Tantissimi classici della letteratura e della cultura politica,
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Abbe Prevost - MANON LESCAUT
Alcott, Louisa M. - AN OLDFASHIONED GIRL
Alcott, Louisa M. - LITTLE MEN
Alcott, Louisa M. - LITTLE WOMEN
Alcott, Louisa May - JACK AND JILL
Alcott, Louisa May - LIFE LETTERS AND JOURNALS
Andersen, Hans Christian - FAIRY TALES
Anonimo - BEOWULF
Ariosto, Ludovico - ORLANDO ENRAGED
Aurelius, Marcus - MEDITATIONS
Austen, Jane - EMMA
Austen, Jane - MANSFIELD PARK
Austen, Jane - NORTHANGER ABBEY
Austen, Jane - PERSUASION
Austen, Jane - PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
Austen, Jane - SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
Authors, Various - LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE
Authors, Various - SELECTED ENGLISH LETTERS
Autori Vari - THE WORLD ENGLISH BIBLE
Bacon, Francis - THE ADVANCEMENT OF LEARNING
Balzac, Honore de - EUGENIE GRANDET
Balzac, Honore de - FATHER GORIOT
Baroness Orczy - THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
Barrie, J. M. - PETER AND WENDY
Barrie, James M. - PETER PAN
Bierce, Ambrose - THE DEVIL'S DICTIONARY
Blake, William - SONGS OF INNOCENCE AND EXPERIENCE
Boccaccio, Giovanni - DECAMERONE
Brent, Linda - INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF A SLAVE GIRL
Bronte, Charlotte - JANE EYRE
Bronte, Charlotte - VILLETTE
Buchan, John - GREENMANTLE
Buchan, John - MR STANDFAST
Buchan, John - THE 39 STEPS
Bunyan, John - THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS
Burckhardt, Jacob - THE CIVILIZATION OF THE RENAISSANCE IN ITALY
Burnett, Frances H. - A LITTLE PRINCESS
Burnett, Frances H. - LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY
Burnett, Frances H. - THE SECRET GARDEN
Butler, Samuel - EREWHON
Carlyle, Thomas - PAST AND PRESENT
Carlyle, Thomas - THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
Cellini, Benvenuto - AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Cervantes - DON QUIXOTE
Chaucer, Geoffrey - THE CANTERBURY TALES
Chesterton, G. K. - A SHORT HISTORY OF ENGLAND
Chesterton, G. K. - THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE
Chesterton, G. K. - THE INNOCENCE OF FATHER BROWN
Chesterton, G. K. - THE MAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
Chesterton, G. K. - THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY
Chesterton, G. K. - THE WISDOM OF FATHER BROWN
Chesterton, G. K. - TWELVE TYPES
Chesterton, G. K. - WHAT I SAW IN AMERICA
Chesterton, Gilbert K. - HERETICS
Chopin, Kate - AT FAULT
Chopin, Kate - BAYOU FOLK
Chopin, Kate - THE AWAKENING AND SELECTED SHORT STORIES
Clark Hall, John R. - A CONCISE ANGLOSAXON DICTIONARY
Clarkson, Thomas - AN ESSAY ON THE SLAVERY AND COMMERCE OF THE HUMAN SPECIES
Clausewitz, Carl von - ON WAR
Coleridge, Herbert - A DICTIONARY OF THE FIRST OR OLDEST WORDS IN THE ENGLISH
Coleridge, S. T. - COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS
Coleridge, S. T. - HINTS TOWARDS THE FORMATION OF A MORE COMPREHENSIVE THEORY
Coleridge, S. T. - THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER
Collins, Wilkie - THE MOONSTONE
Collodi - PINOCCHIO
Conan Doyle, Arthur - A STUDY IN SCARLET
Conan Doyle, Arthur - MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
Conan Doyle, Arthur - THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES
Conan Doyle, Arthur - THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
Conan Doyle, Arthur - THE SIGN OF THE FOUR
Conrad, Joseph - HEART OF DARKNESS
Conrad, Joseph - LORD JIM
Conrad, Joseph - NOSTROMO
Conrad, Joseph - THE NIGGER OF THE NARCISSUS
Conrad, Joseph - TYPHOON
Crane, Stephen - LAST WORDS
Crane, Stephen - MAGGIE
Crane, Stephen - THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE
Crane, Stephen - WOUNDS IN THE RAIN
Dante - THE DIVINE COMEDY: HELL
Dante - THE DIVINE COMEDY: PARADISE
Dante - THE DIVINE COMEDY: PURGATORY
Darwin, Charles - THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF CHARLES DARWIN
Darwin, Charles - THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES
Defoe, Daniel - A GENERAL HISTORY OF THE PYRATES
Defoe, Daniel - A JOURNAL OF THE PLAGUE YEAR
Defoe, Daniel - CAPTAIN SINGLETON
Defoe, Daniel - MOLL FLANDERS
Defoe, Daniel - ROBINSON CRUSOE
Defoe, Daniel - THE COMPLETE ENGLISH TRADESMAN
Defoe, Daniel - THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE
Deledda, Grazia - AFTER THE DIVORCE
Dickens, Charles - A CHRISTMAS CAROL
Dickens, Charles - A TALE OF TWO CITIES
Dickens, Charles - BLEAK HOUSE
Dickens, Charles - DAVID COPPERFIELD
Dickens, Charles - DONBEY AND SON
Dickens, Charles - GREAT EXPECTATIONS
Dickens, Charles - HARD TIMES
Dickens, Charles - LETTERS VOLUME 1
Dickens, Charles - LITTLE DORRIT
Dickens, Charles - MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT
Dickens, Charles - NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
Dickens, Charles - OLIVER TWIST
Dickens, Charles - OUR MUTUAL FRIEND
Dickens, Charles - PICTURES FROM ITALY
Dickens, Charles - THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD
Dickens, Charles - THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP
Dickens, Charles - THE PICKWICK PAPERS
Dickinson, Emily - POEMS
Dostoevsky, Fyodor - CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor - THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV
Du Maurier, George - TRILBY
Dumas, Alexandre - THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO
Dumas, Alexandre - THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK
Dumas, Alexandre - THE THREE MUSKETEERS
Eliot, George - DANIEL DERONDA
Eliot, George - MIDDLEMARCH
Eliot, George - SILAS MARNER
Eliot, George - THE MILL ON THE FLOSS
Engels, Frederick - THE CONDITION OF THE WORKING-CLASS IN ENGLAND IN 1844
Equiano - AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Esopo - FABLES
Fenimore Cooper, James - THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS
Fielding, Henry - TOM JONES
France, Anatole - THAIS
France, Anatole - THE GODS ARE ATHIRST
France, Anatole - THE LIFE OF JOAN OF ARC
France, Anatole - THE SEVEN WIVES OF BLUEBEARD
Frank Baum, L. - THE PATCHWORK GIRL OF OZ
Frank Baum, L. - THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ
Franklin, Benjamin - AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Frazer, James George - THE GOLDEN BOUGH
Freud, Sigmund - DREAM PSYCHOLOGY
Galsworthy, John - COMPLETE PLAYS
Galsworthy, John - STRIFE
Galsworthy, John - STUDIES AND ESSAYS
Galsworthy, John - THE FIRST AND THE LAST
Galsworthy, John - THE FORSYTE SAGA
Galsworthy, John - THE LITTLE MAN
Galsworthy, John - THE SILVER BOX
Galsworthy, John - THE SKIN GAME
Gaskell, Elizabeth - CRANFORD
Gaskell, Elizabeth - MARY BARTON
Gaskell, Elizabeth - NORTH AND SOUTH
Gaskell, Elizabeth - THE LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE
Gay, John - THE BEGGAR'S OPERA
Gentile, Maria - THE ITALIAN COOK BOOK
Gilbert and Sullivan - PLAYS
Goethe - FAUST
Gogol - DEAD SOULS
Goldsmith, Oliver - SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER
Goldsmith, Oliver - THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
Grahame, Kenneth - THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS
Grimm, Brothers - FAIRY TALES
Harding, A. R. - GINSENG AND OTHER MEDICINAL PLANTS
Hardy, Thomas - A CHANGED MAN AND OTHER TALES
Hardy, Thomas - FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD
Hardy, Thomas - JUDE THE OBSCURE
Hardy, Thomas - TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES
Hardy, Thomas - THE MAYOR OF CASTERBRIDGE
Hartley, Cecil B. - THE GENTLEMEN'S BOOK OF ETIQUETTE
Hawthorne, Nathaniel - LITTLE MASTERPIECES
Hawthorne, Nathaniel - THE SCARLET LETTER
Henry VIII - LOVE LETTERS TO ANNE BOLEYN
Henry, O. - CABBAGES AND KINGS
Henry, O. - SIXES AND SEVENS
Henry, O. - THE FOUR MILLION
Henry, O. - THE TRIMMED LAMP
Henry, O. - WHIRLIGIGS
Hindman Miller, Gustavus - TEN THOUSAND DREAMS INTERPRETED
Hobbes, Thomas - LEVIATHAN
Homer - THE ILIAD
Homer - THE ODYSSEY
Hornaday, William T. - THE EXTERMINATION OF THE AMERICAN BISON
Hume, David - A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE
Hume, David - AN ENQUIRY CONCERNING HUMAN UNDERSTANDING
Hume, David - DIALOGUES CONCERNING NATURAL RELIGION
Ibsen, Henrik - A DOLL'S HOUSE
Ibsen, Henrik - AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE
Ibsen, Henrik - GHOSTS
Ibsen, Henrik - HEDDA GABLER
Ibsen, Henrik - JOHN GABRIEL BORKMAN
Ibsen, Henrik - ROSMERHOLM
Ibsen, Henrik - THE LADY FROM THE SEA
Ibsen, Henrik - THE MASTER BUILDER
Ibsen, Henrik - WHEN WE DEAD AWAKEN
Irving, Washington - THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW
James, Henry - ITALIAN HOURS
James, Henry - THE ASPERN PAPERS
James, Henry - THE BOSTONIANS
James, Henry - THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY
James, Henry - THE TURN OF THE SCREW
James, Henry - WASHINGTON SQUARE
Jerome, Jerome K. - THREE MEN IN A BOAT
Jerome, Jerome K. - THREE MEN ON THE BUMMEL
Jevons, Stanley - POLITICAL ECONOMY
Johnson, Samuel - A GRAMMAR OF THE ENGLISH TONGUE
Jonson, Ben - THE ALCHEMIST
Jonson, Ben - VOLPONE
Joyce, James - A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN
Joyce, James - CHAMBER MUSIC
Joyce, James - DUBLINERS
Joyce, James - ULYSSES
Keats, John - ENDYMION
Keats, John - POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1817
Keats, John - POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1820
King James - THE BIBLE
Kipling, Rudyard - CAPTAINS COURAGEOUS
Kipling, Rudyard - INDIAN TALES
Kipling, Rudyard - JUST SO STORIES
Kipling, Rudyard - KIM
Kipling, Rudyard - THE JUNGLE BOOK
Kipling, Rudyard - THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING
Kipling, Rudyard - THE SECOND JUNGLE BOOK
Lawrence, D. H - THE RAINBOW
Lawrence, D. H - THE WHITE PEACOCK
Lawrence, D. H - TWILIGHT IN ITALY
Lawrence, D. H. - AARON'S ROD
Lawrence, D. H. - SONS AND LOVERS
Lawrence, D. H. - THE LOST GIRL
Lawrence, D. H. - WOMEN IN LOVE
Lear, Edward - BOOK OF NONSENSE
Lear, Edward - LAUGHABLE LYRICS
Lear, Edward - MORE NONSENSE
Lear, Edward - NONSENSE SONG
Leblanc, Maurice - ARSENE LUPIN VS SHERLOCK HOLMES
Leblanc, Maurice - THE ADVENTURES OF ARSENE LUPIN
Leblanc, Maurice - THE CONFESSIONS OF ARSENE LUPIN
Leblanc, Maurice - THE HOLLOW NEEDLE
Leblanc, Maurice - THE RETURN OF ARSENE LUPIN
Lehmann, Lilli - HOW TO SING
Leroux, Gaston - THE MAN WITH THE BLACK FEATHER
Leroux, Gaston - THE MYSTERY OF THE YELLOW ROOM
Leroux, Gaston - THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA
London, Jack - MARTIN EDEN
London, Jack - THE CALL OF THE WILD
London, Jack - WHITE FANG
Machiavelli, Nicolo' - THE PRINCE
Malthus, Thomas - PRINCIPLE OF POPULATION
Mansfield, Katherine - THE GARDEN PARTY AND OTHER STORIES
Marlowe, Christopher - THE JEW OF MALTA
Marryat, Captain - THE CHILDREN OF THE NEW FOREST
Maupassant, Guy De - BEL AMI
Melville, Hermann - MOBY DICK
Melville, Hermann - TYPEE
Mill, John Stuart - PRINCIPLES OF POLITICAL ECONOMY
Milton, John - PARADISE LOST
Mitra, S. M. - HINDU TALES FROM THE SANSKRIT
Montaigne, Michel de - ESSAYS
Montgomery, Lucy Maud - ANNE OF GREEN GABLES
More, Thomas - UTOPIA
Nesbit, E. - FIVE CHILDREN AND IT
Nesbit, E. - THE PHOENIX AND THE CARPET
Nesbit, E. - THE RAILWAY CHILDREN
Nesbit, E. - THE STORY OF THE AMULET
Newton, Isaac - OPTICKS
Nietsche, Friedrich - BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL
Nietsche, Friedrich - THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA
Nightingale, Florence - NOTES ON NURSING
Owen, Wilfred - POEMS
Ozaki, Yei Theodora - JAPANESE FAIRY TALES
Pascal, Blaise - PENSEES
Pellico, Silvio - MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT
Perrault, Charles - FAIRY TALES
Pirandello, Luigi - THREE PLAYS
Plato - THE REPUBLIC
Poe, Edgar Allan - THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS 1
Poe, Edgar Allan - THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS 2
Poe, Edgar Allan - THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS 3
Poe, Edgar Allan - THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS 4
Poe, Edgar Allan - THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS 5
Poe, Edgar Allan - THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
Potter, Beatrix - THE TALE OF PETER RABBIT
Proust, Marcel - SWANN'S WAY
Radcliffe, Ann - A SICILIAN ROMANCE
Ricardo, David - ON THE PRINCIPLES OF POLITICAL ECONOMY AND TAXATION
Richardson, Samuel - PAMELA
Rider Haggard, H. - ALLAN QUATERMAIN
Rider Haggard, H. - KING SOLOMON'S MINES
Rousseau, J. J. - THE ORIGIN AND FOUNDATION OF INEQUALITY AMONG MANKIND
Ruskin, John - THE SEVEN LAMPS OF ARCHITECTURE
Schiller, Friedrich - THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN
Schiller, Friedrich - THE PICCOLOMINI
Schopenhauer, Arthur - THE ART OF CONTROVERSY
Schopenhauer, Arthur - THE WISDOM OF LIFE
Scott Fitzgerald, F. - FLAPPERS AND PHILOSOPHERS
Scott Fitzgerald, F. - TALES OF THE JAZZ AGE
Scott Fitzgerald, F. - THE BEAUTIFUL AND DAMNED
Scott Fitzgerald, F. - THIS SIDE OF PARADISE
Scott, Walter - IVANHOE
Scott, Walter - QUENTIN DURWARD
Scott, Walter - ROB ROY
Scott, Walter - THE BRIDE OF LAMMERMOOR
Scott, Walter - WAVERLEY
Sedgwick, Anne Douglas - THE THIRD WINDOW
Sewell, Anna - BLACK BEAUTY
Shakespeare, William - COMPLETE WORKS
Shakespeare, William - HAMLET
Shakespeare, William - OTHELLO
Shakespeare, William - ROMEO AND JULIET
Shelley, Mary - FRANKENSTEIN
Shelley, Percy Bysshe - A DEFENCE OF POETRY AND OTHER ESSAYS
Shelley, Percy Bysshe - COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS
Sheridan, Richard B. - THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL
Sienkiewicz, Henryk - QUO VADIS
Smith, Adam - THE WEALTH OF NATIONS
Smollett, Tobias - TRAVELS THROUGH FRANCE AND ITALY
Spencer, Herbert - ESSAYS ON EDUCATION AND KINDRED SUBJECTS
Spyri, Johanna - HEIDI
Sterne, Laurence - A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY
Sterne, Laurence - TRISTRAM SHANDY
Stevenson, Robert Louis - A CHILD'S GARDEN OF VERSES
Stevenson, Robert Louis - ESSAYS IN THE ART OF WRITING
Stevenson, Robert Louis - KIDNAPPED
Stevenson, Robert Louis - NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS
Stevenson, Robert Louis - THE BLACK ARROW
Stevenson, Robert Louis - THE STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE
Stevenson, Robert Louis - TREASURE ISLAND
Stoker, Bram - DRACULA
Strindberg, August - LUCKY PEHR
Strindberg, August - MASTER OLOF
Strindberg, August - THE RED ROOM
Strindberg, August - THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS
Strindberg, August - THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES
Swift, Jonathan - A MODEST PROPOSAL
Swift, Jonathan - A TALE OF A TUB
Swift, Jonathan - GULLIVER'S TRAVELS
Swift, Jonathan - THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS AND OTHER SHORT PIECES
Tagore, Rabindranath - FRUIT GATHERING
Tagore, Rabindranath - THE GARDENER
Tagore, Rabindranath - THE HUNGRY STONES AND OTHER STORIES
Thackeray, William - BARRY LYNDON
Thackeray, William - VANITY FAIR
Thackeray, William Makepeace - THE BOOK OF SNOBS
Thackeray, William Makepeace - THE ROSE AND THE RING
Thackeray, William Makepeace - THE VIRGINIANS
Thoreau, Henry David - WALDEN
Tolstoi, Leo - A LETTER TO A HINDU
Tolstoy, Lev - ANNA KARENINA
Tolstoy, Lev - WAR AND PEACE
Trollope, Anthony - AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Trollope, Anthony - BARCHESTER TOWERS
Trollope, Anthony - FRAMLEY PARSONAGE
Trollope, Anthony - THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS
Trollope, Anthony - THE MAN WHO KEPT HIS MONEY IN A BOX
Trollope, Anthony - THE WARDEN
Trollope, Anthony - THE WAY WE LIVE NOW
Twain, Mark - LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI
Twain, Mark - SPEECHES
Twain, Mark - THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN
Twain, Mark - THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER
Twain, Mark - THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER
Vari, Autori - THE MAGNA CARTA
Verga, Giovanni - SICILIAN STORIES
Verne, Jules - 20000 LEAGUES UNDER THE SEAS
Verne, Jules - A JOURNEY TO THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH
Verne, Jules - ALL AROUND THE MOON
Verne, Jules - AROUND THE WORLD IN 80 DAYS
Verne, Jules - FIVE WEEKS IN A BALLOON
Verne, Jules - FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON
Verne, Jules - MICHAEL STROGOFF
Verne, Jules - THE MYSTERIOUS ISLAND
Voltaire - PHILOSOPHICAL DICTIONARY
Vyasa - MAHABHARATA
Wallace, Edgar - SANDERS OF THE RIVER
Wallace, Edgar - THE DAFFODIL MYSTERY
Wallace, Lew - BEN HUR
Webster, Jean - DADDY LONG LEGS
Wedekind, Franz - THE AWAKENING OF SPRING
Wells, H. G. - KIPPS
Wells, H. G. - THE INVISIBLE MAN
Wells, H. G. - THE ISLAND OF DOCTOR MOREAU
Wells, H. G. - THE STOLEN BACILLUS AND OTHER INCIDENTS
Wells, H. G. - THE TIME MACHINE
Wells, H. G. - THE WAR OF THE WORLDS
Wells, H. G. - WHAT IS COMING
Wharton, Edith - THE AGE OF INNOCENCE
White, Andrew Dickson - FIAT MONEY INFLATION IN FRANCE
Wilde, Oscar - A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE
Wilde, Oscar - AN IDEAL HUSBAND
Wilde, Oscar - DE PROFUNDIS
Wilde, Oscar - LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN
Wilde, Oscar - SALOME
Wilde, Oscar - SELECTED POEMS
Wilde, Oscar - THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
Wilde, Oscar - THE CANTERVILLE GHOST
Wilde, Oscar - THE HAPPY PRINCE AND OTHER TALES
Wilde, Oscar - THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST
Wilde, Oscar - THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GREY
Wilde, Oscar - THE SOUL OF MAN
Wilson, Epiphanius - SACRED BOOKS OF THE EAST
Wollstonecraft, Mary - A VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN
Woolf, Virgina - NIGHT AND DAY
Woolf, Virgina - THE VOYAGE OUT
Woolf, Virginia - JACOB'S ROOM
Woolf, Virginia - MONDAY OR TUESDAY
Wordsworth, William - POEMS
Wordsworth, William - PROSE WORKS
Zola, Emile - THERESE RAQUIN
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ISTRUZIONI D'USO DETTAGLIATE
THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK
by Alexandre Dumas
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?"
"You desired a confessor?" replied Aramis.
"Because you were 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.
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
"And so?" said Aramis.
"Why, then--being better, I have no longer the same need of a confessor,
"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
Aramis bowed and obeyed. "How does the Bastile agree with you?" asked
"You do not suffer?"
"You have nothing to regret?"
"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
"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
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."
"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
"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
"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--"
"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
"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
"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
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,"
"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
"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"
"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
"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,
"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,
"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?"
"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."
"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.
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
"I suspected it."
