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

by Alexandre Dumas

  This was the manner in which Athos and Raoul were, as usual, conversing, and walking backwards and forwards in the long alley of limes in the park, when the bell which served to announce to the Comte either the hour of dinner or the arrival of a visitor, was rung; and, without attaching any importance to it, he turned towards the house with his son; and at the end of the alley they found themselves in the presence of Aramis and Porthos.

  54

  The Last Adieux

  RAOUL UTTERED A CRY, and affectionately embraced Porthos. Aramis and Athos embraced like old men; and this embrace itself being a question for Aramis, he immediately said, “My friend, we have not long to remain with you.”

  “Ah!” said the Comte.

  “Only time to tell you of my good fortune,” interrupted Porthos.

  “Ah!” said Raoul.

  Athos looked silently at Aramis, whose sombre air had already appeared to him very little in harmony with the good news Porthos spoke of.

  “What is the good fortune that has happened to you? Let us hear it,” said Raoul, with a smile.

  “The King has made me a duke,” said the worthy Porthos, with an air of mystery, in the ear of the young man, “a duke by brevet.”

  But the asides of Porthos were always loud enough to be heard by everybody. His murmurs were in the diapason of ordinary roaring. Athos heard him, and uttered an exclamation which made Aramis start. The latter took Athos by the arm, and, after having asked Porthos’s permission to say a word to his friend in private, “My dear Athos,” he began, “you see me overwhelmed with grief.”

  “With grief, my dear friend?” cried the Comte; “oh, what!”

  “In two words. I have raised a conspiracy against the King; that conspiracy has failed, and, at this moment, I am doubtless pursued.”

  “You are pursued!—a conspiracy! Eh! my friend, what do you tell me?”

  “A sad truth. I am entirely ruined.”

  “Well, but Porthos—this title of duke—what does all that mean?”

  “That is the subject of my severest pain; that is the deepest of my wounds. I have, believing in an infallible success, drawn Porthos into my conspiracy. He has thrown himself into it, as you know he would do, with all his strength, without knowing what he was about; and now, he is as much compromised as myself—as completely ruined as I am.”

  “Good God!” And Athos turned towards Porthos, who was smiling complacently.

  “I must make you acquainted with the whole. Listen to me,” continued Aramis; and he related the history as we know it. Athos, during the recital, several times felt the sweat break from his forehead. “It was a great idea,” said he, “but a great error.”

  “For which I am punished, Athos.”

  “Therefore, I will not tell you my entire thought.”

  “Tell it, nevertheless.”

  “It is a crime.”

  “Capital. I know it is. Lèse-majesté.”

  “Porthos! poor Porthos!”

  “What would you advise me to do? Success, as I have told you, was certain.”

  “M. Fouquet is an honest man.”

  “And I am a fool for having so ill judged of him,” said Aramis. “Oh! the wisdom of man! Oh, vast millstone which grinds the world! and which is one day stopped by a grain of sand which has fallen, no one knows how, in its wheels.”

  “Say, by a diamond, Aramis. But the thing is done. How do you think of acting?”

  “I am taking away Porthos. The King will never believe that that worthy man has acted innocently. He never can believe that Porthos has thought he was serving the King whilst acting as he has done. His head would pay for my fault. It shall not be so.”

  “You are taking him away; whither?”

  “To Belle-Isle, at first. That is an impregnable place of refuge. Then I have the sea, and a vessel to pass over into England, where I have many relations.”

  “You? in England?”

  “Yes, or else into Spain, where I have still more.”

  “But, our excellent Porthos! you ruin him, for the King will confiscate all his property.”

  “All is provided for. I know how, when once in Spain, to reconcile myself with Louis XIV, and restore Porthos to favour.”

  “You have credit, seemingly, Aramis,” said Athos, with a discreet air.

  “Much; and at the service of my friends.”

  These words were accompanied by a warm pressure of the hand.

  “Thank you,” replied the Comte.

  “And while we are on that head,” said Aramis, “you also are a malcontent; you also, Raoul, have griefs to lay to the King. Follow our example; pass over into Belle-Isle. Then we shall see, I guarantee upon my honour, that in a month there will be war between France and Spain on the subject of this son of Louis XIII, who is an Infanteai likewise, and whom France detains inhumanly. Now, as Louis XIV would have no inclination for a war on that subject, I will answer for a transaction, the result of which must bring greatness to Porthos and to me, and a duchy in France to you, who are already a grandee of Spain. Will you join us?”

  “No; for my part I prefer having something to reproach the King with; it is a pride natural to my race to pretend to a superiority over royal races. Doing what you propose, I should become the obliged of the King; I should certainly be a gainer on that ground, but I should be a loser in my conscience.—No, thank you!”

  “Then, give me two things, Athos,—your absolution.”

  “Oh! I give it you if you have really wished to avenge the weak and the oppressed against the oppressor.”

