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

by Alexandre Dumas

  He replied that he had just come from the land of oranges. This set all the ladies laughing. Those were times in which everybody travelled, but in which, notwithstanding, a journey of a hundred leagues was a problem often solved by death.

  “‘From the land of oranges?’ ” cried Mademoiselle de Tonnay Charente.ak “From Spain?”

  “Eh! eh!” said the musketeer.

  “From Malta?” said Montalais.

  “Ma foi! You are coming very near, ladies.”

  “Is it an island?” asked La Vallière.

  “Mademoiselle,” said d’Artagnan; “I will not give you the trouble of seeking any further; I come from the country where M. de Beaufort is, at this moment, embarking for Algiers.”

  “Have you seen the army?” said several warlike fair ones.

  “As plainly as I see you,” replied d’Artagnan.

  “And the fleet?”

  “Yes; I saw everything.”

  “Have we any of us any friends there?” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente coldly, but in a manner to attract attention to a question that was not without a calculated aim.

  “Why,” replied d’Artagnan, “yes; there were M. de la Guillotière, M. de Manchy, M. de Bragelonne—”

  La Vallière became pale. “M. de Bragelonne!” cried the perfidious Athenais. “Eh, what!—is he gone to the wars?—he!”

  Montalais trod upon her toe, but in vain.

  “Do you know what my opinion is?” continued she, addressing d’Artagnan.

  “No, mademoiselle; but I should like very much to know it.”

  “My opinion is, then, that all the men who go to this war are desperate, desponding men, whom love has treated ill; and who go to try if they cannot find black women more kind than fair ones have been.”

  Some of the ladies laughed. La Vallière was evidently confused. Montalais coughed loud enough to waken the dead.

  “Mademoiselle,” interrupted d’Artagnan, “you are in error when you speak of black women at Gigelli; the women there are not black; it is true, they are not white—they are yellow.”

  “Yellow!” exclaimed the bevy of fair beauties.

  “Eh! do not disparage it. I have never seen a finer colour to match with black eyes and a coral mouth.”

  “So much the better for M. de Bragelonne,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, with persistent malice. “He will make amends for his loss. Poor fellow!”

  A profound silence followed these words; and d’Artagnan had time to observe and reflect that women—those mild doves—treat each other much more cruelly than tigers and bears. But making La Vallière pale did not satisfy Athenais; she determined to make her blush likewise. Resuming the conversation without pause, “Do you know, Louise,” said she, “that that is a great sin on your conscience?”

  “What sin, mademoiselle?” stammered the unfortunate girl, looking round her for support, without finding it.

  “Eh!—why?” continued Athenaïs, “the poor young man was affianced to you; he loved you, you cast him off.”

  “Well, and that is a right every honest woman has,” said Montalais, in an affected tone. “When we know we cannot constitute the happiness of a man, it is much better to cast him off. ”

  “Cast him off! or refuse him!—that’s all very well,” said Athenais, “but that is not the sin Mademoiselle de la Vallière has to reproach herself with. The actual sin is sending poor Bragelonne to the wars; and to wars in which death is to be met with.” Louise pressed her hand over her icy brow. “And if he dies,” continued her pitiless tormentor, “you will have killed him. That is the sin.”

  Louise, half-dead, caught at the arm of the captain of the musketeers, whose face betrayed unusual emotion. “You wished to speak with me, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said she, in a voice broken by anger and pain. “What had you to say to me?”

  D’Artagnan made several steps along the gallery, holding Louise on his arm; then, when they were far enough removed from the others—“What I had to say to you, mademoiselle,” replied he, “Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente has just expressed ; roughly, and unkindly, it is true, but still in its entirety.”

  She uttered a faint cry; and, struck to the heart by this new wound, she went on her way, like one of those poor birds which, struck to death, seeks the shade of the thicket to die in. She disappeared at one door, at the moment the King was entering by another. The first glance of the King was directed towards the empty seat of his mistress. Not perceiving La Vallière, a frown came over his brow; but as soon as he saw d‘Artagnan, who bowed to him—“Ah! monsieur!” cried he, “you have been diligent! I am much pleased with you.” This was the superlative expression of royal satisfaction. Many men would have been ready to lay down their lives for such a speech from the King. The maids of honour and the courtiers, who had formed a respectful circle round the King on his entrance, drew back, on observing he wished to speak privately with his captain of the musketeers. The King led the way out of the gallery, after having again, with his eyes, sought everywhere for La Vallière, whose absence he could not account for. The moment they were out of the reach of curious ears, “Well! Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said he, “the prisoner?”