"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
"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
"'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
"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
"'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
"'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,
"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,
"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
"As you see."
"Your two attendants disappeared?"
"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
"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
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?"
"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
"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."
"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
"Then," said Aramis, "you know that the last reigning monarch was Louis
"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
"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
"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 show 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 bitter 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
"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
"Except, also," Aramis went on, "the lady in the black dress; and,
"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
"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
"I understand, monsieur; either by weakness or treachery, my uncle slew
"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
"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 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."
"Less numerous than powerful, monseigneur."
"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
"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
"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
"I was going to say to your highness that I should only have the
pleasure of seeing you once again."
"The day when my prince leaves these gloomy walls."
"Heavens! how will you give me notice of it?"
"By myself coming to fetch you."
"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
"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 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
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
"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
"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!
"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
"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
"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
"What! "you" stouter!"
"So much so that I am now bigger than the baron. Would you believe it,
""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
"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
"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
"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
"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."
"Well, well, 'tis no less true," said Porthos, delighted at the idea of
having jumped to a conclusion so closely in agreement with the greatest
sages of antiquity.
"Wonderfully--but suppose we return to Mouston. It seems to me, we have
left him fattening under our very eyes."
"Yes, monsieur," said Mouston.
"Well," said Porthos, "Mouston fattened so well, that he gratified all
my hopes, by reaching my standard; a fact of which I was well able to
convince myself, by seeing the rascal, one day, in a waistcoat of mine,
which he had turned into a coat--a waistcoat, the mere embroidery of
which was worth a hundred pistoles."
"'Twas only to try it on, monsieur," said Mouston.
"From that moment I determined to put Mouston in communication with my
tailors, and to have him measured instead of myself."
"A capital idea, Porthos; but Mouston is a foot and a half shorter than
"Exactly! They measured him down to the ground, and the end of the skirt
came just below my knee."
"What a marvelous man you are, Porthos! Such a thing could happen only
"Ah! yes; pay your compliments; you have ample grounds to go upon. It
was exactly at that time--that is to say, nearly two years and a half
ago--that I set out for Belle-Isle, instructing Mouston (so as always
to have, in every event, a pattern of every fashion) to have a coat made
for himself every month."
"And did Mouston neglect complying with your instructions? Ah! that was
anything but right, Mouston."
"No, monsieur, quite the contrary; quite the contrary!"
"No, he never forgot to have his coats made; but he forgot to inform me
that he had got stouter!"
"But it was not my fault, monsieur! your tailor never told me."
"And this to such an extent, monsieur," continued Porthos, "that the
fellow in two years has gained eighteen inches in girth, and so my last
dozen coats are all too large, from a foot to a foot and a half."
"But the rest; those which were made when you were of the same size?"
"They are no longer the fashion, my dear friend. Were I to put them on,
I should look like a fresh arrival from Siam; and as though I had been
two years away from court."
"I understand your difficulty. You have how many new suits?
nine? thirty-six? and yet not one to wear. Well, you must have a
thirty-seventh made, and give the thirty-six to Mouston."
"Ah! monsieur!" said Mouston, with a gratified air. "The truth is, that
monsieur has always been very generous to me."
"Do you mean to insinuate that I hadn't that idea, or that I was
deterred by the expense? But it wants only two days to the "fete"; I
received the invitation yesterday; made Mouston post hither with my
wardrobe, and only this morning discovered my misfortune; and from now
till the day after to-morrow, there isn't a single fashionable tailor
who will undertake to make me a suit."
"That is to say, one covered all over with gold, isn't it?"
"I wish it so! undoubtedly, all over."
"Oh, we shall manage it. You won't leave for three days. The invitations
are for Wednesday, and this is only Sunday morning."
"'Tis true; but Aramis has strongly advised me to be at Vaux twenty-four
"Yes, it was Aramis who brought me the invitation."
"Ah! to be sure, I see. You are invited on the part of M. Fouquet?"
"By no means! by the king, dear friend. The letter bears the following
as large as life: 'M. le Baron du Vallon is informed that the king has
condescended to place him on the invitation list--'"
"Very good; but you leave with M. Fouquet?"
"And when I think," cried Porthos, stamping on the floor, "when I think
I shall have no clothes, I am ready to burst with rage! I should like to
strangle somebody or smash something!"
"Neither strangle anybody nor smash anything, Porthos; I will manage it
all; put on one of your thirty-six suits, and come with me to a tailor."
"Pooh! my agent has seen them all this morning."
"Even M. Percerin?"
"Who is M. Percerin?"
"Oh! only the king's tailor!"
"Oh, ah, yes," said Porthos, who wished to appear to know the king's
tailor, but now heard his name mentioned for the first time; "to M.
Percerin's, by Jove! I was afraid he would be too busy."
"Doubtless he will be; but be at ease, Porthos; he will do for me
what he wouldn't do for another. Only you must allow yourself to be
"Ah!" said Porthos, with a sigh, "'tis vexatious, but what would you
have me do?"
"Do? As others do; as the king does."
"What! do they measure the king, too? does he put up with it?"
"The king is a beau, my good friend, and so are you, too, whatever you
may say about it."
Porthos smiled triumphantly. "Let us go to the king's tailor," he said;
"and since he measures the king, I think, by my faith, I may do worse
than allow him to measure "me!""
Chapter III. Who Messire Jean Percerin Was.
The king's tailor, Messire Jean Percerin, occupied a rather large house
in the Rue St. Honore, near the Rue de l'Arbre Sec. He was a man
of great taste in elegant stuffs, embroideries, and velvets, being
hereditary tailor to the king. The preferment of his house reached as
far back as the time of Charles IX.; from whose reign dated, as we know,
fancy in "bravery" difficult enough to gratify. The Percerin of that
period was a Huguenot, like Ambrose Pare, and had been spared by the
Queen of Navarre, the beautiful Margot, as they used to write and say,
too, in those days; because, in sooth, he was the only one who could
make for her those wonderful riding-habits which she so loved to wear,
seeing that they were marvelously well suited to hide certain anatomical
defects, which the Queen of Navarre used very studiously to conceal.
Percerin being saved, made, out of gratitude, some beautiful black
bodices, very inexpensively indeed, for Queen Catherine, who ended by
being pleased at the preservation of a Huguenot people, on whom she had
long looked with detestation. But Percerin was a very prudent man;
and having heard it said that there was no more dangerous sign for a
Protestant than to be smiled up on by Catherine, and having observed
that her smiles were more frequent than usual, he speedily turned
Catholic with all his family; and having thus become irreproachable,
attained the lofty position of master tailor to the Crown of France.
Under Henry III., gay king as he was, this position was a grand as the
height of one of the loftiest peaks of the Cordilleras. Now Percerin had
been a clever man all his life, and by way of keeping up his reputation
beyond the grave, took very good care not to make a bad death of it, and
so contrived to die very skillfully; and that at the very moment he felt
his powers of invention declining. He left a son and a daughter, both
worthy of the name they were called upon to bear; the son, a cutter as
unerring and exact as the square rule; the daughter, apt at embroidery,
and at designing ornaments. The marriage of Henry IV. and Marie de
Medici, and the exquisite court-mourning for the afore-mentioned queen,
together with a few words let fall by M. de Bassompiere, king of the
"beaux" of the period, made the fortune of the second generation of
Percerins. M. Concino Concini, and his wife Galligai, who subsequently
shone at the French court, sought to Italianize the fashion, and
introduced some Florentine tailors; but Percerin, touched to the
quick in his patriotism and his self-esteem, entirely defeated these
foreigners, and that so well that Concino was the first to give up his
compatriots, and held the French tailor in such esteem that he would
never employ any other, and thus wore a doublet of his on the very day
that Vitry blew out his brains with a pistol at the Pont du Louvre.
And so it was a doublet issuing from M. Percerin's workshop, which the
Parisians rejoiced in hacking into so many pieces with the living human
body it contained. Notwithstanding the favor Concino Concini had shown
Percerin, the king, Louis XIII., had the generosity to bear no malice to
his tailor, and to retain him in his service. At the time that Louis the
Just afforded this great example of equity, Percerin had brought up two
sons, one of whom made his "debut" at the marriage of Anne of Austria,
invented that admirable Spanish costume, in which Richelieu danced a
saraband, made the costumes for the tragedy of "Mirame," and stitched
on to Buckingham's mantle those famous pearls which were destined to
be scattered about the pavements of the Louvre. A man becomes easily
notable who has made the dresses of a Duke of Buckingham, a M. de
Cinq-Mars, a Mademoiselle Ninon, a M. de Beaufort, and a Marion de
Lorme. And thus Percerin the third had attained the summit of his glory
when his father died. This same Percerin III., old, famous and wealthy,
yet further dressed Louis XIV.; and having no son, which was a great
cause of sorrow to him, seeing that with himself his dynasty would end,
he had brought up several hopeful pupils. He possessed a carriage,
a country house, men-servants the tallest in Paris; and by special
authority from Louis XIV., a pack of hounds. He worked for MM. de Lyonne
and Letellier, under a sort of patronage; but politic man as he was, and
versed in state secrets, he never succeeded in fitting M. Colbert. This
is beyond explanation; it is a matter for guessing or for intuition.
Great geniuses of every kind live on unseen, intangible ideas; they act
without themselves knowing why. The great Percerin (for, contrary to
the rule of dynasties, it was, above all, the last of the Percerins who
deserved the name of Great), the great Percerin was inspired when he cut
a robe for the queen, or a coat for the king; he could mount a mantle
for Monsieur, the clock of a stocking for Madame; but, in spite of his
supreme talent, he could never hit off anything approaching a creditable
fit for M. Colbert. "That man," he used often to say, "is beyond my art;
my needle can never dot him down." We need scarcely say that Percerin
was M. Fouquet's tailor, and that the superintendent highly esteemed
him. M. Percerin was nearly eighty years old, nevertheless still fresh,
and at the same time so dry, the courtiers used to say, that he was
positively brittle. His renown and his fortune were great enough for
M. le Prince, that king of fops, to take his arm when talking over the
fashions; and for those least eager to pay never to dare to leave their
accounts in arrear with him; for Master Percerin would for the first
time make clothes upon credit, but the second never, unless paid for the
It is easy to see at once that a tailor of such renown, instead of
running after customers, made difficulties about obliging any fresh
ones. And so Percerin declined to fit "bourgeois", or those who had but
recently obtained patents of nobility. A story used to circulate that
even M. de Mazarin, in exchange for Percerin supplying him with a full
suit of ceremonial vestments as cardinal, one fine day slipped letters
of nobility into his pocket.
It was to the house of this grand llama of tailors that D'Artagnan
took the despairing Porthos; who, as they were going along, said to his
friend, "Take care, my good D'Artagnan, not to compromise the dignity
of a man such as I am with the arrogance of this Percerin, who will, I
expect, be very impertinent; for I give you notice, my friend, that if
he is wanting in respect I will infallibly chastise him."
"Presented by me," replied D'Artagnan, "you have nothing to fear, even
though you were what you are not."
"Ah! 'tis because--"
"What? Have you anything against Percerin, Porthos?"
"I think that I once sent Mouston to a fellow of that name."
"The fellow refused to supply me."
"Oh, a misunderstanding, no doubt, which it will be now exceedingly easy
to set right. Mouston must have made a mistake."
"He has confused the names."
"Possibly. That rascal Mouston never can remember names."
"I will take it all upon myself."
"Stop the carriage, Porthos; here we are."
"Here! how here? We are at the Halles; and you told me the house was at
the corner of the Rue de l'Arbre Sec."
"'Tis true, but look."
"Well, I do look, and I see--"
""Pardieu!" that we are at the Halles!"
"You do not, I suppose, want our horses to clamber up on the roof of the
carriage in front of us?"
"Nor the carriage in front of us to mount on top of the one in front of
it. Nor that the second should be driven over the roofs of the thirty or
forty others which have arrived before us."
"No, you are right, indeed. What a number of people! And what are they
"'Tis very simple. They are waiting their turn."
"Bah! Have the comedians of the Hotel de Bourgogne shifted their
"No; their turn to obtain an entrance to M. Percerin's house."
"And we are going to wait too?"
"Oh, we shall show ourselves prompter and not so proud."
"What are we to do, then?"
"Get down, pass through the footmen and lackeys, and enter the tailor's
house, which I will answer for our doing, if you go first."
"Come along, then," said Porthos.
They accordingly alighted and made their way on foot towards the
establishment. The cause of the confusion was that M. Percerin's doors
were closed, while a servant, standing before them, was explaining to
the illustrious customers of the illustrious tailor that just then M.
Percerin could not receive anybody. It was bruited about outside still,
on the authority of what the great lackey had told some great noble whom
he favored, in confidence, that M. Percerin was engaged on five costumes
for the king, and that, owing to the urgency of the case, he was
meditating in his office on the ornaments, colors, and cut of these five
suits. Some, contented with this reason, went away again, contented
to repeat the tale to others, but others, more tenacious, insisted
on having the doors opened, and among these last three Blue Ribbons,
intended to take parts in a ballet, which would inevitably fail unless
the said three had their costumes shaped by the very hand of the great
Percerin himself. D'Artagnan, pushing on Porthos, who scattered the
groups of people right and left, succeeded in gaining the counter,
behind which the journeyman tailors were doing their best to answer
queries. (We forgot to mention that at the door they wanted to put
off Porthos like the rest, but D'Artagnan, showing himself, pronounced
merely these words, "The king's order," and was let in with his friend.)
The poor fellows had enough to do, and did their best, to reply to the
demands of the customers in the absence of their master, leaving
off drawing a stitch to knit a sentence; and when wounded pride, or
disappointed expectation, brought down upon them too cutting a rebuke,
he who was attacked made a dive and disappeared under the counter.
The line of discontented lords formed a truly remarkable picture. Our
captain of musketeers, a man of sure and rapid observation, took it all
in at a glance; and having run over the groups, his eye rested on a man
in front of him. This man, seated upon a stool, scarcely showed his head
above the counter that sheltered him. He was about forty years of age,
with a melancholy aspect, pale face, and soft luminous eyes. He was
looking at D'Artagnan and the rest, with his chin resting upon his hand,
like a calm and inquiring amateur. Only on perceiving, and doubtless
recognizing, our captain, he pulled his hat down over his eyes. It was
this action, perhaps, that attracted D'Artagnan's attention. If so,
the gentleman who had pulled down his hat produced an effect entirely
different from what he had desired. In other respects his costume was
plain, and his hair evenly cut enough for customers, who were not close
observers, to take him for a mere tailor's apprentice, perched behind
the board, and carefully stitching cloth or velvet. Nevertheless, this
man held up his head too often to be very productively employed with his
fingers. D'Artagnan was not deceived,--not he; and he saw at once that
if this man was working at anything, it certainly was not at velvet.
"Eh!" said he, addressing this man, "and so you have become a tailor's
boy, Monsieur Moliere!"
"Hush, M. d'Artagnan!" replied the man, softly, "you will make them
"Well, and what harm?"
"The fact is, there is no harm, but--"
"You were going to say there is no good in doing it either, is it not
"Alas! no; for I was occupied in examining some excellent figures."
"Go on--go on, Monsieur Moliere. I quite understand the interest you
take in the plates--I will not disturb your studies."
"But on one condition; that you tell me where M. Percerin really is."
"Oh! willingly; in his own room. Only--"
"Only that one can't enter it?"
"Everybody. He brought me here so that I might be at my ease to make my
observations, and then he went away."
"Well, my dear Monsieur Moliere, but you will go and tell him I am
"I!" exclaimed Moliere, in the tone of a courageous dog, from which
you snatch the bone it has legitimately gained; "I disturb myself! Ah!
Monsieur d'Artagnan, how hard you are upon me!"
"If you don't go directly and tell M. Percerin that I am here, my dear
Moliere," said D'Artagnan, in a low tone, "I warn you of one thing: that
I won't exhibit to you the friend I have brought with me."
Moliere indicated Porthos by an imperceptible gesture, "This gentleman,
is it not?"
Moliere fixed upon Porthos one of those looks which penetrate the minds
and hearts of men. The subject doubtless appeared a very promising one,
for he immediately rose and led the way into the adjoining chamber.
Chapter IV. The Patterns.
During all this time the noble mob was slowly heaving away, leaving at
every angle of the counter either a murmur or a menace, as the waves
leave foam or scattered seaweed on the sands, when they retire with the
ebbing tide. In about ten minutes Moliere reappeared, making another
sign to D'Artagnan from under the hangings. The latter hurried after
him, with Porthos in the rear, and after threading a labyrinth of
corridors, introduced him to M. Percerin's room. The old man, with his
sleeves turned up, was gathering up in folds a piece of gold-flowered
brocade, so as the better to exhibit its luster. Perceiving D'Artagnan,
he put the silk aside, and came to meet him, by no means radiant with
joy, and by no means courteous, but, take it altogether, in a tolerably
"The captain of the king's musketeers will excuse me, I am sure, for I
"Eh! yes, on the king's costumes; I know that, my dear Monsieur
Percerin. You are making three, they tell me."
"Five, my dear sir, five."
"Three or five, 'tis all the same to me, my dear monsieur; and I know
that you will make them most exquisitely."
"Yes, I know. Once made they will be the most beautiful in the world,
I do not deny it; but that they may be the most beautiful in the word,
they must first be made; and to do this, captain, I am pressed for
"Oh, bah! there are two days yet; 'tis much more than you require,
Monsieur Percerin," said D'Artagnan, in the coolest possible manner.
Percerin raised his head with the air of a man little accustomed to be
contradicted, even in his whims; but D'Artagnan did not pay the least
attention to the airs which the illustrious tailor began to assume.
"My dear M. Percerin," he continued, "I bring you a customer."
"Ah! ah!" exclaimed Percerin, crossly.
"M. le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds," continued
D'Artagnan. Percerin attempted a bow, which found no favor in the eyes
of the terrible Porthos, who, from his first entry into the room, had
been regarding the tailor askance.
"A very good friend of mine," concluded D'Artagnan.
"I will attend to monsieur," said Percerin, "but later."
"Later? but when?"
"When I have time."
"You have already told my valet as much," broke in Porthos,
"Very likely," said Percerin; "I am nearly always pushed for time."
"My friend," returned Porthos, sententiously, "there is always time to
be found when one chooses to seek it."
Percerin turned crimson; an ominous sign indeed in old men blanched by
"Monsieur is quite at liberty to confer his custom elsewhere."
"Come, come, Percerin," interposed D'Artagnan, "you are not in a good
temper to-day. Well, I will say one more word to you, which will bring
you on your knees; monsieur is not only a friend of mine, but more, a
friend of M. Fouquet's."
"Ah! ah!" exclaimed the tailor, "that is another thing." Then turning
to Porthos, "Monsieur le baron is attached to the superintendent?" he
"I am attached to myself," shouted Porthos, at the very moment that the
tapestry was raised to introduce a new speaker in the dialogue. Moliere
was all observation, D'Artagnan laughed, Porthos swore.
"My dear Percerin," said D'Artagnan, "you will make a dress for the
baron. 'Tis I who ask you."
"To you I will not say nay, captain."
"But that is not all; you will make it for him at once."
"'Tis impossible within eight days."
"That, then, is as much as to refuse, because the dress is wanted for
the "fete" at Vaux."
"I repeat that it is impossible," returned the obstinate old man.
"By no means, dear Monsieur Percerin, above all if "I" ask you," said a
mild voice at the door, a silvery voice which made D'Artagnan prick up
his ears. It was the voice of Aramis.
"Monsieur d'Herblay!" cried the tailor.
"Aramis," murmured D'Artagnan.
"Ah! our bishop!" said Porthos.
"Good morning, D'Artagnan; good morning, Porthos; good-morning, my dear
friends," said Aramis. "Come, come, M. Percerin, make the baron's
dress; and I will answer for it you will gratify M. Fouquet." And he
accompanied the words with a sign, which seemed to say, "Agree, and
It appeared that Aramis had over Master Percerin an influence superior
even to D'Artagnan's, for the tailor bowed in assent, and turning round
upon Porthos, said, "Go and get measured on the other side."
Porthos colored in a formidable manner. D'Artagnan saw the storm coming,
and addressing Moliere, said to him, in an undertone, "You see before
you, my dear monsieur, a man who considers himself disgraced, if you
measure the flesh and bones that Heaven has given him; study this type
for me, Master Aristophanes, and profit by it."
Moliere had no need of encouragement, and his gaze dwelt long and keenly
on the Baron Porthos. "Monsieur," he said, "if you will come with me, I
will make them take your measure without touching you."
"Oh!" said Porthos, "how do you make that out, my friend?"
"I say that they shall apply neither line nor rule to the seams of
your dress. It is a new method we have invented for measuring people of
quality, who are too sensitive to allow low-born fellows to touch
them. We know some susceptible persons who will not put up with being
measured, a process which, as I think, wounds the natural dignity of a
man; and if perchance monsieur should be one of these--"
""Corboeuf!" I believe I am too!"
"Well, that is a capital and most consolatory coincidence, and you shall
have the benefit of our invention."
"But how in the world can it be done?" asked Porthos, delighted.
"Monsieur," said Moliere, bowing, "if you will deign to follow me, you
Aramis observed this scene with all his eyes. Perhaps he fancied from
D'Artagnan's liveliness that he would leave with Porthos, so as not to
lose the conclusion of a scene well begun. But, clear-sighted as he was,
Aramis deceived himself. Porthos and Moliere left together: D'Artagnan
remained with Percerin. Why? From curiosity, doubtless; probably to
enjoy a little longer the society of his good friend Aramis. As Moliere
and Porthos disappeared, D'Artagnan drew near the bishop of Vannes, a
proceeding which appeared particularly to disconcert him.
"A dress for you, also, is it not, my friend?"