  “That is sufficient for me,” said Aramis, with a blush which was lost in the obscurity of the night. “And now, give me your two best horses to gain the second post, as I have been refused any under the pretext of the Duc de Beaufort being travelling in this country.”

  “You shall have the two best horses, Aramis: and I again recommend Porthos strongly to you.”

  “Oh! have no fear on that head. One word more; do you think I am manoeuvring for him as I ought?”

  “The evil being committed, yes; for the King would not pardon him, and you have, whatever may be said, always a supporter in M. Fouquet, who will not abandon you, he being himself compromised, notwithstanding his heroic action.”

  “You are right. And that is why, instead of gaining the sea at once, which would proclaim my fear and guilt, that is why I remain upon French ground. But Belle-Isle will be for me whatever ground I wish it to be—English, Spanish, or Roman; all will consist, with me, in the standard I shall think proper to unfurl.”

  “How so?”

  “It was I who fortified Belle-Isle; and whilst I defend it, nobody can take Belle-Isle from me. And then, as you have said just now, M. Fouquet is there. Belle-Isle will not be attacked without the signature of M. Fouquet.”

  “That is true. Nevertheless, be prudent. The King is both cunning and strong,” Aramis smiled.

  “I again recommend Porthos to you,” repeated the Comte, with a sort of cold persistence.

  “Whatever becomes of me, Comte,” replied Aramis, in the same tone, “our brother Porthos will fare as I do.”

  Athos bowed whilst pressing the hand of Aramis, and turned to embrace Porthos with much emotion.

  “I was born lucky, was I not?” murmured the latter, transported with happiness, as he folded his cloak round him.

  “Come, my dear friend,” said Aramis.

  Raoul was gone out to give orders for the saddling of the horses. The group was already divided. Athos saw his two friends on the point of departure, and something like a mist pressed before his eyes, and weighed upon his heart.

  “It is strange,” thought he; “whence comes the inclination I feel to embrace Porthos once more?” At that moment Porthos turned round, and he came towards his old friend with open arms. This last endearment was tender as in youth, as in times when the heart was warm and life happy. And then Porthos mounted his horse. Aramis came back once more to throw his arms round the neck of A
thos. The latter watched them along the high road, elongated by the shade, in their white cloaks. Like two phantoms, they seemed to be enlarged on departing from the earth, and it was not in the mist, but in the declivity of the ground that they disappeared. At the end of the perspective, both seemed to have given a spring with their feet, which made them vanish as if evaporated into the clouds.

  Then Athos, with an oppressed heart, returned towards the house, saying to Bragelonne, “Raoul, I don’t know what it is that has just told me that I have seen these two men for the last time.”

  “It does not astonish me, monsieur, that you should have such a thought,” replied the young man, “for I have at this moment the same, and think also that I shall never see MM. du Vallon and d’Herblay again.”

  “Oh, you!” replied the Comte, “you speak like a man rendered sad by another cause; you see everything in black; you are young, and if you chance never to see those old friends again, it will be because they no longer exist in the world in which you have many years to pass. But I—”

  Raoul shook his head sadly, and leant upon the shoulder of the Comte, without either of them finding another word in their hearts, which were ready to overflow.

  All at once a noise of horses and voices, from the extremity of the road to Blois, attracted their attention that way. Flambeaux-bearers shook their torches merrily among the trees of their route, and turned round, from time to time, to avoid distancing the horsemen who followed them. These flames, this noise, this dust of a dozen richly caparisoned horses, formed a strange contrast in the middle of the night with the melancholy funereal disappearance of the two shadows of Aramis and Porthos. Athos went towards the house; but he had hardly reached the parterre, when the entrance gate appeared in a blaze; all the flambeaux stopped and appeared to enflame the road. A cry was heard of “M. le Duc de Beaufort”—and Athos sprang towards the door of his house. But the Duc had already alighted from his horse, and was looking around him.

  “I am here, monseigneur,” said Athos.

  “Ah! good evening, dear Comte,” said the Prince, with that frank cordiality which won him so many hearts. “Is it too late for a friend?”

  “Ah! my dear Prince—come in!” said the Comte.

  And, M. de Beaufort, leaning on the arm of Athos, they entered the house, followed by Raoul, who walked respectfully and modestly among the officers of the Prince, with several of whom he was acquainted.

  55

  Monsieur de Beaufort

  THE PRINCE TURNED ROUND at the moment when Raoul, in order to leave him alone with Athos, was shutting the door, and preparing to go with the other officers into an adjoining apartment.

  “Is that the young man I have heard M. le Princeaj speak so highly of?” asked M. de Beaufort.

  “It is, monseigneur.”

  “He is quite the soldier; let him stay, Comte; we cannot spare him.”

  “Remain, Raoul, since monseigneur permits it,” said Athos. “Ma foi! he is tall and handsome!” continued the Duke. “Will you give him to me, monseigneur if I ask him of you?”

  “How am I to understand you, monseigneur?” said Athos.

  “Why, I call upon you to bid you farewell.”