  “Is in his prison, sire.”

  “What did he say on the road?”

  “Nothing, sire.”

  “What did he do?”

  “There was a moment at which the fisherman—who took me in his boat to Sainte-Marguerite—revolted, and did his best to kill me. The—the prisoner defended me instead of attempting to fly.”

  The King became pale. “Enough!” said he; and d’Artagnan bowed. Louis walked about his cabinet with hasty steps. “Were you at Antibes,” said he, “when Monsieur de Beaufort came there?”

  “No, sire; I was setting off when Monsieur le Duc arrived.”

  “Ah!” which was followed by a fresh silence. “Whom did you see there?”

  “A great many persons,” said d’Artagnan coolly.

  The King perceived that he was unwilling to speak. “I have sent for you, captain, to desire you to go and prepare my lodgings at Nantes.”

  “At Nantes!” cried d’Artagnan.

  “In Bretagne.”

  “Yes, sire, it is in Bretagne. Will your Majesty make so long a journey as to Nantes?”

  “The States are assembled there,” replied the King. “I have two demands to make of them: I wish to be there.”19

  “When shall I set out?” said the captain.

  “This evening—to-morrow—to-morrow evening; for you must stand in need of rest.”

  “I have rested, sire.”

  “That is well. Then between this and to-morrow evening, when you please.”

  D’Artagnan bowed as if to take his leave; but, perceiving the King very much embarrassed, “Will your Majesty,” said he, stepping two paces forward, “take the court with you?”

  “Certainly I shall.”

  “Then your Majesty will, doubtless, want the musketeers?” And the eye of the King sank beneath the penetrating glance of the captain.

  “Take a brigade of them,” replied Louis.

  “Is that all? Has your Majesty no other orders to give me?”

  “No—ah—yes.”

  “I am all attention, sire.”

  “At the castle of Nantes, which I hear is very ill arranged, you will adopt the practice of placing musketeers at the door of each of the principal dignitaries I shall take with me.”

  “Of the principal?”

  “Yes.”

  “For instance, at the door of M. de Lyonne?”

  “Yes.”

  “At that of M. Litellier?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of M. de Brienne?”

  “Yes.”

  “And of Monsieur le Surintendant?”

  “Without doubt.”

  “Very well, sire. By to-morrow I shall have set out.”

  “Oh, yes; but one more word, Monsieur d’Artagnan. At Nantes you will meet with M. le Duc de Gesvres,
captain of the guards. Be sure that your musketeers are placed before his guards arrive. Precedence always belongs to the first comer.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “And if M. de Gesvres should question you?”

  “Question me, sire? Is it likely that M. de Gesvres should question me?” And the musketeer, turning cavalierly on his heel, disappeared. “To Nantes!” said he to himself, as he descended the stairs. “Why did he not dare to say, from thence to Belle-Isle?”

  As he reached the great gates, one of M. de Brienne’s clerks came running after him, exclaiming, “Monsieur d’Artagnan! I beg your pardon—”

  “What is the matter, Monsieur Ariste?”

  “The King has desired me to give you this order.”

  “Upon your cash-box?” asked the musketeer.

  “No, monsieur; upon that of M. Fouquet.”

  D‘Artagnan was surprised, but he took the order, which was in the King’s own writing, and was for two hundred pistoles. “What!” thought he, after having politely thanked M. de Brienne’s clerk, “M. Fouquet is to pay for the journey, then! Mordioux! that is a bit of pure Louis XI! Why was not this order upon the coffers of M. Colbert? He would have paid it with such joy.” And d’Artagnan, faithful to his principle of never letting an order at sight get cold, went straight to the house of M. Fouquet, to receive his two hundred pistoles.

  63

  The Last Supper

  THE SURINTENDANT HAD NO doubt received advice of the approaching departure, for he was giving a farewell dinner to his friends. From the bottom to the top of the house, the hurry of the servants bearing dishes, and the diligence of the clerks, denoted an approaching change in both offices and kitchen. D’Artagnan, with his order in his hand, presented himself at the bureaux, when he was told it was too late to pay cash, the chest was closed. He only replied—“On the King’s service.”