Aramis smiled. "No," said he.
"You will go to Vaux, however?"
"I shall go, but without a new dress. You forget, dear D'Artagnan, that
a poor bishop of Vannes is not rich enough to have new dresses for every
"Bah!" said the musketeer, laughing, "and do we write no more poems now,
"Oh! D'Artagnan," exclaimed Aramis, "I have long ago given up all such
"True," repeated D'Artagnan, only half convinced. As for Percerin, he
was once more absorbed in contemplation of the brocades.
"Don't you perceive," said Aramis, smiling, "that we are greatly boring
this good gentleman, my dear D'Artagnan?"
"Ah! ah!" murmured the musketeer, aside; "that is, I am boring you,
my friend." Then aloud, "Well, then, let us leave; I have no further
business here, and if you are as disengaged as I, Aramis--"
"No, not I--I wished--"
"Ah! you had something particular to say to M. Percerin? Why did you not
tell me so at once?"
"Something particular, certainly," repeated Aramis, "but not for you,
D'Artagnan. But, at the same time, I hope you will believe that I can
never have anything so particular to say that a friend like you may not
"Oh, no, no! I am going," said D'Artagnan, imparting to his voice an
evident tone of curiosity; for Aramis's annoyance, well dissembled as it
was, had not a whit escaped him; and he knew that, in that impenetrable
mind, every thing, even the most apparently trivial, was designed to
some end; an unknown one, but an end that, from the knowledge he had of
his friend's character, the musketeer felt must be important.
On his part, Aramis saw that D'Artagnan was not without suspicion, and
pressed him. "Stay, by all means," he said, "this is what it is." Then
turning towards the tailor, "My dear Percerin," said he,--"I am even
very happy that you are here, D'Artagnan."
"Oh, indeed," exclaimed the Gascon, for the third time, even less
deceived this time than before.
Percerin never moved. Aramis roused him violently, by snatching from his
hands the stuff upon which he was engaged. "My dear Percerin," said he,
"I have, near hand, M. Lebrun, one of M. Fouquet's painters."
"Ah, very good," thought D'Artagnan; "but why Lebrun?"
Aramis looked at D'Artagnan, who seemed to be occupied with an engraving
of Mark Antony. "And you wish that I should make him a dress, similar to
those of the Epicureans?" answered Percerin. And while saying this, in
an absent manner, the worthy tailor endeavored to recapture his piece of
"An Epicurean's dress?" asked D'Artagnan, in a tone of inquiry.
"I see," said Aramis, with a most engaging smile, "it is written that
our dear D'Artagnan shall know all our secrets this evening. Yes,
friend, you have surely heard speak of M. Fouquet's Epicureans, have you
"Undoubtedly. Is it not a kind of poetical society, of which La
Fontaine, Loret, Pelisson, and Moliere are members, and which holds its
sittings at Saint-Mande?"
"Exactly so. Well, we are going to put our poets in uniform, and enroll
them in a regiment for the king."
"Oh, very well, I understand; a surprise M. Fouquet is getting up for
the king. Be at ease; if that is the secret about M. Lebrun, I will not
"Always agreeable, my friend. No, Monsieur Lebrun has nothing to do with
this part of it; the secret which concerns him is far more important
than the other."
"Then, if it is so important as all that, I prefer not to know it," said
D'Artagnan, making a show of departure.
"Come in, M. Lebrun, come in," said Aramis, opening a side-door with his
right hand, and holding back D'Artagnan with his left.
"I'faith, I too, am quite in the dark," quoth Percerin.
Aramis took an "opportunity," as is said in theatrical matters.
"My dear M. de Percerin," Aramis continued, "you are making five dresses
for the king, are you not? One in brocade; one in hunting-cloth; one in
velvet; one in satin; and one in Florentine stuffs."
"Yes; but how--do you know all that, monseigneur?" said Percerin,
"It is all very simple, my dear monsieur; there will be a hunt, a
banquet, concert, promenade and reception; these five kinds of dress are
required by etiquette."
"You know everything, monseigneur!"
"And a thing or two in addition," muttered D'Artagnan.
"But," cried the tailor, in triumph, "what you do not know,
monseigneur--prince of the church though you are--what nobody will
know--what only the king, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and myself do
know, is the color of the materials and nature of the ornaments, and the
cut, the "ensemble", the finish of it all!"
"Well," said Aramis, "that is precisely what I have come to ask you,
"Ah, bah!" exclaimed the tailor, terrified, though Aramis had pronounced
these words in his softest and most honeyed tones. The request appeared,
on reflection, so exaggerated, so ridiculous, so monstrous to M.
Percerin that first he laughed to himself, then aloud, and finished
with a shout. D'Artagnan followed his example, not because he found the
matter so "very funny," but in order not to allow Aramis to cool.
"At the outset, I appear to be hazarding an absurd question, do I not?"
said Aramis. "But D'Artagnan, who is incarnate wisdom itself, will tell
you that I could not do otherwise than ask you this."
"Let us see," said the attentive musketeer; perceiving with his
wonderful instinct that they had only been skirmishing till now, and
that the hour of battle was approaching.
"Let us see," said Percerin, incredulously.
"Why, now," continued Aramis, "does M. Fouquet give the king a
"fete?"--Is it not to please him?"
"Assuredly," said Percerin. D'Artagnan nodded assent.
"By delicate attentions? by some happy device? by a succession of
surprises, like that of which we were talking?--the enrolment of our
"Well, then; this is the surprise we intend. M. Lebrun here is a man who
draws most excellently."
"Yes," said Percerin; "I have seen his pictures, and observed that his
dresses were highly elaborated. That is why I at once agreed to make him
a costume--whether to agree with those of the Epicureans, or an original
"My dear monsieur, we accept your offer, and shall presently avail
ourselves of it; but just now, M. Lebrun is not in want of the dresses
you will make for himself, but of those you are making for the king."
Percerin made a bound backwards, which D'Artagnan--calmest and most
appreciative of men, did not consider overdone, so many strange and
startling aspects wore the proposal which Aramis had just hazarded. "The
king's dresses! Give the king's dresses to any mortal whatever! Oh!
for once, monseigneur, your grace is mad!" cried the poor tailor in
"Help me now, D'Artagnan," said Aramis, more and more calm and smiling.
"Help me now to persuade monsieur, for "you" understand; do you not?"
"Eh! eh!--not exactly, I declare."
"What! you do not understand that M. Fouquet wishes to afford the king
the surprise of finding his portrait on his arrival at Vaux; and that
the portrait, which be a striking resemblance, ought to be dressed
exactly as the king will be on the day it is shown?"
"Oh! yes, yes," said the musketeer, nearly convinced, so plausible was
this reasoning. "Yes, my dear Aramis, you are right; it is a happy idea.
I will wager it is one of your own, Aramis."
"Well, I don't know," replied the bishop; "either mine or M. Fouquet's."
Then scanning Percerin, after noticing D'Artagnan's hesitation, "Well,
Monsieur Percerin," he asked, "what do you say to this?"
"I say, that--"
"That you are, doubtless, free to refuse. I know well--and I by no means
count upon compelling you, my dear monsieur. I will say more, I even
understand all the delicacy you feel in taking up with M. Fouquet's
idea; you dread appearing to flatter the king. A noble spirit, M.
Percerin, a noble spirit!" The tailor stammered. "It would, indeed, be a
very pretty compliment to pay the young prince," continued Aramis; "but
as the surintendant told me, 'if Percerin refuse, tell him that it
will not at all lower him in my opinion, and I shall always esteem him,
"'Only?'" repeated Percerin, rather troubled.
"'Only,'" continued Aramis, "'I shall be compelled to say to the
king,'--you understand, my dear Monsieur Percerin, that these are M.
Fouquet's words,--'I shall be constrained to say to the king, "Sire, I
had intended to present your majesty with your portrait, but owing to a
feeling of delicacy, slightly exaggerated perhaps, although creditable,
M. Percerin opposed the project."'"
"Opposed!" cried the tailor, terrified at the responsibility which would
weigh upon him; "I to oppose the desire, the will of M. Fouquet when he
is seeking to please the king! Oh, what a hateful word you have uttered,
monseigneur. Oppose! Oh, 'tis not I who said it, Heaven have mercy on
me. I call the captain of the musketeers to witness it! Is it not true,
Monsieur d'Artagnan, that I have opposed nothing?"
D'Artagnan made a sign indicating that he wished to remain neutral. He
felt that there was an intrigue at the bottom of it, whether comedy or
tragedy; he was at his wit's end at not being able to fathom it, but in
the meanwhile wished to keep clear.
But already Percerin, goaded by the idea that the king was to be told he
stood in the way of a pleasant surprise, had offered Lebrun a chair, and
proceeded to bring from a wardrobe four magnificent dresses, the
fifth being still in the workmen's hands; and these masterpieces he
successively fitted upon four lay figures, which, imported into France
in the time of Concini, had been given to Percerin II. by Marshal
d'Onore, after the discomfiture of the Italian tailors ruined in their
competition. The painter set to work to draw and then to paint the
dresses. But Aramis, who was closely watching all the phases of his
toil, suddenly stopped him.
"I think you have not quite got it, my dear Lebrun," he said; "your
colors will deceive you, and on canvas we shall lack that exact
resemblance which is absolutely requisite. Time is necessary for
attentively observing the finer shades."
"Quite true," said Percerin, "but time is wanting, and on that head, you
will agree with me, monseigneur, I can do nothing."
"Then the affair will fail," said Aramis, quietly, "and that because of
a want of precision in the colors."
Nevertheless Lebrun went on copying the materials and ornaments with
the closest fidelity--a process which Aramis watched with ill-concealed
"What in the world, now, is the meaning of this imbroglio?" the
musketeer kept saying to himself.
"That will never do," said Aramis: "M. Lebrun, close your box, and roll
up your canvas."
"But, monsieur," cried the vexed painter, "the light is abominable
"An idea, M. Lebrun, an idea! If we had a pattern of the materials, for
example, and with time, and a better light--"
"Oh, then," cried Lebrun, "I would answer for the effect."
"Good!" said D'Artagnan, "this ought to be the knotty point of the whole
thing; they want a pattern of each of the materials. "Mordioux!" Will
this Percerin give in now?"
Percerin, beaten from his last retreat, and duped, moreover, by the
feigned good-nature of Aramis, cut out five patterns and handed them to
the bishop of Vannes.
"I like this better. That is your opinion, is it not?" said Aramis to
"My dear Aramis," said D'Artagnan, "my opinion is that you are always
"And, consequently, always your friend," said the bishop in a charming
"Yes, yes," said D'Artagnan, aloud; then, in a low voice, "If I am your
dupe, double Jesuit that you are, I will not be your accomplice; and
to prevent it, 'tis time I left this place.--Adieu, Aramis," he added
aloud, "adieu; I am going to rejoin Porthos."
"Then wait for me," said Aramis, pocketing the patterns, "for I have
done, and shall be glad to say a parting word to our dear old friend."
Lebrun packed up his paints and brushes, Percerin put back the dresses
into the closet, Aramis put his hand on his pocket to assure himself the
patterns were secure,--and they all left the study.
Chapter V. Where, Probably, Moliere Obtained His First Idea of the
D'Artagnan found Porthos in the adjoining chamber; but no longer an
irritated Porthos, or a disappointed Porthos, but Porthos radiant,
blooming, fascinating, and chattering with Moliere, who was looking
upon him with a species of idolatry, and as a man would who had not only
never seen anything greater, but not even ever anything so great. Aramis
went straight up to Porthos and offered him his white hand, which lost
itself in the gigantic clasp of his old friend,--an operation which
Aramis never hazarded without a certain uneasiness. But the friendly
pressure having been performed not too painfully for him, the bishop of
Vannes passed over to Moliere.
"Well, monsieur," said he, "will you come with me to Saint-Mande?"
"I will go anywhere you like, monseigneur," answered Moliere.
"To Saint-Mande!" cried Porthos, surprised at seeing the proud bishop
of Vannes fraternizing with a journeyman tailor. "What, Aramis, are you
going to take this gentleman to Saint-Mande?"
"Yes," said Aramis, smiling, "our work is pressing."
"And besides, my dear Porthos," continued D'Artagnan, "M. Moliere is not
altogether what he seems."
"In what way?" asked Porthos.
"Why, this gentleman is one of M. Percerin's chief clerks, and is
expected at Saint-Mande to try on the dresses which M. Fouquet has
ordered for the Epicureans."
"'Tis precisely so," said Moliere.
"Come, then, my dear M. Moliere," said Aramis, "that is, if you have
done with M. du Vallon."
"We have finished," replied Porthos.
"And you are satisfied?" asked D'Artagnan.
"Completely so," replied Porthos.
Moliere took his leave of Porthos with much ceremony, and grasped the
hand which the captain of the musketeers furtively offered him.
"Pray, monsieur," concluded Porthos, mincingly, "above all, be exact."
"You will have your dress the day after to-morrow, monsieur le baron,"
answered Moliere. And he left with Aramis.
Then D'Artagnan, taking Porthos's arm, "What has this tailor done for
you, my dear Porthos," he asked, "that you are so pleased with him?"
"What has he done for me, my friend! done for me!" cried Porthos,
"Yes, I ask you, what has he done for you?"
"My friend, he has done that which no tailor ever yet accomplished: he
has taken my measure without touching me!"
"Ah, bah! tell me how he did it."
"First, then, they went, I don't know where, for a number of lay
figures, of all heights and sizes, hoping there would be one to suit
mine, but the largest--that of the drum-major of the Swiss guard--was
two inches too short, and a half foot too narrow in the chest."
"It is exactly as I tell you, D'Artagnan; but he is a great man, or at
the very least a great tailor, is this M. Moliere. He was not at all put
at fault by the circumstance."
"What did he do, then?"
"Oh! it is a very simple matter. I'faith, 'tis an unheard-of thing that
people should have been so stupid as not to have discovered this method
from the first. What annoyance and humiliation they would have spared
"Not to mention of the costumes, my dear Porthos."
"Yes, thirty dresses."
"Well, my dear Porthos, come, tell me M. Moliere's plan."
"Moliere? You call him so, do you? I shall make a point of recollecting
"Yes; or Poquelin, if you prefer that."
"No; I like Moliere best. When I wish to recollect his name, I shall
think of "voliere" [an aviary]; and as I have one at Pierrefonds--"
"Capital!" returned D'Artagnan. "And M. Moliere's plan?"
"'Tis this: instead of pulling me to pieces, as all these rascals
do--of making me bend my back, and double my joints--all of them low and
dishonorable practices--" D'Artagnan made a sign of approbation with
his head. "'Monsieur,' he said to me," continued Porthos, "'a gentleman
ought to measure himself. Do me the pleasure to draw near this glass;'
and I drew near the glass. I must own I did not exactly understand what
this good M. Voliere wanted with me."
"Ah! yes, Moliere--Moliere. And as the fear of being measured still
possessed me, 'Take care,' said I to him, 'what you are going to do with
me; I am very ticklish, I warn you.' But he, with his soft voice (for
he is a courteous fellow, we must admit, my friend), he with his soft
voice, 'Monsieur,' said he, 'that your dress may fit you well, it must
be made according to your figure. Your figure is exactly reflected in
this mirror. We shall take the measure of this reflection.'"
"In fact," said D'Artagnan, "you saw yourself in the glass; but where
did they find one in which you could see your whole figure?"
"My good friend, it is the very glass in which the king is used to look
to see himself."
"Yes; but the king is a foot and a half shorter than you are."
"Ah! well, I know not how that may be; it is, no doubt, a cunning way
of flattering the king; but the looking-glass was too large for me.
'Tis true that its height was made up of three Venetian plates of
glass, placed one above another, and its breadth of three similar
parallelograms in juxtaposition."
"Oh, Porthos! what excellent words you have command of. Where in the
word did you acquire such a voluminous vocabulary?"
"At Belle-Isle. Aramis and I had to use such words in our strategic
studies and castramentative experiments."
D'Artagnan recoiled, as though the sesquipedalian syllables had knocked
the breath out of his body.
"Ah! very good. Let us return to the looking-glass, my friend."
"Then, this good M. Voliere--"
"Yes--Moliere--you are right. You will see now, my dear friend, that I
shall recollect his name quite well. This excellent M. Moliere set to
work tracing out lines on the mirror, with a piece of Spanish chalk,
following in all the make of my arms and my shoulders, all the while
expounding this maxim, which I thought admirable: 'It is advisable that
a dress should not incommode its wearer.'"
"In reality," said D'Artagnan, "that is an excellent maxim, which is,
unfortunately, seldom carried out in practice."
"That is why I found it all the more astonishing, when he expatiated
"Ah! he expatiated?"
"Let me hear his theory."
"'Seeing that,' he continued, 'one may, in awkward circumstances, or in
a troublesome position, have one's doublet on one's shoulder, and not
desire to take one's doublet off--'"
"True," said D'Artagnan.
"'And so,' continued M. Voliere--"
"Moliere, yes. 'And so,' went on M. Moliere, 'you want to draw your
sword, monsieur, and you have your doublet on your back. What do you
"'I take it off,' I answered.
"'Well, no,' he replied.
"'I say that the dress should be so well made, that it will in no way
encumber you, even in drawing your sword.'
"'Throw yourself on guard,' pursued he.
"I did it with such wondrous firmness, that two panes of glass burst out
of the window.
"''Tis nothing, nothing,' said he. 'Keep your position.'
"I raised my left arm in the air, the forearm gracefully bent, the
ruffle drooping, and my wrist curved, while my right arm, half extended,
securely covered my wrist with the elbow, and my breast with the wrist."
"Yes," said D'Artagnan, "'tis the true guard--the academic guard."
"You have said the very word, dear friend. In the meanwhile, Voliere--"
"Hold! I should certainly, after all, prefer to call him--what did you
say his other name was?"
"I prefer to call him Poquelin."
"And how will you remember this name better than the other?"
"You understand, he calls himself Poquelin, does he not?"
"If I were to call to mind Madame Coquenard."
"And change "Coc" into "Poc", "nard" into "lin"; and instead of
Coquenard I shall have Poquelin."
"'Tis wonderful," cried D'Artagnan, astounded. "Go on, my friend, I am
listening to you with admiration."
"This Coquelin sketched my arm on the glass."
"I beg your pardon--Poquelin."
"What did I say, then?"
"You said Coquelin."
"Ah! true. This Poquelin, then, sketched my arm on the glass; but he
took his time over it; he kept looking at me a good deal. The fact is,
that I must have been looking particularly handsome."
"'Does it weary you?' he asked.
"'A little,' I replied, bending a little in my hands, 'but I could hold
out for an hour or so longer.'
"'No, no, I will not allow it; the willing fellows will make it a duty
to support your arms, as of old, men supported those of the prophet.'
"'Very good,' I answered.
"'That will not be humiliating to you?'
"'My friend,' said I, 'there is, I think, a great difference between
being supported and being measured.'"
"The distinction is full of the soundest sense," interrupted D'Artagnan.
"Then," continued Porthos, "he made a sign: two lads approached; one
supported my left arm, while the other, with infinite address, supported
"'Another, my man,' cried he. A third approached. 'Support monsieur by
the waist,' said he. The "garcon" complied."
"So that you were at rest?" asked D'Artagnan.
"Perfectly; and Pocquenard drew me on the glass."
"Poquelin, my friend."
"Poquelin--you are right. Stay, decidedly I prefer calling him Voliere."
"Yes; and then it was over, wasn't it?"
"During that time Voliere drew me as I appeared in the mirror."
"'Twas delicate in him."
"I much like the plan; it is respectful, and keeps every one in his
"And there it ended?"
"Without a soul having touched me, my friend."
"Except the three "garcons" who supported you."
"Doubtless; but I have, I think, already explained to you the difference
there is between supporting and measuring."
"'Tis true," answered D'Artagnan; who said afterwards to himself,
"I'faith, I greatly deceive myself, or I have been the means of a good
windfall to that rascal Moliere, and we shall assuredly see the scene
hit off to the life in some comedy or other." Porthos smiled.
"What are you laughing at?" asked D'Artagnan.
"Must I confess? Well, I was laughing over my good fortune."
"Oh, that is true; I don't know a happier man than you. But what is this
last piece of luck that has befallen you?'
"Well, my dear fellow, congratulate me."
"I desire nothing better."
"It seems that I am the first who has had his measure taken in that
"Are you so sure of it?'
"Nearly so. Certain signs of intelligence which passed between Voliere
and the other "garcons" showed me the fact."
"Well, my friend, that does not surprise me from Moliere," said
"Voliere, my friend."
"Oh, no, no, indeed! I am very willing to leave you to go on saying
Voliere; but, as for me, I shall continued to say Moliere. Well, this,
I was saying, does not surprise me, coming from Moliere, who is a very
ingenious fellow, and inspired you with this grand idea."
"It will be of great use to him by and by, I am sure."
"Won't it be of use to him, indeed? I believe you, it will, and that
in the highest degree;--for you see my friend Moliere is of all
known tailors the man who best clothes our barons, comtes, and
marquises--according to their measure."
On this observation, neither the application nor depth of which we
shall discuss, D'Artagnan and Porthos quitted M. de Percerin's house and
rejoined their carriages, wherein we will leave them, in order to look
after Moliere and Aramis at Saint-Mande.
Chapter VI. The Bee-Hive, the Bees, and the Honey.
The bishop of Vannes, much annoyed at having met D'Artagnan at M.