  “Farewell! ”

  “Yes, in good truth. Have you no idea of what I am about to become?”

  “Why, I suppose, what you have always been, monseigneur, —a valiant Prince, and an excellent gentleman.”

  “I am going to become an African Prince,—a Bedouin gentleman. The King is sending me to make conquests among the Arabs.”

  “What do you tell me, monseigneur?”

  “Strange, is it not? I, Parisian of the Parisians,—I, who have reigned in the faubourgs, and have been called King of the Halles,—I am going to pass from the Place Maubert to the minarets of Gigelli; I become from a Frondeur an adventurer!”

  “Oh, monseigneur, if you did not yourself tell me that—”

  “It would not be credible, would it? Believe me, nevertheless, and we have but to bid each other farewell. This is what comes of getting into favour again.”

  “Into favour?”

  “Yes. You smile. Ah, my dear Comte, do you know why I have accepted this enterprise?—can you guess?”

  “Because your Highness loves glory above everything.”

  “Oh! no; there is no glory in firing muskets at savages. I see no glory in that, for my part, and it is more probable that I shall there meet with something else. But I have wished, and still wish earnestly, my dear Comte, that my life should have that last facet, after all the whimsical exhibitions I have seen myself make during fifty years. For, in short, you must admit that it is sufficiently strange to be born the grandson of a king, to have made war against kings, to have been reckoned among the powers of the age, to have maintained my rank, to feel Henry VI within me, to be great admiral of France—and then to go and get killed at Gigelli, among all those Turks, Saracens, and Moors.”

  “Monseigneur, you dwell strangely upon that subject,” said Athos, in an agitated voice. “How can you suppose that so brilliant a destiny will be extinguished in that remote and miserable scene?”

  “And can you believe, just and simple man as you are, that if I go into Africa for this ridiculous motive, I will not endeavour to come out of it without ridicule? Will I not give the world cause to speak of me? And to be spoken of, nowadays, when there are M. le Prince, M. de Turenne, and many others, my contemporaries, I, admiral of France, grandson of Henry IV, King of Paris, have I anything left but to get myself killed? Cordieu! I will be talked of, I tell you; I shall be killed, whether or not; if not there, somewhere else.”

  “Why, monseigneur, this is only exaggeration; and hitherto you have demonstrated nothing of that kind but in bravery.”

  “Peste! my dear friend, there is bravery in facing scurvy, dysentery, locusts, and poisoned arrows, as my ancestor St. Louis did. Do you know those fellows still use poisoned arrows? And then, you know me of old, I fancy, and you know that when I once make up my mind to a thing, I do it in earnest.”

  “Yes, you made up your mind to escape from Vincennes.”

  “Ay, but you aided me in that, my master; and, by the way, I turn this way and turn that, without seeing my old friend, M. Vaugrimaud. How is he?”

  “M. Vaugrimaud is still your Highness’s most respectful servant,” said Athos, smiling.

  “I have a hundred pistoles here for him, which I bring as a legacy. My will is made, Comte.”

  “Ah! monseigneur! monseigneur!”

  “And you may understand that if Grimaud’s name were to appear in my will—” The Duc began to laugh; then, addressing Raoul, who, from the commencement of this conversation had sunk into a profound reverie, “Young man,” said he, “I know there is to be found here a certain Vouvray wine, and I believe—” Raoul left the room precipitately to order the wine. In the meantime M. de Beaufort took the hand of Athos.

  “What do you mean to do with him?” asked he.

  “Nothing, at present, monseigneur.”

  “Ah! yes, I know; since the passion of the King for La Vallière.”

  “Yes, monseigneur.”

  “That is all true, then, is it? I think I know her, that little La Vallière. She is not particularly handsome, if I remember right?”

  “No, monseigneur,” said Athos.

  “Do you know whom she reminds me of?”

  “Does she remind your Highness of any one?”

  “She reminds me of a very agreeable girl, whose mother lived in the Halles.”

  “Ah! ah!” said Athos, smiling.

  “Oh! the good old times,” added M. de Beaufort. “Yes, La Vallière reminds me of that girl.”

  “Who had a son, had she not?”

  “I believe she had,” replied the Duc, with careless naïveté, and a complaisant forgetfulness, of which no words could translate the tone and the vocal expression. “Now, here is poor Raoul, who is your son, I believe.”

  “Yes, he is my son, monse
igneur.”

  “And the poor lad has been cut out by the King, and he frets.”

  “Better than that, monseigneur, he abstains.”

  “You are going to let the boy rust in idleness; you are wrong. Come, give him to me.”

  “My wish is to keep him at home, monseigneur. I have no longer anything in the world but him, and as long as he wishes to remain—”

  “Well, well,” replied the Duc. “I could, nevertheless, have soon put matters to rights again. I assure you, I think he has in him the stuff of which maréchals of France are made; I have seen more than one produced from such.”

  “That is very possible, monseigneur; but it is the King who makes maréchals of France, and Raoul will never accept anything of the King.”