  The clerk, a little put out by the serious air of the captain, replied that that was a very respectable reason, but that the customs of the house were respectable likewise; and that, in consequence, he begged the bearer to call again next day. D‘Artagnan asked if he could not see M. Fouquet. The clerk replied that M. le Surintendant did not interfere with such details ; and rudely closed the outer door in d’Artagnan’s face. But the latter had foreseen this stroke, and placed his boot between the door and the door-case, so that the lock did not catch, and the clerk was still nose to nose with his interlocutor. This made him change his tone, and say, with terrified politeness, “If monsieur wishes to speak to M. le Surintendant, he must go to the antechambers; these are the offices where monseigneur never comes.”

  “Oh! very well! Where are they?” replied d’Artagnan.

  “On the other side of the court,” said the clerk, delighted at being free.

  D’Artagnan crossed the court, and fell in with a crowd of servants.

  “Monseigneur sees nobody at this hour,” he was answered by a fellow carrying a vermeil dish, in which were three pheasants and twelve quails.

  “Tell him,” said the captain, laying hold of the servant by the end of his dish, “that I am M. d’Artagnan, captain of His Majesty’s musketeers.”

  The fellow uttered a cry of surprise and disappeared; d’Artagnan following him slowly. He arrived just in time to meet M. Pelisson in the antechamber: the latter a little pale, came hastily out of the dining-room to learn what was the matter—d’ Artagnan smiled.

  “There is nothing unpleasant, Monsieur Pélisson; only a little order I want cashed.”

  “Ah!” said Fouquet’s friend, breathing more freely; and he took the captain by the hand, and, dragging him behind him, led him into the dining-room, where a number of friends surrounded the Surintendant, placed in the centre, and buried in the cushions of a chair. There were assembled all the Epicureans who so lately at Vaux did the honours of the mansion of wit and money of M. Fouquet. Joyous friends, for the most part faithful, they had not fled their protector at the approach of the storm, and, in spite of the threatening heavens, in spite of the trembling earth, they remained there, smiling, cheerful, as devoted to misfortune as they had been to prosperity. On the left of the Surintendant was Madame de Bellière; on his right was Madame Fouquet; as if braving the laws of the world, and putting all vulgar reasons of propriety to silence, the two protecting angels of this man united to offer him, at the moment of the crisis, the support of their intertwined arms. Madame de Bellière was pale, trembling, and full of respectful attentions for Madame le Surintendante, who with one hand on the hand of her husband, was looking anxiously towards the door by which Pélisson had gone out to bring in d’Artagnan. The captain entered at first full of courtesy, and afterwards of admiration, when, with his infallible glance, he had divined as well as taken in the expression of every face. Fouquet raised himself up in his chair.

  “Pardon me, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said he, “if I did not come to receive you when coming in the King’s name,” and he pronounced the last words with a sort of melancholy firmness which filled the hearts of his friends with terror.

  “Monseigneur,” replied d’Artagnan, “I only come to you in the King’s name to demand payment of an order for two hundred pistoles.”

  The clouds passed from every brow but that of Fouquet, which still remained overcast.

  “Ah! then,” said he, “perhaps you are also setting out for Nantes?”

  “I do not know whither I am setting out for, monseigneur.”

  “But,” said Madame Fouquet, recovered from her fright, “you are not going so soon, captain, as not to do us the honour to take a seat with us?”

  “Madame, I should esteem that a great honour done to me, but I am so pressed for time, that, you see, I have been obliged to permit myself to interrupt your repast to procure payment of my note.”

  “The reply to which shall be gold,” said Fouquet, making a sign to his Intendant, who went out with the order which d’Artagnan handed to him.

  “Oh!” said the latter, “I was not uneasy about the payment; the house is good.”

  A painful smile passed over the pale features of Fouquet.

  “Are you in pain?” asked Madame de Bellière.

  “Do you feel your attack coming on?” asked Madame Fouquet.

  “Neither, thank you both,” said Fouquet.

  “Your attack?” said d’Artagnan in his turn; “are you unwell, monseigneur?”

  “I have a tertian fever, which seized me after the fête at Vaux.”

  “Caught cold in the grottos at night, perhaps?”

  “No, no; nothing but agitation, that was all.”

  “The too much heart you displayed in your reception of the King,” said La Fontaine quietly, without suspicion that he was uttering a sacrilege.

  “We cannot devote too much heart to the reception of our King,” said Fouquet, mildly, to his poet.