Percerin's, returned to Saint-Mande in no very good humor. Moliere,
on the other hand, quite delighted at having made such a capital rough
sketch, and at knowing where to find his original again, whenever he
should desire to convert his sketch into a picture, Moliere arrived in
the merriest of moods. All the first story of the left wing was occupied
by the most celebrated Epicureans in Paris, and those on the freest
footing in the house--every one in his compartment, like the bees in
their cells, employed in producing the honey intended for that royal
cake which M. Fouquet proposed to offer his majesty Louis XIV. during
the "fete" at Vaux. Pelisson, his head leaning on his hand, was engaged
in drawing out the plan of the prologue to the "Facheux," a comedy in
three acts, which was to be put on the stage by Poquelin de Moliere, as
D'Artagnan called him, or Coquelin de Voliere, as Porthos styled him.
Loret, with all the charming innocence of a gazetteer,--the gazetteers
of all ages have always been so artless!--Loret was composing an
account of the "fetes" at Vaux, before those "fetes" had taken place.
La Fontaine sauntered about from one to the other, a peripatetic,
absent-minded, boring, unbearable dreamer, who kept buzzing and humming
at everybody's elbow a thousand poetic abstractions. He so often
disturbed Pelisson, that the latter, raising his head, crossly said, "At
least, La Fontaine, supply me with a rhyme, since you have the run of
the gardens at Parnassus."
"What rhyme do you want?" asked the "Fabler" as Madame de Sevigne used
to call him.
"I want a rhyme to "lumiere"."
""Orniere"," answered La Fontaine.
"Ah, but, my good friend, one cannot talk of "wheel-ruts" when
celebrating the delights of Vaux," said Loret.
"Besides, it doesn't rhyme," answered Pelisson.
"What! doesn't rhyme!" cried La Fontaine, in surprise.
"Yes; you have an abominable habit, my friend,--a habit which will ever
prevent your becoming a poet of the first order. You rhyme in a slovenly
"Oh, oh, you think so, do you, Pelisson?"
"Yes, I do, indeed. Remember that a rhyme is never good so long as one
can find a better."
"Then I will never write anything again save in prose," said La
Fontaine, who had taken up Pelisson's reproach in earnest. "Ah! I often
suspected I was nothing but a rascally poet! Yes, 'tis the very truth."
"Do not say so; your remark is too sweeping, and there is much that is
good in your 'Fables.'"
"And to begin," continued La Fontaine, following up his idea, "I will go
and burn a hundred verses I have just made."
"Where are your verses?"
"In my head."
"Well, if they are in your head you cannot burn them."
"True," said La Fontaine; "but if I do not burn them--"
"Well, what will happen if you do not burn them?"
"They will remain in my mind, and I shall never forget them!"
"The deuce!" cried Loret; "what a dangerous thing! One would go mad with
"The deuce! the deuce!" repeated La Fontaine; "what can I do?"
"I have discovered the way," said Moliere, who had entered just at this
point of the conversation.
"Write them first and burn them afterwards."
"How simple! Well, I should never have discovered that. What a mind that
devil of a Moliere has!" said La Fontaine. Then, striking his forehead,
"Oh, thou wilt never be aught but an ass, Jean La Fontaine!" he added.
""What" are you saying there, my friend?" broke in Moliere, approaching
the poet, whose aside he had heard.
"I say I shall never be aught but an ass," answered La Fontaine, with
a heavy sigh and swimming eyes. "Yes, my friend," he added, with
increasing grief, "it seems that I rhyme in a slovenly manner."
"Oh, 'tis wrong to say so."
"Nay, I am a poor creature!"
"Who said so?"
""Parbleu!" 'twas Pelisson; did you not, Pelisson?"
Pelisson, again absorbed in his work, took good care not to answer.
"But if Pelisson said you were so," cried Moliere, "Pelisson has
seriously offended you."
"Do you think so?"
"Ah! I advise you, as you are a gentleman, not to leave an insult like
""What!"" exclaimed La Fontaine.
"Did you ever fight?"
"Once only, with a lieutenant in the light horse."
"What wrong had he done you?"
"It seems he ran away with my wife."
"Ah, ah!" said Moliere, becoming slightly pale; but as, at La Fontaine's
declaration, the others had turned round, Moliere kept upon his lips the
rallying smile which had so nearly died away, and continuing to make La
"And what was the result of the duel?"
"The result was, that on the ground my opponent disarmed me, and then
made an apology, promising never again to set foot in my house."
"And you considered yourself satisfied?" said Moliere.
"Not at all! on the contrary, I picked up my sword. 'I beg your pardon,
monsieur,' I said, 'I have not fought you because you were my wife's
friend, but because I was told I ought to fight. So, as I have never
known any peace save since you made her acquaintance, do me the pleasure
to continue your visits as heretofore, or "morbleu!" let us set to
again.' And so," continued La Fontaine, "he was compelled to resume his
friendship with madame, and I continue to be the happiest of husbands."
All burst out laughing. Moliere alone passed his hand across his eyes.
Why? Perhaps to wipe away a tear, perhaps to smother a sigh. Alas! we
know that Moliere was a moralist, but he was not a philosopher. "'Tis
all one," he said, returning to the topic of the conversation, "Pelisson
has insulted you."
"Ah, truly! I had already forgotten it."
"And I am going to challenge him on your behalf."
"Well, you can do so, if you think it indispensable."
"I do think it indispensable, and I am going to--"
"Stay," exclaimed La Fontaine, "I want your advice."
"Upon what? this insult?"
"No; tell me really now whether "lumiere" does not rhyme with
"I should make them rhyme."
"Ah! I knew you would."
"And I have made a hundred thousand such rhymes in my time."
"A hundred thousand!" cried La Fontaine. "Four times as many as 'La
Pucelle,' which M. Chaplain is meditating. Is it also on this subject,
too, that you have composed a hundred thousand verses?"
"Listen to me, you eternally absent-minded creature," said Moliere.
"It is certain," continued La Fontaine, "that "legume", for instance,
rhymes with "posthume"."
"In the plural, above all."
"Yes, above all in the plural, seeing that then it rhymes not with three
letters, but with four; as "orniere" does with "lumiere"."
"But give me "ornieres" and "lumieres" in the plural, my dear Pelisson,"
said La Fontaine, clapping his hand on the shoulder of his friend, whose
insult he had quite forgotten, "and they will rhyme."
"Hem!" coughed Pelisson.
"Moliere says so, and Moliere is a judge of such things; he declares he
has himself made a hundred thousand verses."
"Come," said Moliere, laughing, "he is off now."
"It is like "rivage", which rhymes admirably with "herbage". I would
take my oath of it."
"But--" said Moliere.
"I tell you all this," continued La Fontaine, "because you are preparing
a "divertissement" for Vaux, are you not?"
"Yes, the 'Facheux.'"
"Ah, yes, the 'Facheux;' yes, I recollect. Well, I was thinking a
prologue would admirably suit your "divertissement"."
"Doubtless it would suit capitally."
"Ah! you are of my opinion?"
"So much so, that I have asked you to write this very prologue."
"You asked "me" to write it?"
"Yes, you, and on your refusal begged you to ask Pelisson, who is
engaged upon it at this moment."
"Ah! that is what Pelisson is doing, then? I'faith, my dear Moliere, you
are indeed often right."
"When you call me absent-minded. It is a monstrous defect; I will cure
myself of it, and do your prologue for you."
"But inasmuch as Pelisson is about it!--"
"Ah, true, miserable rascal that I am! Loret was indeed right in saying
I was a poor creature."
"It was not Loret who said so, my friend."
"Well, then, whoever said so, 'tis the same to me! And so your
"divertissement" is called the 'Facheux?' Well, can you make "heureux"
rhyme with "facheux?""
"If obliged, yes."
"And even with "capriceux"."
"Oh, no, no."
"It would be hazardous, and yet why so?"
"There is too great a difference in the cadences."
"I was fancying," said La Fontaine, leaving Moliere for Loret--"I was
"What were you fancying?" said Loret, in the middle of a sentence. "Make
"You are writing the prologue to the 'Facheux,' are you not?"
"No! "mordieu!" it is Pelisson."
"Ah, Pelisson," cried La Fontaine, going over to him, "I was fancying,"
he continued, "that the nymph of Vaux--"
"Ah, beautiful!" cried Loret. "The nymph of Vaux! thank you, La
Fontaine; you have just given me the two concluding verses of my paper."
"Well, if you can rhyme so well, La Fontaine," said Pelisson, "tell me
now in what way you would begin my prologue?"
"I should say, for instance, 'Oh! nymph, who--' After 'who' I should
place a verb in the second person singular of the present indicative;
and should go on thus: 'this grot profound.'"
"But the verb, the verb?" asked Pelisson.
"To admire the greatest king of all kings round," continued La Fontaine.
"But the verb, the verb," obstinately insisted Pelisson. "This second
person singular of the present indicative?"
"Well, then; quittest:
"Oh, nymph, who quittest now this grot profound, To admire the greatest
king of all kings round."
"You would not put 'who quittest,' would you?"
"'Quittest,' after 'you who'?"
"Ah! my dear fellow," exclaimed La Fontaine, "you are a shocking
"Without counting," said Moliere, "that the second verse, 'king of all
kings round,' is very weak, my dear La Fontaine."
"Then you see clearly I am nothing but a poor creature,--a shuffler, as
"I never said so."
"Then, as Loret said."
"And it was not Loret either; it was Pelisson."
"Well, Pelisson was right a hundred times over. But what annoys me more
than anything, my dear Moliere, is, that I fear we shall not have our
"You expected yours, then, for the "fete?""
"Yes, for the "fete", and then for after the "fete". My housekeeper told
me that my own is rather faded."
""Diable!" your housekeeper is right; rather more than faded."
"Ah, you see," resumed La Fontaine, "the fact is, I left it on the floor
in my room, and my cat--"
"Well, your cat--"
"She made her nest upon it, which has rather changed its color."
Moliere burst out laughing; Pelisson and Loret followed his example. At
this juncture, the bishop of Vannes appeared, with a roll of plans and
parchments under his arm. As if the angel of death had chilled all gay
and sprightly fancies--as if that wan form had scared away the Graces
to whom Xenocrates sacrificed--silence immediately reigned through the
study, and every one resumed his self-possession and his pen. Aramis
distributed the notes of invitation, and thanked them in the name of
M. Fouquet. "The superintendent," he said, "being kept to his room by
business, could not come and see them, but begged them to send him some
of the fruits of their day's work, to enable him to forget the fatigue
of his labor in the night."
At these words, all settled down to work. La Fontaine placed himself at
a table, and set his rapid pen an endless dance across the smooth white
vellum; Pelisson made a fair copy of his prologue; Moliere contributed
fifty fresh verses, with which his visit to Percerin had inspired him;
Loret, an article on the marvelous "fetes" he predicted; and Aramis,
laden with his booty like the king of the bees, that great black drone,
decked with purple and gold, re-entered his apartment, silent and
busy. But before departing, "Remember, gentlemen," said he, "we leave
"In that case, I must give notice at home," said Moliere.
"Yes; poor Moliere!" said Loret, smiling; "he loves his home."
"'"He" loves,' yes," replied Moliere, with his sad, sweet smile. "'He
loves,' that does not mean, they love "him"."
"As for me," said La Fontaine, "they love me at Chateau Thierry, I am
Aramis here re-entered after a brief disappearance.
"Will any one go with me?" he asked. "I am going by Paris, after having
passed a quarter of an hour with M. Fouquet. I offer my carriage."
"Good," said Moliere, "I accept it. I am in a hurry."
"I shall dine here," said Loret. "M. de Gourville has promised me some
"He has promised me some whitings. Find a rhyme for that, La Fontaine."
Aramis went out laughing, as only he could laugh, and Moliere followed
him. They were at the bottom of the stairs, when La Fontaine opened the
door, and shouted out:
"He has promised us some whitings, In return for these our writings."
The shouts of laughter reached the ears of Fouquet at the moment Aramis
opened the door of the study. As to Moliere, he had undertaken to
order the horses, while Aramis went to exchange a parting word with the
superintendent. "Oh, how they are laughing there!" said Fouquet, with a
"Do you not laugh, monseigneur?"
"I laugh no longer now, M. d'Herblay. The "fete" is approaching; money
"Have I not told you that was my business?"
"Yes, you promised me millions."
"You shall have them the day after the king's "entree" into Vaux."
Fouquet looked closely at Aramis, and passed the back of his icy hand
across his moistened brow. Aramis perceived that the superintendent
either doubted him, or felt he was powerless to obtain the money. How
could Fouquet suppose that a poor bishop, ex-abbe, ex-musketeer, could
"Why doubt me?" said Aramis. Fouquet smiled and shook his head.
"Man of little faith!" added the bishop.
"My dear M. d'Herblay," answered Fouquet, "if I fall--"
"Well; if you 'fall'?"
"I shall, at least, fall from such a height, that I shall shatter myself
in falling." Then giving himself a shake, as though to escape from
himself, "Whence came you," said he, "my friend?"
"From Paris--from Percerin."
"And what have you been doing at Percerin's, for I suppose you attach no
great importance to our poets' dresses?"
"No; I went to prepare a surprise."
"Yes; which you are going to give to the king."
"And will it cost much?"
"Oh! a hundred pistoles you will give Lebrun."
"A painting?--Ah! all the better! And what is this painting to
"I will tell you; then at the same time, whatever you may say or think
of it, I went to see the dresses for our poets."
"Bah! and they will be rich and elegant?"
"Splendid! There will be few great monseigneurs with so good. People
will see the difference there is between the courtiers of wealth and
those of friendship."
"Ever generous and grateful, dear prelate."
"In your school."
Fouquet grasped his hand. "And where are you going?" he said.
"I am off to Paris, when you shall have given a certain letter."
"M. de Lyonne."
"And what do you want with Lyonne?"
"I wish to make him sign a "lettre de cachet"."
"'"Lettre de cachet!"' Do you desire to put somebody in the Bastile?"
"On the contrary--to let somebody out."
"A poor devil--a youth, a lad who has been Bastiled these ten years, for
two Latin verses he made against the Jesuits."
"'Two Latin verses!' and, for 'two Latin verses,' the miserable being
has been in prison for ten years!"
"And has committed no other crime?"
"Beyond this, he is as innocent as you or I."
"On your word?"
"On my honor!"
"And his name is--"
"Yes.--But it is too bad. You knew this, and you never told me!"
"'Twas only yesterday his mother applied to me, monseigneur."
"And the woman is poor!"
"In the deepest misery."
"Heaven," said Fouquet, "sometimes bears with such injustice on earth,
that I hardly wonder there are wretches who doubt of its existence.
Stay, M. d'Herblay." And Fouquet, taking a pen, wrote a few rapid lines
to his colleague Lyonne. Aramis took the letter and made ready to go.
"Wait," said Fouquet. He opened his drawer, and took out ten government
notes which were there, each for a thousand francs. "Stay," he said;
"set the son at liberty, and give this to the mother; but, above all, do
not tell her--"
"That she is ten thousand livres richer than I. She would say I am but
a poor superintendent! Go! and I pray that God will bless those who are
mindful of his poor!"
"So also do I pray," replied Aramis, kissing Fouquet's hand.
And he went out quickly, carrying off the letter for Lyonne and the
notes for Seldon's mother, and taking up Moliere, who was beginning to
Chapter VII. Another Supper at the Bastile.
Seven o'clock sounded from the great clock of the Bastile, that famous
clock, which, like all the accessories of the state prison, the very use
of which is a torture, recalled to the prisoners' minds the destination
of every hour of their punishment. The time-piece of the Bastile,
adorned with figures, like most of the clocks of the period, represented
St. Peter in bonds. It was the supper hour of the unfortunate captives.
The doors, grating on their enormous hinges, opened for the passage of
the baskets and trays of provisions, the abundance and the delicacy of
which, as M. de Baisemeaux has himself taught us, was regulated by
the condition in life of the prisoner. We understand on this head
the theories of M. de Baisemeaux, sovereign dispenser of gastronomic
delicacies, head cook of the royal fortress, whose trays, full-laden,
were ascending the steep staircases, carrying some consolation to the
prisoners in the shape of honestly filled bottles of good vintages. This
same hour was that of M. le gouverneur's supper also. He had a guest
to-day, and the spit turned more heavily than usual. Roast partridges,
flanked with quails and flanking a larded leveret; boiled fowls; hams,
fried and sprinkled with white wine, "cardons" of Guipuzcoa and "la
bisque ecrevisses": these, together with soups and "hors d'oeuvres",
constituted the governor's bill of fare. Baisemeaux, seated at table,
was rubbing his hands and looking at the bishop of Vannes, who, booted
like a cavalier, dressed in gray and sword at side, kept talking of
his hunger and testifying the liveliest impatience. M. de Baisemeaux de
Montlezun was not accustomed to the unbending movements of his greatness
my lord of Vannes, and this evening Aramis, becoming sprightly,
volunteered confidence on confidence. The prelate had again a little
touch of the musketeer about him. The bishop just trenched on the
borders only of license in his style of conversation. As for M. de
Baisemeaux, with the facility of vulgar people, he gave himself up
entirely upon this point of his guest's freedom. "Monsieur," said he,
"for indeed to-night I dare not call you monseigneur."
"By no means," said Aramis; "call me monsieur; I am booted."
"Do you know, monsieur, of whom you remind me this evening?"
"No! faith," said Aramis, taking up his glass; "but I hope I remind you
of a capital guest."
"You remind me of two, monsieur. Francois, shut the window; the wind may
annoy his greatness."
"And let him go," added Aramis. "The supper is completely served, and
we shall eat it very well without waiters. I like exceedingly to be
"tete-a-tete" when I am with a friend." Baisemeaux bowed respectfully.
"I like exceedingly," continued Aramis, "to help myself."
"Retire, Francois," cried Baisemeaux. "I was saying that your greatness
puts me in mind of two persons; one very illustrious, the late cardinal,
the great Cardinal de la Rochelle, who wore boots like you."
"Indeed," said Aramis; "and the other?"
"The other was a certain musketeer, very handsome, very brave, very
adventurous, very fortunate, who, from being abbe, turned musketeer, and
from musketeer turned abbe." Aramis condescended to smile. "From
abbe," continued Baisemeaux, encouraged by Aramis's smile--"from abbe,
bishop--and from bishop--"
"Ah! stay there, I beg," exclaimed Aramis.
"I have just said, monsieur, that you gave me the idea of a cardinal."
"Enough, dear M. Baisemeaux. As you said, I have on the boots of a
cavalier, but I do not intend, for all that, to embroil myself with the
church this evening."
"But you have wicked intentions, nevertheless, monseigneur."
"Oh, yes, wicked, I own, as everything mundane is."
"You traverse the town and the streets in disguise?"
"In disguise, as you say."
"And you still make use of your sword?"
"Yes, I should think so; but only when I am compelled. Do me the
pleasure to summon Francois."
"Have you no wine there?"
"'Tis not for wine, but because it is hot here, and the window is shut."
"I shut the windows at supper-time so as not to hear the sounds or the
arrival of couriers."
"Ah, yes. You hear them when the window is open?"
"But too well, and that disturbs me. You understand?"
"Nevertheless I am suffocated. Francois." Francois entered. "Open the
windows, I pray you, Master Francois," said Aramis. "You will allow him,
dear M. Baisemeaux?"
"You are at home here," answered the governor. The window was opened.
"Do you not think," said M. de Baisemeaux, "that you will find yourself
very lonely, now M. de la Fere has returned to his household gods at
Blois? He is a very old friend, is he not?"
"You know it as I do, Baisemeaux, seeing that you were in the musketeers
"Bah! with my friends I reckon neither bottles of wine nor years."
"And you are right. But I do more than love M. de la Fere, dear
Baisemeaux; I venerate him."
"Well, for my part, though 'tis singular," said the governor, "I prefer
M. d'Artagnan to him. There is a man for you, who drinks long and well!
That kind of people allow you at least to penetrate their thoughts."
"Baisemeaux, make me tipsy to-night; let us have a merry time of it as
of old, and if I have a trouble at the bottom of my heart, I promise
you, you shall see it as you would a diamond at the bottom of your
"Bravo!" said Baisemeaux, and he poured out a great glass of wine and
drank it off at a draught, trembling with joy at the idea of being, by
hook or by crook, in the secret of some high archiepiscopal misdemeanor.
While he was drinking he did not see with what attention Aramis was
noting the sounds in the great court. A courier came in about eight
o'clock as Francois brought in the fifth bottle, and, although the
courier made a great noise, Baisemeaux heard nothing.
"The devil take him," said Aramis.
"What! who?" asked Baisemeaux. "I hope 'tis neither the wine you drank
nor he who is the cause of your drinking it."
"No; it is a horse, who is making noise enough in the court for a whole
"Pooh! some courier or other," replied the governor, redoubling his
attention to the passing bottle. "Yes; and may the devil take him, and
so quickly that we shall never hear him speak more. Hurrah! hurrah!"
"You forget me, Baisemeaux! my glass is empty," said Aramis, lifting his
dazzling Venetian goblet.
"Upon my honor, you delight me. Francois, wine!" Francois entered.
"Wine, fellow! and better."
"Yes, monsieur, yes; but a courier has just arrived."
"Let him go to the devil, I say."
"Yes, monsieur, but--"
"Let him leave his news at the office; we will see to it to-morrow.
To-morrow, there will be time to-morrow; there will be daylight," said
Baisemeaux, chanting the words.
"Ah, monsieur," grumbled the soldier Francois, in spite of himself,
"Take care," said Aramis, "take care!"
"Of what? dear M. d'Herblay," said Baisemeaux, half intoxicated.
"The letter which the courier brings to the governor of a fortress is
sometimes an order."
"Do not orders issue from the ministers?"
"Yes, undoubtedly; but--"
"And what to these ministers do but countersign the signature of the
"Perhaps you are right. Nevertheless, 'tis very tiresome when you are
sitting before a good table, "tete-a-tete" with a friend--Ah! I beg your
pardon, monsieur; I forgot it is I who engage you at supper, and that I
speak to a future cardinal."
