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 the affair than he had owned to, “I thought that Monsieur was only born a—”

  Aramis raised his finger: “Let me 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 he who 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 recognised only two hours before; and so this second son, relying on party interests and caprices, might one day sow discord and engender civil war in 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 the profoundest 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 arouse in my soul curiosity, hatred, ambition, and, perhaps, even the thirst of vengeance; except you, monsieur, who, if you are the man 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, lifelike, 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,” repli
ed the captive; “the King will never set me free.”

  “And I—I demand,” added the Bishop, fixing his piercing eyes significantly upon the prisoner, “I demand which of the two is the King; the one whom 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 here. Royalty is power; and you see well 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 he who, 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 all the proofs of your birth; consult them; satisfy yourself that you are a king’s son; and then let us 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’Orléans, 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 ones.”

  “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 the very shame of history, and 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 honour to offer myself to your Royal Highness.

  “Oh, do not style me so, monsieur; ’tis either treachery or cruelty! Bid me not think of ought else than these prison walls, which 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 for ever 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 that, before telling me all that you have done, that you have broken my heart for ever?”

  “And so I desired to do, monseigneur.”

  “To talk to me about power, grandeur, and even royalty. Is a prison the fitting place? You wish to make me believe in splendour, and we are lying hidden in night; you boast of glory, and we are smothering our words in the curtains of this miserable bed; you give me glimpses of absolute power, and I hear the step of the 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 Bastille; 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 Bastille; 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 thus much for me, would seem more than mortal in my eyes; but as you tell me I am a prince, brother of a 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 will you make me prevail in those combats—render me invulnerable by my enemies? Ah! monsieur reflect upon this; place me, to-morrow, in some dark cavern in a mountain’s base; yield me the delight of hearing in freedom the sounds of river and plain, 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! 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 on earth, 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, I pity him not.”

  “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 all men, and 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 to 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, and 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 to the resemblance that Heaven has given me to my brother?”

&nbs
p; “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 similar in her womb; and I conclude that the object of punishment should be only to restore the equilibrium.”

  “By which you mean—”

  “That if I restore you your place on your brother’s throne, he shall take yours in prison.”

  “Alas! there is so much suffering in prison, especially to a man 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, may 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 Bastille.”

  “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 upon me these eight years.”

  “Monseigneur, wait the result 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 lustre on my race by deeds of valour, or by solid benefits bestowed upon my people; if, from my present depth of sorrow, aided by your generous hand, I raise myself to the very height of honour, 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.”