"Let us pass over that, dear Baisemeaux, and return to our soldier, to
"Well, and what has Francois done?"
"He has demurred!"
"He was wrong, then?"
"However, he "has" demurred, you see; 'tis because there is something
extraordinary in this matter. It is very possible that it was not
Francois who was wrong in demurring, but you, who are in the wrong in
not listening to him."
"Wrong? I to be wrong before Francois? that seems rather hard."
"Pardon me, merely an irregularity. But I thought it my duty to make an
observation which I deem important."
"Oh! perhaps you are right," stammered Baisemeaux. "The king's order
is sacred; but as to orders that arrive when one is at supper, I repeat
that the devil--"
"If you had said as much to the great cardinal--hem! my dear Baisemeaux,
and if his order had any importance."
"I do it that I may not disturb a bishop. "Mordioux!" am I not, then,
"Do not forget, Baisemeaux, that I have worn the soldier's coat, and I
am accustomed to obedience everywhere."
"You wish, then--"
"I wish that you would do your duty, my friend; yes, at least before
"'Tis mathematically true," exclaimed Baisemeaux. Francois still
waited: "Let them send this order of the king's up to me," he repeated,
recovering himself. And he added in a low tone, "Do you know what it is?
I will tell you something about as interesting as this. 'Beware of fire
near the powder magazine;' or, 'Look close after such and such a one,
who is clever at escaping,' Ah! if you only knew, monseigneur, how many
times I have been suddenly awakened from the very sweetest, deepest
slumber, by messengers arriving at full gallop to tell me, or
rather, bring me a slip of paper containing these words: 'Monsieur de
Baisemeaux, what news?' 'Tis clear enough that those who waste their
time writing such orders have never slept in the Bastile. They would
know better; they have never considered the thickness of my walls, the
vigilance of my officers, the number of rounds we go. But, indeed, what
can you expect, monseigneur? It is their business to write and torment
me when I am at rest, and to trouble me when I am happy," added
Baisemeaux, bowing to Aramis. "Then let them do their business."
"And do you do yours," added the bishop, smiling.
Francois re-entered; Baisemeaux took from his hands the minister's
order. He slowly undid it, and as slowly read it. Aramis pretended to
be drinking, so as to be able to watch his host through the glass. Then,
Baisemeaux, having read it: "What was I just saying?" he exclaimed.
"What is it?" asked the bishop.
"An order of release! There, now; excellent news indeed to disturb us!"
"Excellent news for him whom it concerns, you will at least agree, my
"And at eight o'clock in the evening!"
"It is charitable!"
"Oh! charity is all very well, but it is for that fellow who says he
is so weary and tired, but not for me who am amusing myself," said
"Will you lose by him, then? And is the prisoner who is to be set at
liberty a good payer?"
"Oh, yes, indeed! a miserable, five-franc rat!"
"Let me see it," asked M. d'Herblay. "It is no indiscretion?"
"By no means; read it."
"There is 'Urgent,' on the paper; you have seen that, I suppose?"
"Oh, admirable! 'Urgent!'--a man who has been there ten years! It
is "urgent" to set him free to-day, this very evening, at eight
o'clock!--"urgent!"" And Baisemeaux, shrugging his shoulders with an air
of supreme disdain, flung the order on the table and began eating again.
"They are fond of these tricks!" he said, with his mouth full; "they
seize a man, some fine day, keep him under lock and key for ten years,
and write to you, 'Watch this fellow well,' or 'Keep him very strictly.'
And then, as soon as you are accustomed to look upon the prisoner as a
dangerous man, all of a sudden, without rhyme or reason they write--'Set
him at liberty,' and actually add to their missive--'urgent.' You will
own, my lord, 'tis enough to make a man at dinner shrug his shoulders!"
"What do you expect? It is for them to write," said Aramis, "for you to
execute the order."
"Good! good! execute it! Oh, patience! You must not imagine that I am a
"Gracious Heaven! my very good M. Baisemeaux, who ever said so? Your
independence is well known."
"But your goodness of heart is also known."
"Ah! don't speak of it!"
"And your obedience to your superiors. Once a soldier, you see,
Baisemeaux, always a soldier."
"And I shall directly obey; and to-morrow morning, at daybreak, the
prisoner referred to shall be set free."
"Why not this evening, seeing that the "lettre de cachet" bears, both on
the direction and inside, '"urgent"'?"
"Because this evening we are at supper, and our affairs are urgent,
"Dear Baisemeaux, booted though I be, I feel myself a priest, and
charity has higher claims upon me than hunger and thirst. This
unfortunate man has suffered long enough, since you have just told me
that he has been your prisoner these ten years. Abridge his suffering.
His good time has come; give him the benefit quickly. God will repay you
in Paradise with years of felicity."
"You wish it?"
"I entreat you."
"What! in the very middle of our repast?"
"I implore you; such an action is worth ten Benedicites."
"It shall be as you desire, only our supper will get cold."
"Oh! never heed that."
Baisemeaux leaned back to ring for Francois, and by a very natural
motion turned round towards the door. The order had remained on the
table; Aramis seized the opportunity when Baisemeaux was not looking to
change the paper for another, folded in the same manner, which he drew
swiftly from his pocket. "Francois," said the governor, "let the major
come up here with the turnkeys of the Bertaudiere." Francois bowed and
quitted the room, leaving the two companions alone.
Chapter VIII. The General of the Order.
There was now a brief silence, during which Aramis never removed his
eyes from Baisemeaux for a moment. The latter seemed only half decided
to disturb himself thus in the middle of supper, and it was clear he was
trying to invent some pretext, whether good or bad, for delay, at any
rate till after dessert. And it appeared also that he had hit upon an
excuse at last.
"Eh! but it is impossible!" he cried.
"How impossible?" said Aramis. "Give me a glimpse of this
"'Tis impossible to set a prisoner at liberty at such an hour. Where can
he go to, a man so unacquainted with Paris?"
"He will find a place wherever he can."
"You see, now, one might as well set a blind man free!"
"I have a carriage, and will take him wherever he wishes."
"You have an answer for everything. Francois, tell monsieur le major to
go and open the cell of M. Seldon, No. 3, Bertaudiere."
"Seldon!" exclaimed Aramis, very naturally. "You said Seldon, I think?"
"I said Seldon, of course. 'Tis the name of the man they set free."
"Oh! you mean to say Marchiali?" said Aramis.
"Marchiali? oh! yes, indeed. No, no, Seldon."
"I think you are making a mistake, Monsieur Baisemeaux."
"I have read the order."
"And I also."
"And I saw 'Seldon' in letters as large as that," and Baisemeaux held up
"And I read 'Marchiali' in characters as large as this," said Aramis,
also holding up two fingers.
"To the proof; let us throw a light on the matter," said Baisemeaux,
confident he was right. "There is the paper, you have only to read it."
"I read 'Marchiali,'" returned Aramis, spreading out the paper. "Look."
Baisemeaux looked, and his arms dropped suddenly. "Yes, yes," he said,
quite overwhelmed; "yes, Marchiali. 'Tis plainly written Marchiali!
"How? the man of whom we have talked so much? The man whom they are
every day telling me to take such care of?"
"There is 'Marchiali,'" repeated the inflexible Aramis.
"I must own it, monseigneur. But I understand nothing about it."
"You believe your eyes, at any rate."
"To tell me very plainly there is 'Marchiali.'"
"And in a good handwriting, too."
"'Tis a wonder! I still see this order and the name of Seldon, Irishman.
I see it. Ah! I even recollect that under this name there was a blot of
"No, there is no ink; no, there is no blot."
"Oh! but there was, though; I know it, because I rubbed my finger--this
very one--in the powder that was over the blot."
"In a word, be it how it may, dear M. Baisemeaux," said Aramis, "and
whatever you may have seen, the order is signed to release Marchiali,
blot or no blot."
"The order is signed to release Marchiali," replied Baisemeaux,
mechanically, endeavoring to regain his courage.
"And you are going to release this prisoner. If your heart dictates you
to deliver Seldon also, I declare to you I will not oppose it the least
in the world." Aramis accompanied this remark with a smile, the irony of
which effectually dispelled Baisemeaux's confusion of mind, and restored
"Monseigneur," he said, "this Marchiali is the very same prisoner whom
the other day a priest confessor of "our order" came to visit in so
imperious and so secret a manner."
"I don't know that, monsieur," replied the bishop.
"'Tis no such long time ago, dear Monsieur d'Herblay."
"It is true. But "with us", monsieur, it is good that the man of to-day
should no longer know what the man of yesterday did."
"In any case," said Baisemeaux, "the visit of the Jesuit confessor must
have given happiness to this man."
Aramis made no reply, but recommenced eating and drinking. As for
Baisemeaux, no longer touching anything that was on the table, he again
took up the order and examined it every way. This investigation, under
ordinary circumstances, would have made the ears of the impatient Aramis
burn with anger; but the bishop of Vannes did not become incensed for
so little, above all, when he had murmured to himself that to do so was
dangerous. "Are you going to release Marchiali?" he said. "What mellow,
fragrant and delicious sherry this is, my dear governor."
"Monseigneur," replied Baisemeaux, "I shall release the prisoner
Marchiali when I have summoned the courier who brought the order, and
above all, when, by interrogating him, I have satisfied myself."
"The order is sealed, and the courier is ignorant of the contents. What
do you want to satisfy yourself about?"
"Be it so, monseigneur; but I shall send to the ministry, and M. de
Lyonne will either confirm or withdraw the order."
"What is the good of all that?" asked Aramis, coldly.
"Yes; what is your object, I ask?"
"The object of never deceiving oneself, monseigneur; nor being wanting
in the respect which a subaltern owes to his superior officers, nor
infringing the duties of a service one has accepted of one's own free
"Very good; you have just spoken so eloquently, that I cannot but admire
you. It is true that a subaltern owes respect to his superiors; he
is guilty when he deceives himself, and he should be punished if he
infringed either the duties or laws of his office."
Baisemeaux looked at the bishop with astonishment.
"It follows," pursued Aramis, "that you are going to ask advice, to put
your conscience at ease in the matter?"
"And if a superior officer gives you orders, you will obey?"
"Never doubt it, monseigneur."
"You know the king's signature well, M. de Baisemeaux?"
"Is it not on this order of release?"
"It is true, but it may--"
"Be forged, you mean?"
"That is evident, monseigneur."
"You are right. And that of M. de Lyonne?"
"I see it plain enough on the order; but for the same reason that the
king's signature may have been forged, so also, and with even greater
probability, may M. de Lyonne's."
"Your logic has the stride of a giant, M. de Baisemeaux," said Aramis;
"and your reasoning is irresistible. But on what special grounds do you
base your idea that these signatures are false?"
"On this: the absence of counter-signatures. Nothing checks his
majesty's signature; and M. de Lyonne is not there to tell me he has
"Well, Monsieur de Baisemeaux," said Aramis, bending an eagle glance on
the governor, "I adopt so frankly your doubts, and your mode of clearing
them up, that I will take a pen, if you will give me one."
Baisemeaux gave him a pen.
"And a sheet of white paper," added Aramis.
Baisemeaux handed him some paper.
"Now, I--I, also--I, here present--incontestably, I--am going to write
an order to which I am certain you will give credence, incredulous as
Baisemeaux turned pale at this icy assurance of manner. It seemed to
him that the voice of the bishop's, but just now so playful and gay, had
become funereal and sad; that the wax lights changed into the tapers of
a mortuary chapel, the very glasses of wine into chalices of blood.
Aramis took a pen and wrote. Baisemeaux, in terror, read over his
"A. M. D. G.," wrote the bishop; and he drew a cross under these four
letters, which signify "ad majorem Dei gloriam", "to the greater glory
of God;" and thus he continued: "It is our pleasure that the order
brought to M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun, governor, for the king, of
the castle of the Bastile, be held by him good and effectual, and be
immediately carried into operation."
"General of the Order, by the grace of God."
Baisemeaux was so profoundly astonished, that his features remained
contracted, his lips parted, and his eyes fixed. He did not move an
inch, nor articulate a sound. Nothing could be heard in that large
chamber but the wing-whisper of a little moth, which was fluttering to
its death about the candles. Aramis, without even deigning to look at
the man whom he had reduced to so miserable a condition, drew from his
pocket a small case of black wax; he sealed the letter, and stamped it
with a seal suspended at his breast, beneath his doublet, and when the
operation was concluded, presented--still in silence--the missive to M.
de Baisemeaux. The latter, whose hands trembled in a manner to excite
pity, turned a dull and meaningless gaze upon the letter. A last gleam
of feeling played over his features, and he fell, as if thunder-struck,
on a chair.
"Come, come," said Aramis, after a long silence, during which the
governor of the Bastile had slowly recovered his senses, "do not lead
me to believe, dear Baisemeaux, that the presence of the general of the
order is as terrible as His, and that men die merely from having seen
Him. Take courage, rouse yourself; give me your hand--obey."
Baisemeaux, reassured, if not satisfied, obeyed, kissed Aramis's hand,
and rose. "Immediately?" he murmured.
"Oh, there is no pressing haste, my host; take your place again, and do
the honors over this beautiful dessert."
"Monseigneur, I shall never recover such a shock as this; I who have
laughed, who have jested with you! I who have dared to treat you on a
footing of equality!"
"Say nothing about it, old comrade," replied the bishop, who perceived
how strained the cord was and how dangerous it would have been to break
it; "say nothing about it. Let us each live in our own way; to you,
my protection and my friendship; to me, your obedience. Having exactly
fulfilled these two requirements, let us live happily."
Baisemeaux reflected; he perceived, at a glance, the consequence of this
withdrawal of a prisoner by means of a forged order; and, putting in the
scale the guarantee offered him by the official order of the general,
did not consider it of any value.
Aramis divined this. "My dear Baisemeaux," said he, "you are a
simpleton. Lose this habit of reflection when I give myself the trouble
to think for you."
And at another gesture he made, Baisemeaux bowed again. "How shall I set
about it?" he said.
"What is the process for releasing a prisoner?"
"I have the regulations."
"Well, then, follow the regulations, my friend."
"I go with my major to the prisoner's room, and conduct him, if he is a
personage of importance."
"But this Marchiali is not an important personage," said Aramis
"I don't know," answered the governor, as if he would have said, "It is
for you to instruct me."
"Then if you don't know it, I am right; so act towards Marchiali as you
act towards one of obscure station."
"Good; the regulations so provide. They are to the effect that the
turnkey, or one of the lower officials, shall bring the prisoner before
the governor, in the office."
"Well, 'tis very wise, that; and then?"
"Then we return to the prisoner the valuables he wore at the time of his
imprisonment, his clothes and papers, if the minister's orders have not
"What was the minister's order as to this Marchiali?"
"Nothing; for the unhappy man arrived here without jewels, without
papers, and almost without clothes."
"See how simple, then, all is. Indeed, Baisemeaux, you make a mountain
of everything. Remain here, and make them bring the prisoner to the
Baisemeaux obeyed. He summoned his lieutenant, and gave him an order,
which the latter passed on, without disturbing himself about it, to the
next whom it concerned.
Half an hour afterwards they heard a gate shut in the court; it was the
door to the dungeon, which had just rendered up its prey to the free
air. Aramis blew out all the candles which lighted the room but one,
which he left burning behind the door. This flickering glare prevented
the sight from resting steadily on any object. It multiplied tenfold the
changing forms and shadows of the place, by its wavering uncertainty.
Steps drew near.
"Go and meet your men," said Aramis to Baisemeaux.
The governor obeyed. The sergeant and turnkeys disappeared. Baisemeaux
re-entered, followed by a prisoner. Aramis had placed himself in the
shade; he saw without being seen. Baisemeaux, in an agitated tone of
voice, made the young man acquainted with the order which set him at
liberty. The prisoner listened, without making a single gesture or
saying a word.
"You will swear ('tis the regulation that requires it)," added the
governor, "never to reveal anything that you have seen or heard in the
The prisoner perceived a crucifix; he stretched out his hands and swore
with his lips. "And now, monsieur, you are free. Whither do you intend
The prisoner turned his head, as if looking behind him for some
protection, on which he ought to rely. Then was it that Aramis came out
of the shade: "I am here," he said, "to render the gentleman whatever
service he may please to ask."
The prisoner slightly reddened, and, without hesitation, passed his arm
through that of Aramis. "God have you in his holy keeping," he said, in
a voice the firmness of which made the governor tremble as much as the
form of the blessing astonished him.
Aramis, on shaking hands with Baisemeaux, said to him; "Does my order
trouble you? Do you fear their finding it here, should they come to
"I desire to keep it, monseigneur," said Baisemeaux. "If they found it
here, it would be a certain indication I should be lost, and in that
case you would be a powerful and a last auxiliary for me."
"Being your accomplice, you mean?" answered Aramis, shrugging his
shoulders. "Adieu, Baisemeaux," said he.
The horses were in waiting, making each rusty spring reverberate the
carriage again with their impatience. Baisemeaux accompanied the bishop
to the bottom of the steps. Aramis caused his companion to mount before
him, then followed, and without giving the driver any further order, "Go
on," said he. The carriage rattled over the pavement of the courtyard.
An officer with a torch went before the horses, and gave orders at
every post to let them pass. During the time taken in opening all the
barriers, Aramis barely breathed, and you might have heard his "sealed
heart knock against his ribs." The prisoner, buried in a corner of the
carriage, made no more sign of life than his companion. At length, a
jolt more sever than the others announced to them that they had cleared
the last watercourse. Behind the carriage closed the last gate, that
in the Rue St. Antoine. No more walls either on the right or the left;
heaven everywhere, liberty everywhere, and life everywhere. The horses,
kept in check by a vigorous hand, went quietly as far as the middle of
the faubourg. There they began to trot. Little by little, whether they
were warming to their work, or whether they were urged, they gained in
swiftness, and once past Bercy, the carriage seemed to fly, so great was
the ardor of the coursers. The horses galloped thus as far as Villeneuve
St. George's, where relays were waiting. Then four instead of two
whirled the carriage away in the direction of Melun, and pulled up for
a moment in the middle of the forest of Senart. No doubt the order had
been given the postilion beforehand, for Aramis had no occasion even to
make a sign.
"What is the matter?" asked the prisoner, as if waking from a long
"The matter is, monseigneur," said Aramis, "that before going further,
it is necessary your royal highness and I should converse."
"I will await an opportunity, monsieur," answered the young prince.
"We could not have a better, monseigneur. We are in the middle of a
forest, and no one can hear us."
"The postilion of this relay is deaf and dumb, monseigneur."
"I am at your service, M. d'Herblay."
"Is it your pleasure to remain in the carriage?"
"Yes; we are comfortably seated, and I like this carriage, for it has
restored me to liberty."
"Wait, monseigneur; there is yet a precaution to be taken."
"We are here on the highway; cavaliers or carriages traveling
like ourselves might pass, and seeing us stopping, deem us in some
difficulty. Let us avoid offers of assistance, which would embarrass
"Give the postilion orders to conceal the carriage in one of the side
"'Tis exactly what I wished to do, monseigneur."
Aramis made a sign to the deaf and dumb driver of the carriage, whom
he touched on the arm. The latter dismounted, took the leaders by the
bridle, and led them over the velvet sward and the mossy grass of a
winding alley, at the bottom of which, on this moonless night, the deep
shades formed a curtain blacker than ink. This done, the man lay down
on a slope near his horses, who, on either side, kept nibbling the young
"I am listening," said the young prince to Aramis; "but what are you
"I am disarming myself of my pistols, of which we have no further need,
Chapter IX. The Tempter.
"My prince," said Aramis, turning in the carriage towards his companion,
"weak creature as I am, so unpretending in genius, so low in the scale
of intelligent beings, it has never yet happened to me to converse with
a man without penetrating his thoughts through that living mask which
has been thrown over our mind, in order to retain its expression. But
to-night, in this darkness, in the reserve which you maintain, I can
read nothing on your features, and something tells me that I shall have
great difficulty in wresting from you a sincere declaration. I beseech
you, then, not for love of me, for subjects should never weigh as
anything in the balance which princes hold, but for love of yourself,
to retain every syllable, every inflexion which, under the present most
grave circumstances, will all have a sense and value as important as any
every uttered in the world."
"I listen," replied the young prince, "decidedly, without either eagerly
seeking or fearing anything you are about to say to me." And he buried
himself still deeper in the thick cushions of the carriage, trying to
deprive his companion not only of the sight of him, but even of the very
idea of his presence.
Black was the darkness which fell wide and dense from the summits of the
intertwining trees. The carriage, covered in by this prodigious roof,
would not have received a particle of light, not even if a ray could
have struggled through the wreaths of mist that were already rising in
"Monseigneur," resumed Aramis, "you know the history of the government
which to-day controls France. The king issued from an infancy imprisoned
like yours, obscure as yours, and confined as yours; only, instead
of ending, like yourself, this slavery in a prison, this obscurity in
solitude, these straightened circumstances in concealment, he was
fain to bear all these miseries, humiliations, and distresses, in full
daylight, under the pitiless sun of royalty; on an elevation flooded
with light, where every stain appears a blemish, every glory a stain.
The king has suffered; it rankles in his mind; and he will avenge
himself. He will be a bad king. I say not that he will pour out his
people's blood, like Louis XI., or Charles IX.; for he has no mortal
injuries to avenge; but he will devour the means and substance of his
people; for he has himself undergone wrongs in his own interest and
money. In the first place, then, I acquit my conscience, when I consider
openly the merits and the faults of this great prince; and if I condemn
him, my conscience absolves me."
Aramis paused. It was not to listen if the silence of the forest
remained undisturbed, but it was to gather up his thoughts from the very
bottom of his soul--to leave the thoughts he had uttered sufficient time
to eat deeply into the mind of his companion.
"All that Heaven does, Heaven does well," continued the bishop of
Vannes; "and I am so persuaded of it that I have long been thankful
to have been chosen depositary of the secret which I have aided you
to discover. To a just Providence was necessary an instrument, at once
penetrating, persevering, and convinced, to accomplish a great work. I
am this instrument. I possess penetration, perseverance, conviction; I
govern a mysterious people, who has taken for its motto, the motto
of God, '"Patiens quia oeternus".'" The prince moved. "I divine,
monseigneur, why you are raising your head, and are surprised at the
people I have under my command. You did not know you were dealing with a
king--oh! monseigneur, king of a people very humble, much disinherited;
humble because they have no force save when creeping; disinherited,
because never, almost never in this world, do my people reap the harvest
they sow, nor eat the fruit they cultivate. They labor for an abstract
idea; they heap together all the atoms of their power, to from a single
man; and round this man, with the sweat of their labor, they create a
misty halo, which his genius shall, in turn, render a glory gilded with
the rays of all the crowns in Christendom. Such is the man you have
beside you, monseigneur. It is to tell you that he has drawn you from
the abyss for a great purpose, to raise you above the powers of the
earth--above himself." 
The prince lightly touched Aramis's arm. "You speak to me," he said,
"of that religious order whose chief you are. For me, the result of your
words is, that the day you desire to hurl down the man you shall have
raised, the event will be accomplished; and that you will keep under
your hand your creation of yesterday."
"Undeceive yourself, monseigneur," replied the bishop. "I should not
take the trouble to play this terrible game with your royal highness, if
I had not a double interest in gaining it. The day you are elevated, you
are elevated forever; you will overturn the footstool, as you rise, and
will send it rolling so far, that not even the sight of it will ever
again recall to you its right to simple gratitude."
"Your movement, monseigneur, arises from an excellent disposition.
I thank you. Be well assured, I aspire to more than gratitude! I am
convinced that, when arrived at the summit, you will judge me still more
worthy to be your friend; and then, monseigneur, we two will do such
great deeds, that ages hereafter shall long speak of them."
"Tell me plainly, monsieur--tell me without disguise--what I am to-day,
and what you aim at my being to-morrow."
"You are the son of King Louis XIII., brother of Louis XIV., natural
and legitimate heir to the throne of France. In keeping you near him,
as Monsieur has been kept--Monsieur, your younger brother--the king
reserved to himself the right of being legitimate sovereign. The doctors
only could dispute his legitimacy. But the doctors always prefer the
king who is to the king who is not. Providence has willed that you
should be persecuted; this persecution to-day consecrates you king of
France. You had, then, a right to reign, seeing that it is disputed; you
had a right to be proclaimed seeing that you have been concealed; and
you possess royal blood, since no one has dared to shed yours, as that
of your servants has been shed. Now see, then, what this Providence,
which you have so often accused of having in every way thwarted you, has
done for you. It has given you the features, figure, age, and voice
of your brother; and the very causes of your persecution are about
to become those of your triumphant restoration. To-morrow, after
to-morrow--from the very first, regal phantom, living shade of Louis
XIV., you will sit upon his throne, whence the will of Heaven, confided
in execution to the arm of man, will have hurled him, without hope of
"I understand," said the prince, "my brother's blood will not be shed,
"You will be sole arbiter of his fate."
"The secret of which they made an evil use against me?"
"You will employ it against him. What did he do to conceal it? He
concealed you. Living image of himself, you will defeat the conspiracy
of Mazarin and Anne of Austria. You, my prince, will have the same
interest in concealing him, who will, as a prisoner, resemble you, as
you will resemble him as a king."
"I fall back on what I was saying to you. Who will guard him?"
"Who guarded "you?""
"You know this secret--you have made use of it with regard to myself.
Who else knows it?"
"The queen-mother and Madame de Chevreuse."
"What will they do?"
"Nothing, if you choose."
"How is that?"
"How can they recognize you, if you act in such a manner that no one can
"'Tis true; but there are grave difficulties."
"State them, prince."
"My brother is married; I cannot take my brother's wife."
"I will cause Spain to consent to a divorce; it is in the interest of
your new policy; it is human morality. All that is really noble and
really useful in this world will find its account therein."
"The imprisoned king will speak."
"To whom do you think he will speak--to the walls?"
"You mean, by walls, the men in whom you put confidence."
"If need be, yes. And besides, your royal highness--"
"I was going to say, that the designs of Providence do not stop on such
a fair road. Every scheme of this caliber is completed by its results,
like a geometrical calculation. The king, in prison, will not be for you
the cause of embarrassment that you have been for the king enthroned.
His soul is naturally proud and impatient; it is, moreover, disarmed and
enfeebled, by being accustomed to honors, and by the license of supreme
power. The same Providence which has willed that the concluding step in
the geometrical calculation I have had the honor of describing to
your royal highness should be your ascension to the throne, and the
destruction of him who is hurtful to you, has also determined that
the conquered one shall soon end both his own and your sufferings.
Therefore, his soul and body have been adapted for but a brief agony.
Put into prison as a private individual, left alone with your doubts,
deprived of everything, you have exhibited the most sublime, enduring
principle of life in withstanding all this. But your brother, a captive,
forgotten, and in bonds, will not long endure the calamity; and Heaven
will resume his soul at the appointed time--that is to say, soon."
At this point in Aramis's gloomy analysis, a bird of night uttered from
the depths of the forest that prolonged and plaintive cry which makes
every creature tremble.
"I will exile the deposed king," said Philippe, shuddering; "'twill be
"The king's good pleasure will decide the point," said Aramis. "But has
the problem been well put? Have I brought out of the solution according
to the wishes or the foresight of your royal highness?"
"Yes, monsieur, yes; you have forgotten nothing--except, indeed, two
"Let us speak of it at once, with the same frankness we have already
conversed in. Let us speak of the causes which may bring about the ruin
of all the hopes we have conceived. Let us speak of the risks we are
"They would be immense, infinite, terrific, insurmountable, if, as I
have said, all things did not concur to render them of absolutely no
account. There is no danger either for you or for me, if the constancy
and intrepidity of your royal highness are equal to that perfection of
resemblance to your brother which nature has bestowed upon you. I repeat
it, there are no dangers, only obstacles; a word, indeed, which I find
in all languages, but have always ill-understood, and, were I king,
would have obliterated as useless and absurd."
"Yes, indeed, monsieur; there is a very serious obstacle, an
insurmountable danger, which you are forgetting."
"Ah!" said Aramis.
"There is conscience, which cries aloud; remorse, that never dies."
"True, true," said the bishop; "there is a weakness of heart of which
you remind me. You are right, too, for that, indeed, is an immense
obstacle. The horse afraid of the ditch, leaps into the middle of it,
and is killed! The man who trembling crosses his sword with that of
another leaves loopholes whereby his enemy has him in his power."
"Have you a brother?" said the young man to Aramis.
"I am alone in the world," said the latter, with a hard, dry voice.
"But, surely, there is some one in the world whom you love?" added
"No one!--Yes, I love you."
The young man sank into so profound a silence, that the mere sound of
his respiration seemed like a roaring tumult for Aramis. "Monseigneur,"
he resumed, "I have not said all I had to say to your royal highness;
I have not offered you all the salutary counsels and useful resources
which I have at my disposal. It is useless to flash bright visions
before the eyes of one who seeks and loves darkness: useless, too, is
it to let the magnificence of the cannon's roar make itself heard in the
ears of one who loves repose and the quiet of the country. Monseigneur,
I have your happiness spread out before me in my thoughts; listen to my
words; precious they indeed are, in their import and their sense,
for you who look with such tender regard upon the bright heavens, the
verdant meadows, the pure air. I know a country instinct with
delights of every kind, an unknown paradise, a secluded corner of the
world--where alone, unfettered and unknown, in the thick covert of the
woods, amidst flowers, and streams of rippling water, you will forget
all the misery that human folly has so recently allotted you. Oh! listen
to me, my prince. I do not jest. I have a heart, and mind, and soul, and
can read your own,--aye, even to its depths. I will not take you unready
for your task, in order to cast you into the crucible of my own desires,
of my caprice, or my ambition. Let it be all or nothing. You are chilled
and galled, sick at heart, overcome by excess of the emotions which but
one hour's liberty has produced in you. For me, that is a certain and
unmistakable sign that you do not wish to continue at liberty. Would you
prefer a more humble life, a life more suited to your strength? Heaven
is my witness, that I wish your happiness to be the result of the trial
to which I have exposed you."
"Speak, speak," said the prince, with a vivacity which did not escape
"I know," resumed the prelate, "in the Bas-Poitou, a canton, of which
no one in France suspects the existence. Twenty leagues of country is
immense, is it not? Twenty leagues, monseigneur, all covered with water
and herbage, and reeds of the most luxuriant nature; the whole studded
with islands covered with woods of the densest foliage. These large
marshes, covered with reeds as with a thick mantle, sleep silently and
calmly beneath the sun's soft and genial rays. A few fishermen with
their families indolently pass their lives away there, with their great
living-rafts of poplar and alder, the flooring formed of reeds, and the
roof woven out of thick rushes. These barks, these floating-houses, are
wafted to and fro by the changing winds. Whenever they touch a bank, it
is but by chance; and so gently, too, that the sleeping fisherman is not
awakened by the shock. Should he wish to land, it is merely because he
has seen a large flight of landrails or plovers, of wild ducks, teal,
widgeon, or woodchucks, which fall an easy pray to net or gun. Silver
shad, eels, greedy pike, red and gray mullet, swim in shoals into his
nets; he has but to choose the finest and largest, and return the others
to the waters. Never yet has the food of the stranger, be he soldier
or simple citizen, never has any one, indeed, penetrated into that
district. The sun's rays there are soft and tempered: in plots of solid
earth, whose soil is swart and fertile, grows the vine, nourishing with
generous juice its purple, white, and golden grapes. Once a week, a boat
is sent to deliver the bread which has been baked at an oven--the common
property of all. There--like the seigneurs of early days--powerful in
virtue of your dogs, your fishing-lines, your guns, and your beautiful
reed-built house, would you live, rich in the produce of the chase,
in plentitude of absolute secrecy. There would years of your life roll
away, at the end of which, no longer recognizable, for you would have
been perfectly transformed, you would have succeeded in acquiring a
destiny accorded to you by Heaven. There are a thousand pistoles in this
bag, monseigneur--more, far more, than sufficient to purchase the whole
marsh of which I have spoken; more than enough to live there as many
years as you have days to live; more than enough to constitute you the
richest, the freest, and the happiest man in the country. Accept it,
as I offer it you--sincerely, cheerfully. Forthwith, without a moment's
pause, I will unharness two of my horses, which are attached to the
carriage yonder, and they, accompanied by my servant--my deaf and dumb
attendant--shall conduct you--traveling throughout the night, sleeping
during the day--to the locality I have described; and I shall, at least,
have the satisfaction of knowing that I have rendered to my prince the
major service he himself preferred. I shall have made one human being
happy; and Heaven for that will hold me in better account than if I had
made one man powerful; the former task is far more difficult. And now,
monseigneur, your answer to this proposition? Here is the money. Nay,
do not hesitate. At Poitou, you can risk nothing, except the chance of
catching the fevers prevalent there; and even of them, the so-called
wizards of the country will cure you, for the sake of your pistoles. If
you play the other game, you run the chance of being assassinated on a
throne, strangled in a prison-cell. Upon my soul, I assure you, now I
begin to compare them together, I myself should hesitate which lot I
"Monsieur," replied the young prince, "before I determine, let me alight
from this carriage, walk on the ground, and consult that still voice
within me, which Heaven bids us all to hearken to. Ten minutes is all I
ask, and then you shall have your answer."
"As you please, monseigneur," said Aramis, bending before him with
respect, so solemn and august in tone and address had sounded these
Chapter X. Crown and Tiara.
Aramis was the first to descend from the carriage; he held the door open
for the young man. He saw him place his foot on the mossy ground with
a trembling of the whole body, and walk round the carriage with an
unsteady and almost tottering step. It seemed as if the poor prisoner
was unaccustomed to walk on God's earth. It was the 15th of August,
about eleven o'clock at night; thick clouds, portending a tempest,
overspread the heavens, and shrouded every light and prospect underneath
their heavy folds. The extremities of the avenues were imperceptibly
detached from the copse, by a lighter shadow of opaque gray, which, upon
closer examination, became visible in the midst of the obscurity.
But the fragrance which ascended from the grass, fresher and more
penetrating than that which exhaled from the trees around him; the warm
and balmy air which enveloped him for the first time for many years
past; the ineffable enjoyment of liberty in an open country, spoke
to the prince in so seductive a language, that notwithstanding the
preternatural caution, we would almost say dissimulation of his
character, of which we have tried to give an idea, he could not restrain
his emotion, and breathed a sigh of ecstasy. Then, by degrees, he raised
his aching head and inhaled the softly scented air, as it was wafted in
gentle gusts to his uplifted face. Crossing his arms on his chest, as if
to control this new sensation of delight, he drank in delicious draughts
of that mysterious air which interpenetrates at night the loftiest
forests. The sky he was contemplating, the murmuring waters, the
universal freshness--was not all this reality? Was not Aramis a madman
to suppose that he had aught else to dream of in this world? Those
exciting pictures of country life, so free from fears and troubles,
the ocean of happy days that glitters incessantly before all young
imaginations, are real allurements wherewith to fascinate a poor,
unhappy prisoner, worn out by prison cares, emaciated by the stifling
air of the Bastile. It was the picture, it will be remembered, drawn
by Aramis, when he offered the thousand pistoles he had with him in
the carriage to the prince, and the enchanted Eden which the deserts of
Bas-Poitou hid from the eyes of the world. Such were the reflections of
Aramis as he watched, with an anxiety impossible to describe, the
silent progress of the emotions of Philippe, whom he perceived gradually
becoming more and more absorbed in his meditations. The young prince was
offering up an inward prayer to Heaven, to be divinely guided in this
trying moment, upon which his life or death depended. It was an anxious
time for the bishop of Vannes, who had never before been so perplexed.
His iron will, accustomed to overcome all obstacles, never finding
itself inferior or vanquished on any occasion, to be foiled in so vast a
project from not having foreseen the influence which a view of nature in
all its luxuriance would have on the human mind! Aramis, overwhelmed by
anxiety, contemplated with emotion the painful struggle that was taking
place in Philippe's mind. This suspense lasted the whole ten minutes
which the young man had requested. During this space of time, which
appeared an eternity, Philippe continued gazing with an imploring and
sorrowful look towards the heavens; Aramis did not remove the piercing
glance he had fixed on Philippe. Suddenly the young man bowed his head.
His thought returned to the earth, his looks perceptibly hardened, his
brow contracted, his mouth assuming an expression of undaunted courage;
again his looks became fixed, but this time they wore a worldly
expression, hardened by covetousness, pride, and strong desire. Aramis's
look immediately became as soft as it had before been gloomy. Philippe,
seizing his hand in a quick, agitated manner, exclaimed:
"Lead me to where the crown of France is to be found."
"Is this your decision, monseigneur?" asked Aramis.
Philippe did not even deign to reply. He gazed earnestly at the bishop,
as if to ask him if it were possible for a man to waver after having
once made up his mind.
"Such looks are flashes of the hidden fire that betrays men's
character," said Aramis, bowing over Philippe's hand; "you will be
great, monseigneur, I will answer for that."
"Let us resume our conversation. I wished to discuss two points with
you; in the first place the dangers, or the obstacles we may meet with.
That point is decided. The other is the conditions you intend imposing
on me. It is your turn to speak, M. d'Herblay."
"The conditions, monseigneur?"
"Doubtless. You will not allow so mere a trifle to stop me, and you will
not do me the injustice to suppose that I think you have no interest in
this affair. Therefore, without subterfuge or hesitation, tell me the
"I will do so, monseigneur. Once a king--"
"When will that be?"
"To-morrow evening--I mean in the night."
"When I shall have asked your highness a question."
"I sent to your highness a man in my confidence with instructions to
deliver some closely written notes, carefully drawn up, which will
thoroughly acquaint your highness with the different persons who compose
and will compose your court."
"I perused those notes."
"I know them by heart."
"And understand them? Pardon me, but I may venture to ask that question
of a poor, abandoned captive of the Bastile? In a week's time it will
not be requisite to further question a mind like yours. You will then be
in full possession of liberty and power."
"Interrogate me, then, and I will be a scholar representing his lesson
to his master."
"We will begin with your family, monseigneur."
"My mother, Anne of Austria! all her sorrows, her painful malady. Oh! I
know her--I know her."
"Your second brother?" asked Aramis, bowing.
"To these notes," replied the prince, "you have added portraits so
faithfully painted, that I am able to recognize the persons whose
characters, manners, and history you have so carefully portrayed.
Monsieur, my brother, is a fine, dark young man, with a pale face; he
does not love his wife, Henrietta, whom I, Louis XIV., loved a little,
and still flirt with, even although she made me weep on the day she
wished to dismiss Mademoiselle de la Valliere from her service in
"You will have to be careful with regard to the watchfulness of the
latter," said Aramis; "she is sincerely attached to the actual king. The
eyes of a woman who loves are not easily deceived."
"She is fair, has blue eyes, whose affectionate gaze reveals her
identity. She halts slightly in her gait; she writes a letter every day,
to which I have to send an answer by M. de Saint-Aignan."
"Do you know the latter?"
"As if I saw him, and I know the last verses he composed for me, as well
as those I composed in answer to his."
"Very good. Do you know your ministers?"
"Colbert, an ugly, dark-browed man, but intelligent enough, his hair
covering his forehead, a large, heavy, full head; the mortal enemy of M.
"As for the latter, we need not disturb ourselves about him."
"No; because necessarily you will not require me to exile him, I
Aramis, struck with admiration at the remark, said, "You will become
very great, monseigneur."
"You see," added the prince, "that I know my lesson by heart, and with
Heaven's assistance, and yours afterwards, I shall seldom go wrong."
"You have still an awkward pair of eyes to deal with, monseigneur."
"Yes, the captain of the musketeers, M. d'Artagnan, your friend."
"Yes; I can well say 'my friend.'"
"He who escorted La Valliere to Le Chaillot; he who delivered up Monk,
cooped in an iron box, to Charles II.; he who so faithfully served
my mother; he to whom the crown of France owes so much that it owes
everything. Do you intend to ask me to exile him also?"
"Never, sire. D'Artagnan is a man to whom, at a certain given time, I
will undertake to reveal everything; but be on your guard with him, for
if he discovers our plot before it is revealed to him, you or I will
certainly be killed or taken. He is a bold and enterprising man."
"I will think it over. Now tell me about M. Fouquet; what do you wish to
be done with regard to him?"
"One moment more, I entreat you, monseigneur; and forgive me, if I seem
to fail in respect to questioning you further."
"It is your duty to do so, nay, more than that, your right."
"Before we pass to M. Fouquet, I should very much regret forgetting
another friend of mine."
"M. du Vallon, the Hercules of France, you mean; oh! as far as he is
concerned, his interests are more than safe."
"No; it is not he whom I intended to refer to."
"The Comte de la Fere, then?"
"And his son, the son of all four of us."
"That poor boy who is dying of love for La Valliere, whom my brother
so disloyally bereft him of? Be easy on that score. I shall know how to
rehabilitate his happiness. Tell me only one thing, Monsieur d'Herblay;
do men, when they love, forget the treachery that has been shown them?
Can a man ever forgive the woman who has betrayed him? Is that a French
custom, or is it one of the laws of the human heart?"
"A man who loves deeply, as deeply as Raoul loves Mademoiselle de la
Valliere, finishes by forgetting the fault or crime of the woman he
loves; but I do not yet know whether Raoul will be able to forget."
"I will see after that. Have you anything further to say about your
"No; that is all."
"Well, then, now for M. Fouquet. What do you wish me to do for him?"
"To keep him on as surintendant, in the capacity in which he has
hitherto acted, I entreat you."
"Be it so; but he is the first minister at present."
"Not quite so."
"A king, ignorant and embarrassed as I shall be, will, as a matter of
course, require a first minister of state."
"Your majesty will require a friend."
"I have only one, and that is yourself."
"You will have many others by and by, but none so devoted, none so
zealous for your glory."
"You shall be my first minister of state."
"Not immediately, monseigneur, for that would give rise to too much
suspicion and astonishment."
"M. de Richelieu, the first minister of my grandmother, Marie de Medici,
was simply bishop of Lucon, as you are bishop of Vannes."
"I perceive that your royal highness has studied my notes to great
advantage; your amazing perspicacity overpowers me with delight."
"I am perfectly aware that M. de Richelieu, by means of the queen's
protection, soon became cardinal."
"It would be better," said Aramis, bowing, "that I should not be
appointed first minister until your royal highness has procured my
nomination as cardinal."
"You shall be nominated before two months are past, Monsieur d'Herblay.
But that is a matter of very trifling moment; you would not offend me if
you were to ask more than that, and you would cause me serious regret if
you were to limit yourself to that."
"In that case, I have something still further to hope for, monseigneur."
"M. Fouquet will not keep long at the head of affairs, he will soon get
old. He is fond of pleasure, consistently, I mean, with all his labors,
thanks to the youthfulness he still retains; but this protracted youth
will disappear at the approach of the first serious annoyance, or at
the first illness he may experience. We will spare him the annoyance,
because he is an agreeable and noble-hearted man; but we cannot save him
from ill-health. So it is determined. When you shall have paid all M.
Fouquet's debts, and restored the finances to a sound condition, M.
Fouquet will be able to remain the sovereign ruler in his little court
of poets and painters,--we shall have made him rich. When that has been
done, and I have become your royal highness's prime minister, I shall be
able to think of my own interests and yours."
The young man looked at his interrogator.
"M. de Richelieu, of whom we were speaking just now, was very much to
blame in the fixed idea he had of governing France alone, unaided. He
allowed two kings, King Louis XIII. and himself, to be seated on the
self-same throne, whilst he might have installed them more conveniently
upon two separate and distinct thrones."
"Upon two thrones?" said the young man, thoughtfully.
"In fact," pursued Aramis, quietly, "a cardinal, prime minister of
France, assisted by the favor and by the countenance of his Most
Christian Majesty the King of France, a cardinal to whom the king his
master lends the treasures of the state, his army, his counsel, such
a man would be acting with twofold injustice in applying these mighty
resources to France alone. Besides," added Aramis, "you will not be a
king such as your father was, delicate in health, slow in judgment, whom
all things wearied; you will be a king governing by your brain and by
your sword; you will have in the government of the state no more than
you will be able to manage unaided; I should only interfere with you.
Besides, our friendship ought never to be, I do not say impaired, but
in any degree affected, by a secret thought. I shall have given you
the throne of France, you will confer on me the throne of St. Peter.
Whenever your loyal, firm, and mailed hand should joined in ties of
intimate association the hand of a pope such as I shall be, neither
Charles V., who owned two-thirds of the habitable globe, nor
Charlemagne, who possessed it entirely, will be able to reach to half
your stature. I have no alliances, I have no predilections; I will not
throw you into persecutions of heretics, nor will I cast you into the
troubled waters of family dissension; I will simply say to you: The
whole universe is our own; for me the minds of men, for you their
bodies. And as I shall be the first to die, you will have my
inheritance. What do you say of my plan, monseigneur?"
"I say that you render me happy and proud, for no other reason than that
of having comprehended you thoroughly. Monsieur d'Herblay, you shall be
cardinal, and when cardinal, my prime minister; and then you will point
out to me the necessary steps to be taken to secure your election as
pope, and I will take them. You can ask what guarantees from me you
"It is useless. Never shall I act except in such a manner that you will
be the gainer; I shall never ascend the ladder of fortune, fame, or
position, until I have first seen you placed upon the round of the
ladder immediately above me; I shall always hold myself sufficiently
aloof from you to escape incurring your jealousy, sufficiently near to
sustain your personal advantage and to watch over your friendship. All
the contracts in the world are easily violated because the interests
included in them incline more to one side than to another. With us,
however, this will never be the case; I have no need of any guarantees."
"And so--my dear brother--will disappear?"
"Simply. We will remove him from his bed by means of a plank which
yields to the pressure of the finger. Having retired to rest a crowned
sovereign, he will awake a captive. Alone you will rule from that
moment, and you will have no interest dearer and better than that of
keeping me near you."
"I believe it. There is my hand on it, Monsieur d'Herblay."
"Allow me to kneel before you, sire, most respectfully. We will embrace
each other on the day we shall have upon our temples, you the crown, I
"Still embrace me this very day also, and be, for and towards me, more
than great, more than skillful, more than sublime in genius; be kind and
indulgent--be my father!"
Aramis was almost overcome as he listened to his voice; he fancied
he detected in his own heart an emotion hitherto unknown; but this
impression was speedily removed. "His father!" he thought; "yes, his
And they resumed their places in the carriage, which sped rapidly along
the road leading to Vaux-le-Vicomte.
Chapter XI. The Chateau de Vaux-le-Vicomte.
The chateau of Vaux-le-Vicomte, situated about a league from Melun, had
been built by Fouquet in 1655, at a time when there was a scarcity
of money in France; Mazarin had taken all that there was, and Fouquet
expended the remainder. However, as certain men have fertile, false, and
useful vices, Fouquet, in scattering broadcast millions of money in
the construction of this palace, had found a means of gathering, as the
result of his generous profusion, three illustrious men together: Levau,
the architect of the building; Lenotre, the designer of the gardens;
and Lebrun, the decorator of the apartments. If the Chateau de Vaux
possessed a single fault with which it could be reproached, it was its
grand, pretentious character. It is even at the present day proverbial
to calculate the number of acres of roofing, the restoration of which
would, in our age, be the ruin of fortunes cramped and narrowed as the
epoch itself. Vaux-le-Vicomte, when its magnificent gates, supported
by caryatides, have been passed through, has the principal front of the
main building opening upon a vast, so-called, court of honor, inclosed
by deep ditches, bordered by a magnificent stone balustrade. Nothing
could be more noble in appearance than the central forecourt raised upon
the flight of steps, like a king upon his throne, having around it
four pavilions at the angles, the immense Ionic columns of which rose
majestically to the whole height of the building. The friezes ornamented
with arabesques, and the pediments which crowned the pilasters,
conferred richness and grace on every part of the building, while the
domes which surmounted the whole added proportion and majesty. This
mansion, built by a subject, bore a far greater resemblance to those
royal residences which Wolsey fancied he was called upon to construct,
in order to present them to his master form the fear of rendering him
jealous. But if magnificence and splendor were displayed in any one
particular part of this palace more than another,--if anything could
be preferred to the wonderful arrangement of the interior, to the
sumptuousness of the gilding, and to the profusion of the paintings and
statues, it would be the park and gardens of Vaux. The "jets d'eau",
which were regarded as wonderful in 1653, are still so, even at the
present time; the cascades awakened the admiration of kings and princes;
and as for the famous grotto, the theme of so many poetical effusions,
the residence of that illustrious nymph of Vaux, whom Pelisson made
converse with La Fontaine, we must be spared the description of all
its beauties. We will do as Despreaux did,--we will enter the park, the
trees of which are of eight years' growth only--that is to say, in their
present position--and whose summits even yet, as they proudly tower
aloft, blushingly unfold their leaves to the earliest rays of the rising
sun. Lenotre had hastened the pleasure of the Maecenas of his period;
all the nursery-grounds had furnished trees whose growth had been
accelerated by careful culture and the richest plant-food. Every tree in
the neighborhood which presented a fair appearance of beauty or stature
had been taken up by its roots and transplanted to the park. Fouquet
could well afford to purchase trees to ornament his park, since he had
bought up three villages and their appurtenances (to use a legal word)
to increase its extent. M. de Scudery said of this palace, that, for the
purpose of keeping the grounds and gardens well watered, M. Fouquet had
divided a river into a thousand fountains, and gathered the waters of a
thousand fountains into torrents. This same Monsieur de Scudery said a
great many other things in his "Clelie," about this palace of Valterre,
the charms of which he describes most minutely. We should be far wiser
to send our curious readers to Vaux to judge for themselves, than to
refer them to "Clelie;" and yet there are as many leagues from Paris to
Vaux, as there are volumes of the "Clelie."
This magnificent palace had been got ready for the reception of the
greatest reigning sovereign of the time. M. Fouquet's friends had
transported thither, some their actors and their dresses, others their
troops of sculptors and artists; not forgetting others with their
ready-mended pens,--floods of impromptus were contemplated. The
cascades, somewhat rebellious nymphs though they were, poured forth
their waters brighter and clearer than crystal: they scattered over the
bronze triton and nereids their waves of foam, which glistened like fire
in the rays of the sun. An army of servants were hurrying to and fro in
squadrons in the courtyard and corridors; while Fouquet, who had
only that morning arrived, walked all through the palace with a calm,
observant glance, in order to give his last orders, after his intendants
had inspected everything.
It was, as we have said, the 15th of August. The sun poured down its
burning rays upon the heathen deities of marble and bronze: it raised
the temperature of the water in the conch shells, and ripened, on the
walls, those magnificent peaches, of which the king, fifty years later,
spoke so regretfully, when, at Marly, on an occasion of a scarcity of
the finer sorts of peaches being complained of, in the beautiful gardens
there--gardens which had cost France double the amount that had been
expended on Vaux--the "great king" observed to some one: "You are far
too young to have eaten any of M. Fouquet's peaches."
Oh, fame! Oh, blazon of renown! Oh, glory of this earth! That very man
whose judgment was so sound and accurate where merit was concerned--he
who had swept into his coffers the inheritance of Nicholas Fouquet, who
had robbed him of Lenotre and Lebrun, and had sent him to rot for the
remainder of his life in one of the state prisons--merely remembered the
peaches of that vanquished, crushed, forgotten enemy! It was to little
purpose that Fouquet had squandered thirty millions of francs in the
fountains of his gardens, in the crucibles of his sculptors, in
the writing-desks of his literary friends, in the portfolios of his
painters; vainly had he fancied that thereby he might be remembered. A
peach--a blushing, rich-flavored fruit, nestling in the trellis work
on the garden-wall, hidden beneath its long, green leaves,--this little
vegetable production, that a dormouse would nibble up without a thought,
was sufficient to recall to the memory of this great monarch the
mournful shade of the last surintendant of France.
With a perfect reliance that Aramis had made arrangements fairly to
distribute the vast number of guests throughout the palace, and that he
had not omitted to attend to any of the internal regulations for their
comfort, Fouquet devoted his entire attention to the "ensemble" alone.
In one direction Gourville showed him the preparations which had been
made for the fireworks; in another, Moliere led him over the theater; at
last, after he had visited the chapel, the "salons", and the galleries,
and was again going downstairs, exhausted with fatigue, Fouquet saw
Aramis on the staircase. The prelate beckoned to him. The surintendant
joined his friend, and, with him, paused before a large picture scarcely
finished. Applying himself, heart and soul, to his work, the painter
Lebrun, covered with perspiration, stained with paint, pale from fatigue
and the inspiration of genius, was putting the last finishing touches
with his rapid brush. It was the portrait of the king, whom they were
expecting, dressed in the court suit which Percerin had condescended to
show beforehand to the bishop of Vannes. Fouquet placed himself before
this portrait, which seemed to live, as one might say, in the cool
freshness of its flesh, and in its warmth of color. He gazed upon it
long and fixedly, estimated the prodigious labor that had been bestowed
upon it, and, not being able to find any recompense sufficiently great
for this Herculean effort, he passed his arm round the painter's neck
and embraced him. The surintendant, by this action, had utterly ruined
a suit of clothes worth a thousand pistoles, but he had satisfied, more
than satisfied, Lebrun. It was a happy moment for the artist; it was an
unhappy moment for M. Percerin, who was walking behind Fouquet, and was
engaged in admiring, in Lebrun's painting, the suit that he had made for
his majesty, a perfect "objet d'art", as he called it, which was not to
be matched except in the wardrobe of the surintendant. His distress and
his exclamations were interrupted by a signal which had been given
from the summit of the mansion. In the direction of Melun, in the
still empty, open plain, the sentinels of Vaux had just perceived
the advancing procession of the king and the queens. His majesty was
entering Melun with his long train of carriages and cavaliers.
"In an hour--" said Aramis to Fouquet.
"In an hour!" replied the latter, sighing.
"And the people who ask one another what is the good of these royal
"fetes!"" continued the bishop of Vannes, laughing, with his false
"Alas! I, too, who am not the people, ask myself the same thing."
"I will answer you in four and twenty hours, monseigneur. Assume a
cheerful countenance, for it should be a day of true rejoicing."
"Well, believe me or not, as you like, D'Herblay," said the
surintendant, with a swelling heart, pointing at the "cortege" of Louis,
visible in the horizon, "he certainly loves me but very little, and I do
not care much more for him; but I cannot tell you how it is, that since
he is approaching my house--"
"Well, since I know he is on his way here, as my guest, he is more
sacred than ever for me; he is my acknowledged sovereign, and as such is
very dear to me."
"Dear? yes," said Aramis, playing upon the word, as the Abbe Terray did,
at a later period, with Louis XV.
"Do not laugh, D'Herblay; I feel that, if he really seemed to wish it, I
could love that young man."
"You should not say that to me," returned Aramis, "but rather to M.
"To M. Colbert!" exclaimed Fouquet. "Why so?"
"Because he would allow you a pension out of the king's privy purse,
as soon as he becomes surintendant," said Aramis, preparing to leave as
soon as he had dealt this last blow.
"Where are you going?" returned Fouquet, with a gloomy look.
"To my own apartment, in order to change my costume, monseigneur."
"Whereabouts are you lodging, D'Herblay?"
"In the blue room on the second story."
"The room immediately over the king's room?"
"You will be subject to very great restraint there. What an idea to
condemn yourself to a room where you cannot stir or move about!"
"During the night, monseigneur, I sleep or read in my bed."
"And your servants?"
"I have but one attendant with me. I find my reader quite sufficient.
Adieu, monseigneur; do not overfatigue yourself; keep yourself fresh for
the arrival of the king."
"We shall see you by and by, I suppose, and shall see your friend Du
"He is lodging next to me, and is at this moment dressing."
And Fouquet, bowing, with a smile, passed on like a commander-in-chief
who pays the different outposts a visit after the enemy has been
signaled in sight. 
Chapter XII. The Wine of Melun.
The king had, in point of fact, entered Melun with the intention of
merely passing through the city. The youthful monarch was most eagerly
anxious for amusements; only twice during the journey had he been
able to catch a glimpse of La Valliere, and, suspecting that his only
opportunity of speaking to her would be after nightfall, in the gardens,
and after the ceremonial of reception had been gone through, he had been
very desirous to arrive at Vaux as early as possible. But he reckoned
without his captain of the musketeers, and without M. Colbert. Like
Calypso, who could not be consoled at the departure of Ulysses, our
Gascon could not console himself for not having guessed why Aramis had
asked Percerin to show him the king's new costumes. "There is not a
doubt," he said to himself, "that my friend the bishop of Vannes
had some motive in that;" and then he began to rack his brains most
uselessly. D'Artagnan, so intimately acquainted with all the court
intrigues, who knew the position of Fouquet better than even Fouquet
himself did, had conceived the strangest fancies and suspicions at the
announcement of the "fete", which would have ruined a wealthy man, and
which became impossible, utter madness even, for a man so poor as he
was. And then, the presence of Aramis, who had returned from Belle-Isle,
and been nominated by Monsieur Fouquet inspector-general of all the
arrangements; his perseverance in mixing himself up with all the
surintendant's affairs; his visits to Baisemeaux; all this suspicious
singularity of conduct had excessively troubled and tormented D'Artagnan
during the last two weeks.
"With men of Aramis's stamp," he said, "one is never the stronger except
sword in hand. So long as Aramis continued a soldier, there was hope of
getting the better of him; but since he has covered his cuirass with
a stole, we are lost. But what can Aramis's object possibly be?" And
D'Artagnan plunged again into deep thought. "What does it matter to
me, after all," he continued, "if his only object is to overthrow M.
Colbert? And what else can he be after?" And D'Artagnan rubbed his
forehead--that fertile land, whence the plowshare of his nails had
turned up so many and such admirable ideas in his time. He, at first,
thought of talking the matter over with Colbert, but his friendship for
Aramis, the oath of earlier days, bound him too strictly. He revolted at
the bare idea of such a thing, and, besides, he hated the financier too
cordially. Then, again, he wished to unburden his mind to the king; but
yet the king would not be able to understand the suspicions which had
not even a shadow of reality at their base. He resolved to address
himself to Aramis, direct, the first time he met him. "I will get him,"
said the musketeer, "between a couple of candles, suddenly, and when he
least expects it, I will place my hand upon his heart, and he will
tell me--What will he tell me? Yes, he will tell me something, for
"mordioux!" there is something in it, I know."
Somewhat calmer, D'Artagnan made every preparation for the journey, and
took the greatest care that the military household of the king, as
yet very inconsiderable in numbers, should be well officered and well
disciplined in its meager and limited proportions. The result was that,
through the captain's arrangements, the king, on arriving at Melun, saw
himself at the head of both the musketeers and Swiss guards, as well as
a picket of the French guards. It might almost have been called a small
army. M. Colbert looked at the troops with great delight: he even wished
they had been a third more in number.
"But why?" said the king.
"In order to show greater honor to M. Fouquet," replied Colbert.
"In order to ruin him the sooner," thought D'Artagnan.
When this little army appeared before Melun, the chief magistrates came
out to meet the king, and to present him with the keys of the city, and
invited him to enter the Hotel de Ville, in order to partake of the wine
of honor. The king, who expected to pass through the city and to proceed
to Vaux without delay, became quite red in the face from vexation.
"Who was fool enough to occasion this delay?" muttered the king, between
his teeth, as the chief magistrate was in the middle of a long address.
"Not I, certainly," replied D'Artagnan, "but I believe it was M.
Colbert, having heard his name pronounced, said, "What was M. d'Artagnan
good enough to say?"
"I was good enough to remark that it was you who stopped the king's
progress, so that he might taste the "vin de Brie". Was I right?"
"Quite so, monsieur."
"In that case, then, it was you whom the king called some name or
"I hardly know; but wait a moment--idiot, I think it was--no, no, it was
fool or dolt. Yes; his majesty said that the man who had thought of the
"vin de Melun" was something of the sort."
D'Artagnan, after this broadside, quietly caressed his mustache; M.
Colbert's large head seemed to become larger and larger than ever.
D'Artagnan, seeing how ugly anger made him, did not stop half-way. The
orator still went on with his speech, while the king's color was visibly
""Mordioux!"" said the musketeer, coolly, "the king is going to have an
attack of determination of blood to the head. Where the deuce did you
get hold of that idea, Monsieur Colbert? You have no luck."
"Monsieur," said the financier, drawing himself up, "my zeal for the
king's service inspired me with the idea."
"Monsieur, Melun is a city, an excellent city, which pays well, and
which it would be imprudent to displease."
"There, now! I, who do not pretend to be a financier, saw only one idea
in your idea."
"What was that, monsieur?"
"That of causing a little annoyance to M. Fouquet, who is making himself
quite giddy on his donjons yonder, in waiting for us."
This was a home-stroke, hard enough in all conscience. Colbert was
completely thrown out of the saddle by it, and retired, thoroughly
discomfited. Fortunately, the speech was now at an end; the king drank
the wine which was presented to him, and then every one resumed the
progress through the city. The king bit his lips in anger, for the
evening was closing in, and all hope of a walk with La Valliere was at
an end. In order that the whole of the king's household should enter
Vaux, four hours at least were necessary, owing to the different
arrangements. The king, therefore, who was boiling with impatience,
hurried forward as much as possible, in order to reach it before
nightfall. But, at the moment he was setting off again, other and fresh
"Is not the king going to sleep at Melun?" said Colbert, in a low tone
of voice, to D'Artagnan.
M. Colbert must have been badly inspired that day, to address himself in
that manner to the chief of the musketeers; for the latter guessed that
the king's intention was very far from that of remaining where he was.
D'Artagnan would not allow him to enter Vaux except he were well and
strongly accompanied; and desired that his majesty would not enter
except with all the escort. On the other hand, he felt that these delays
would irritate that impatient monarch beyond measure. In what way could
he possibly reconcile these difficulties? D'Artagnan took up Colbert's
remark, and determined to repeated it to the king.
"Sire," he said, "M. Colbert has been asking me if your majesty does not
intend to sleep at Melun."
"Sleep at Melun! What for?" exclaimed Louis XIV. "Sleep at Melun! Who,
in Heaven's name, can have thought of such a thing, when M. Fouquet is
expecting us this evening?"
"It was simply," replied Colbert, quickly, "the fear of causing your
majesty the least delay; for, according to established etiquette, you
cannot enter any place, with the exception of your own royal residences,
until the soldiers' quarters have been marked out by the quartermaster,
and the garrison properly distributed."
D'Artagnan listened with the greatest attention, biting his mustache to
conceal his vexation; and the queens were not less interested. They were
fatigued, and would have preferred to go to rest without proceeding any
farther; more especially, in order to prevent the king walking about in
the evening with M. de Saint-Aignan and the ladies of the court, for, if
etiquette required the princesses to remain within their own rooms, the
ladies of honor, as soon as they had performed the services required of
them, had no restrictions placed upon them, but were at liberty to walk
about as they pleased. It will easily be conjectured that all these
rival interests, gathering together in vapors, necessarily produced
clouds, and that the clouds were likely to be followed by a tempest. The
king had no mustache to gnaw, and therefore kept biting the handle of
his whip instead, with ill-concealed impatience. How could he get out of
it? D'Artagnan looked as agreeable as possible, and Colbert as sulky as
he could. Who was there he could get in a passion with?
"We will consult the queen," said Louis XIV., bowing to the royal
ladies. And this kindness of consideration softened Maria Theresa's
heart, who, being of a kind and generous disposition, when left to her
own free-will, replied:
"I shall be delighted to do whatever your majesty wishes."
"How long will it take us to get to Vaux?" inquired Anne of Austria, in
slow and measured accents, placing her hand upon her bosom, where the
seat of her pain lay.
"An hour for your majesty's carriages," said D'Artagnan; "the roads are
The king looked at him. "And a quarter of an hour for the king," he
hastened to add.
"We should arrive by daylight?" said Louis XIV.
"But the billeting of the king's military escort," objected Colbert,
softly, "will make his majesty lose all the advantage of his speed,
however quick he may be."
"Double ass that you are!" thought D'Artagnan; "if I had any interest
or motive in demolishing your credit with the king, I could do it in ten
minutes. If I were in the king's place," he added aloud, "I should, in
going to M. Fouquet, leave my escort behind me; I should go to him as a
friend; I should enter accompanied only by my captain of the guards;
I should consider that I was acting more nobly, and should be invested
with a still more sacred character by doing so."
Delight sparkled in the king's eyes. "That is indeed a very sensible
suggestion. We will go to see a friend as friends; the gentlemen who are
with the carriages can go slowly: but we who are mounted will ride on."
And he rode off, accompanied by all those who were mounted. Colbert hid
his ugly head behind his horse's neck.
"I shall be quits," said D'Artagnan, as he galloped along, "by getting
a little talk with Aramis this evening. And then, M. Fouquet is a man of
honor. "Mordioux!" I have said so, and it must be so."
And this was the way how, towards seven o'clock in the evening, without
announcing his arrival by the din of trumpets, and without even his
advanced guard, without out-riders or musketeers, the king presented
himself before the gate of Vaux, where Fouquet, who had been informed
of his royal guest's approach, had been waiting for the last half-hour,
with his head uncovered, surrounded by his household and his friends.
Chapter XIII. Nectar and Ambrosia.
M. Fouquet held the stirrup of the king, who, having dismounted, bowed
most graciously, and more graciously still held out his hand to him,
which Fouquet, in spite of a slight resistance on the king's part,
carried respectfully to his lips. The king wished to wait in the first
courtyard for the arrival of the carriages, nor had he long to wait, for
the roads had been put into excellent order by the superintendent, and
a stone would hardly have been found of the size of an egg the whole way
from Melun to Vaux; so that the carriages, rolling along as though on a
carpet, brought the ladies to Vaux, without jolting or fatigue, by eight
o'clock. They were received by Madame Fouquet, and at the moment they
made their appearance, a light as bright as day burst forth from every
quarter, trees, vases, and marble statues. This species of enchantment
lasted until their majesties had retired into the palace. All these
wonders and magical effects which the chronicler has heaped up, or
rather embalmed, in his recital, at the risk of rivaling the brain-born
scenes of romancers; these splendors whereby night seemed vanquished and
nature corrected, together with every delight and luxury combined for
the satisfaction of all the senses, as well as the imagination, Fouquet
did in real truth offer to his sovereign in that enchanting retreat of
which no monarch could at that time boast of possessing an equal. We do
not intend to describe the grand banquet, at which the royal guests
were present, nor the concerts, nor the fairy-like and more than magic
transformations and metamorphoses; it will be enough for our purpose
to depict the countenance the king assumed, which, from being gay, soon
wore a very gloomy, constrained, and irritated expression. He remembered
his own residence, royal though it was, and the mean and indifferent
style of luxury that prevailed there, which comprised but little more
than what was merely useful for the royal wants, without being his own
personal property. The large vases of the Louvre, the older furniture
and plate of Henry II., of Francis I., and of Louis XI., were but
historic monuments of earlier days; nothing but specimens of art, the
relics of his predecessors; while with Fouquet, the value of the article
was as much in the workmanship as in the article itself. Fouquet ate
from a gold service, which artists in his own employ had modeled and
cast for him alone. Fouquet drank wines of which the king of France did
not even know the name, and drank them out of goblets each more valuable
than the entire royal cellar.
What, too, was to be said of the apartments, the hangings, the pictures,
the servants and officers, of every description, of his household? What
of the mode of service in which etiquette was replaced by order;
stiff formality by personal, unrestrained comfort; the happiness and
contentment of the guest became the supreme law of all who obeyed
the host? The perfect swarm of busily engaged persons moving about
noiselessly; the multitude of guests,--who were, however, even
less numerous than the servants who waited on them,--the myriad of
exquisitely prepared dishes, of gold and silver vases; the floods of
dazzling light, the masses of unknown flowers of which the hot-houses
had been despoiled, redundant with luxuriance of unequaled scent and
beauty; the perfect harmony of the surroundings, which, indeed, was
no more than the prelude of the promised "fete", charmed all who were
there; and they testified their admiration over and over again, not
by voice or gesture, but by deep silence and rapt attention, those
two languages of the courtier which acknowledge the hand of no master
powerful enough to restrain them.
As for the king, his eyes filled with tears; he dared not look at the
queen. Anne of Austria, whose pride was superior to that of any creature
breathing, overwhelmed her host by the contempt with which she treated
everything handed to her. The young queen, kind-hearted by nature and
curious by disposition, praised Fouquet, ate with an exceedingly good
appetite, and asked the names of the strange fruits as they were placed
upon the table. Fouquet replied that he was not aware of their names.
The fruits came from his own stores; he had often cultivated them
himself, having an intimate acquaintance with the cultivation of exotic
fruits and plants. The king felt and appreciated the delicacy of the
replies, but was only the more humiliated; he thought the queen a little
too familiar in her manners, and that Anne of Austria resembled Juno
a little too much, in being too proud and haughty; his chief anxiety,
however, was himself, that he might remain cold and distant in his
behavior, bordering lightly the limits of supreme disdain or simple
But Fouquet had foreseen all this; he was, in fact, one of those men who
foresee everything. The king had expressly declared that, so long as he
remained under Fouquet's roof, he did not wish his own different repasts
to be served in accordance with the usual etiquette, and that he would,
consequently, dine with the rest of society; but by the thoughtful
attention of the surintendant, the king's dinner was served up
separately, if one may so express it, in the middle of the general
table; the dinner, wonderful in every respect, from the dishes of
which was composed, comprised everything the king liked and generally
preferred to anything else. Louis had no excuse--he, indeed, who had the
keenest appetite in his kingdom--for saying that he was not hungry.
Nay, M. Fouquet did even better still; he certainly, in obedience to the
king's expressed desire, seated himself at the table, but as soon as
the soups were served, he arose and personally waited on the king, while
Madame Fouquet stood behind the queen-mother's armchair. The disdain
of Juno and the sulky fits of temper of Jupiter could not resist this
excess of kindly feeling and polite attention. The queen ate a biscuit
dipped in a glass of San-Lucar wine; and the king ate of everything,
saying to M. Fouquet: "It is impossible, monsieur le surintendant, to
dine better anywhere." Whereupon the whole court began, on all sides, to
devour the dishes spread before them with such enthusiasm that it looked
as though a cloud of Egyptian locusts was settling down on green and
As soon, however, as his hunger was appeased, the king became morose
and overgloomed again; the more so in proportion to the satisfaction he
fancied he had previously manifested, and particularly on account of
the deferential manner which his courtiers had shown towards Fouquet.
D'Artagnan, who ate a good deal and drank but little, without allowing
it to be noticed, did not lose a single opportunity, but made a great
number of observations which he turned to good profit.
When the supper was finished, the king expressed a wish not to lose the
promenade. The park was illuminated; the moon, too, as if she had placed
herself at the orders of the lord of Vaux, silvered the trees and
lake with her own bright and quasi-phosphorescent light. The air was
strangely soft and balmy; the daintily shell-gravelled walks through
the thickly set avenues yielded luxuriously to the feet. The "fete" was
complete in every respect, for the king, having met La Valliere in one
of the winding paths of the wood, was able to press her hand and say,
"I love you," without any one overhearing him except M. d'Artagnan, who
followed, and M. Fouquet, who preceded him.
The dreamy night of magical enchantments stole smoothly on. The king
having requested to be shown to his room, there was immediately a
movement in every direction. The queens passed to their own apartments,
accompanied by them music of theorbos and lutes; the king found his
musketeers awaiting him on the grand flight of steps, for M. Fouquet had
brought them on from Melun and had invited them to supper. D'Artagnan's
suspicions at once disappeared. He was weary, he had supped well, and
wished, for once in his life, thoroughly to enjoy a "fete" given by a
man who was in every sense of the word a king. "M. Fouquet," he said,
"is the man for me."
The king was conducted with the greatest ceremony to the chamber of
Morpheus, of which we owe some cursory description to our readers. It
was the handsomest and largest in the palace. Lebrun had painted on the
vaulted ceiling the happy as well as the unhappy dreams which Morpheus
inflicts on kings as well as on other men. Everything that sleep gives
birth to that is lovely, its fairy scenes, its flowers and nectar, the
wild voluptuousness or profound repose of the senses, had the painter
elaborated on his frescoes. It was a composition as soft and pleasing
in one part as dark and gloomy and terrible in another. The poisoned
chalice, the glittering dagger suspended over the head of the sleeper;
wizards and phantoms with terrific masks, those half-dim shadows more
alarming than the approach of fire or the somber face of midnight,
these, and such as these, he had made the companions of his more
pleasing pictures. No sooner had the king entered his room than a cold
shiver seemed to pass through him, and on Fouquet asking him the cause
of it, the king replied, as pale as death:
"I am sleepy, that is all."
"Does your majesty wish for your attendants at once?"
"No; I have to talk with a few persons first," said the king. "Will you
have the goodness to tell M. Colbert I wish to see him."
Fouquet bowed and left the room.
Chapter XIV. A Gascon, and a Gascon and a Half.
D'Artagnan had determined to lose no time, and in fact he never was in
the habit of doing so. After having inquired for Aramis, he had looked
for him in every direction until he had succeeded in finding him.
Besides, no sooner had the king entered Vaux, than Aramis had retired to
his own room, meditating, doubtless, some new piece of gallant attention
for his majesty's amusement. D'Artagnan desired the servants to announce
him, and found on the second story (in a beautiful room called the Blue
Chamber, on account of the color of its hangings) the bishop of Vannes
in company with Porthos and several of the modern Epicureans. Aramis
came forward to embrace his friend, and offered him the best seat. As
it was after awhile generally remarked among those present that the
musketeer was reserved, and wished for an opportunity for conversing
secretly with Aramis, the Epicureans took their leave. Porthos, however,
did not stir; for true it is that, having dined exceedingly well, he was
fast asleep in his armchair; and the freedom of conversation therefore
was not interrupted by a third person. Porthos had a deep, harmonious
snore, and people might talk in the midst of its loud bass without fear
of disturbing him. D'Artagnan felt that he was called upon to open the
"Well, and so we have come to Vaux," he said.
"Why, yes, D'Artagnan. And how do you like the place?"
"Very much, and I like M. Fouquet, also."
"Is he not a charming host?"
"No one could be more so."
"I am told that the king began by showing great distance of manner
towards M. Fouquet, but that his majesty grew much more cordial
"You did not notice it, then, since you say you have been told so?"
"No; I was engaged with the gentlemen who have just left the room about
the theatrical performances and the tournaments which are to take place
"Ah, indeed! you are the comptroller-general of the "fetes" here, then?"
"You know I am a friend of all kinds of amusement where the exercise of
the imagination is called into activity; I have always been a poet in
one way or another."
"Yes, I remember the verses you used to write, they were charming."
"I have forgotten them, but I am delighted to read the verses of others,
when those others are known by the names of Moliere, Pelisson, La
"Do you know what idea occurred to me this evening, Aramis?"
"No; tell me what it was, for I should never be able to guess it, you
have so many."
"Well, the idea occurred to me, that the true king of France is not
""What!"" said Aramis, involuntarily, looking the musketeer full in the
"No, it is Monsieur Fouquet."
Aramis breathed again, and smiled. "Ah! you are like all the rest,
jealous," he said. "I would wager that it was M. Colbert who turned
that pretty phrase." D'Artagnan, in order to throw Aramis off his guard,
related Colbert's misadventures with regard to the "vin de Melun".
"He comes of a mean race, does Colbert," said Aramis.
"When I think, too," added the bishop, "that that fellow will be your
minister within four months, and that you will serve him as blindly as
you did Richelieu or Mazarin--"
"And as you serve M. Fouquet," said D'Artagnan.
"With this difference, though, that M. Fouquet is not M. Colbert."
"True, true," said D'Artagnan, as he pretended to become sad and full of
reflection; and then, a moment after, he added, "Why do you tell me that
M. Colbert will be minister in four months?"
"Because M. Fouquet will have ceased to be so," replied Aramis.
"He will be ruined, you mean?" said D'Artagnan.
"Why does he give these "fetes", then?" said the musketeer, in a tone so
full of thoughtful consideration, and so well assumed, that the bishop
was for the moment deceived by it. "Why did you not dissuade him from
The latter part of the phrase was just a little too much, and Aramis's
former suspicions were again aroused. "It is done with the object of
humoring the king."
"By ruining himself?"
"Yes, by ruining himself for the king."
"A most eccentric, one might say, sinister calculation, that."
"Necessity, necessity, my friend."
"I don't see that, dear Aramis."
"Do you not? Have you not remarked M. Colbert's daily increasing
antagonism, and that he is doing his utmost to drive the king to get rid
of the superintendent?"
"One must be blind not to see it."
"And that a cabal is already armed against M. Fouquet?"
"That is well known."
"What likelihood is there that the king would join a party formed
against a man who will have spent everything he had to please him?"
"True, true," said D'Artagnan, slowly, hardly convinced, yet curious
to broach another phase of the conversation. "There are follies, and
follies," he resumed, "and I do not like those you are committing."
"What do you allude to?"
"As for the banquet, the ball, the concert, the theatricals, the
tournaments, the cascades, the fireworks, the illuminations, and the
presents--these are well and good, I grant; but why were not these
expenses sufficient? Why was it necessary to have new liveries and
costumes for your whole household?"
"You are quite right. I told M. Fouquet that myself; he replied, that
if he were rich enough he would offer the king a newly erected chateau,
from the vanes at the houses to the very sub-cellars; completely new
inside and out; and that, as soon as the king had left, he would burn
the whole building and its contents, in order that it might not be made
use of by any one else."
"How completely Spanish!"
"I told him so, and he then added this: 'Whoever advises me to spare
expense, I shall look upon as my enemy.'"
"It is positive madness; and that portrait, too!"
"What portrait?" said Aramis.
"That of the king, and the surprise as well."
"The surprise you seem to have in view, and on account of which you took
some specimens away, when I met you at Percerin's." D'Artagnan paused.
The shaft was discharged, and all he had to do was to wait and watch its
"That is merely an act of graceful attention," replied Aramis.
D'Artagnan went up to his friend, took hold of both his hands, and
looking him full in the eyes, said, "Aramis, do you still care for me a
"What a question to ask!"
"Very good. One favor, then. Why did you take some patterns of the
king's costumes at Percerin's?"
"Come with me and ask poor Lebrun, who has been working upon them for
the last two days and nights."
"Aramis, that may be truth for everybody else, but for me--"
"Upon my word, D'Artagnan, you astonish me."
"Be a little considerate. Tell me the exact truth; you would not like
anything disagreeable to happen to me, would you?"
"My dear friend, you are becoming quite incomprehensible. What suspicion
can you have possibly got hold of?"
"Do you believe in my instinctive feelings? Formerly you used to have
faith in them. Well, then, an instinct tells me that you have some
concealed project on foot."
"I am convinced of it."
"I am not only sure of it, but I would even swear it."
"Indeed, D'Artagnan, you cause me the greatest pain. Is it likely, if I
have any project in hand that I ought to keep secret from you, I should
tell you about it? If I had one that I could and ought to have revealed,
should I not have long ago divulged it?"
"No, Aramis, no. There are certain projects which are never revealed
until the favorable opportunity arrives."
"In that case, my dear fellow," returned the bishop, laughing, "the only
thing now is, that the 'opportunity' has not yet arrived."
D'Artagnan shook his head with a sorrowful expression. "Oh, friendship,
friendship!" he said, "what an idle word you are! Here is a man who, if
I were but to ask it, would suffer himself to be cut in pieces for my
"You are right," said Aramis, nobly.
"And this man, who would shed every drop of blood in his veins for me,
will not open up before me the least corner in his heart. Friendship, I
repeat, is nothing but an unsubstantial shadow--a lure, like everything
else in this bright, dazzling world."
"It is not thus you should speak of "our" friendship," replied the
bishop, in a firm, assured voice; "for ours is not of the same nature as
those of which you have been speaking."
"Look at us, Aramis; three out of the old 'four.' You are deceiving me;
I suspect you; and Porthos is fast asleep. An admirable trio of friends,
don't you think so? What an affecting relic of the former dear old
"I can only tell you one thing, D'Artagnan, and I swear it on the Bible:
I love you just as I used to do. If I ever suspect you, it is on account
of others, and not on account of either of us. In everything I may do,
and should happen to succeed in, you will find your fourth. Will you
promise me the same favor?"
"If I am not mistaken, Aramis, your words--at the moment you pronounce
them--are full of generous feeling."
"Such a thing is very possible."
"You are conspiring against M. Colbert. If that be all, "mordioux", tell
me so at once. I have the instrument in my own hand, and will pull out
the tooth easily enough."
Aramis could not conceal a smile of disdain that flitted over his
haughty features. "And supposing that I were conspiring against Colbert,
what harm would there be in "that?""
"No, no; that would be too trifling a matter for you to take in hand,
and it was not on that account you asked Percerin for those patterns of
the king's costumes. Oh! Aramis, we are not enemies, remember--we are
brothers. Tell me what you wish to undertake, and, upon the word of a
D'Artagnan, if I cannot help you, I will swear to remain neuter."
"I am undertaking nothing," said Aramis.
"Aramis, a voice within me speaks and seems to trickle forth a rill of
light within my darkness: it is a voice that has never yet deceived me.
It is the king you are conspiring against."
"The king?" exclaimed the bishop, pretending to be annoyed.
"Your face will not convince me; the king, I repeat."
"Will you help me?" said Aramis, smiling ironically.
"Aramis, I will do more than help you--I will do more than remain
neuter--I will save you."
"You are mad, D'Artagnan."
"I am the wiser of the two, in this matter."
"You to suspect me of wishing to assassinate the king!"
"Who spoke of such a thing?" smiled the musketeer.
"Well, let us understand one another. I do not see what any one can
do to a legitimate king as ours is, if he does not assassinate him."
D'Artagnan did not say a word. "Besides, you have your guards and your
musketeers here," said the bishop.
"You are not in M. Fouquet's house, but in your own."
"True; but in spite of that, Aramis, grant me, for pity's sake, one
single word of a true friend."
"A true friend's word is ever truth itself. If I think of touching, even
with my finger, the son of Anne of Austria, the true king of this realm
of France--if I have not the firm intention of prostrating myself before
his throne--if in every idea I may entertain to-morrow, here at Vaux,
will not be the most glorious day my king ever enjoyed--may Heaven's
lightning blast me where I stand!" Aramis had pronounced these words
with his face turned towards the alcove of his own bedroom, where
D'Artagnan, seated with his back towards the alcove, could not suspect
that any one was lying concealed. The earnestness of his words, the
studied slowness with which he pronounced them, the solemnity of his
oath, gave the musketeer the most complete satisfaction. He took hold
of both Aramis's hands, and shook them cordially. Aramis had endured
reproaches without turning pale, and had blushed as he listened to words
of praise. D'Artagnan, deceived, did him honor; but D'Artagnan, trustful
and reliant, made him feel ashamed. "Are you going away?" he said, as he
embraced him, in order to conceal the flush on his face.
"Yes. Duty summons me. I have to get the watch-word. It seems I am to be
lodged in the king's ante-room. Where does Porthos sleep?"
"Take him away with you, if you like, for he rumbles through his sleepy
nose like a park of artillery."
"Ah! he does not stay with you, then?" said D'Artagnan.
"Not the least in the world. He has a chamber to himself, but I don't
"Very good!" said the musketeer; from whom this separation of the two
associates removed his last suspicion, and he touched Porthos lightly
on the shoulder; the latter replied by a loud yawn. "Come," said
"What, D'Artagnan, my dear fellow, is that you? What a lucky chance! Oh,
yes--true; I have forgotten; I am at the "fete" at Vaux."
"Yes; and your beautiful dress, too."
"Yes, it was very attentive on the part of Monsieur Coquelin de Voliere,
was it not?"
"Hush!" said Aramis. "You are walking so heavily you will make the
flooring give way."
"True," said the musketeer; "this room is above the dome, I think."
"And I did not choose it for a fencing-room, I assure you," added the
bishop. "The ceiling of the king's room has all the lightness and calm
of wholesome sleep. Do not forget, therefore, that my flooring is merely
the covering of his ceiling. Good night, my friends, and in ten minutes
I shall be asleep myself." And Aramis accompanied them to the door,
laughing quietly all the while. As soon as they were outside, he bolted
the door, hurriedly; closed up the chinks of the windows, and then
called out, "Monseigneur!--monseigneur!" Philippe made his appearance
from the alcove, as he pushed aside a sliding panel placed behind the
"M. d'Artagnan entertains a great many suspicions, it seems," he said.
"Ah!--you recognized M. d'Artagnan, then?"
"Before you called him by his name, even."
"He is your captain of musketeers."
"He is very devoted to "me"," replied Philippe, laying a stress upon the
"As faithful as a dog; but he bites sometimes. If D'Artagnan does not
recognize you before "the other" has disappeared, rely upon D'Artagnan
to the end of the world; for in that case, if he has seen nothing, he
will keep his fidelity. If he sees, when it is too late, he is a Gascon,
and will never admit that he has been deceived."
"I thought so. What are we to do, now?"
"Sit in this folding-chair. I am going to push aside a portion of the
flooring; you will look through the opening, which answers to one of the
false windows made in the dome of the king's apartment. Can you see?"
"Yes," said Philippe, starting as at the sight of an enemy; "I see the
"What is he doing?"
"He seems to wish some man to sit down close to him."
"No, no; wait a moment--"
"Look at the notes and the portraits, my prince."
"The man whom the king wishes to sit down in his presence is M.
"Colbert sit down in the king's presence!" exclaimed Aramis. "It is
Aramis looked through the opening in the flooring. "Yes," he said.
"Colbert himself. Oh, monseigneur! what can we be going to hear--and
what can result from this intimacy?"
"Nothing good for M. Fouquet, at all events."
The prince did not deceive himself.
We have seen that Louis XIV. had sent for Colbert, and Colbert had
arrived. The conversation began between them by the king according to
him one of the highest favors that he had ever done; it was true the
king was alone with his subject. "Colbert," said he, "sit down."
The intendant, overcome with delight, for he feared he was about to be
dismissed, refused this unprecedented honor.
"Does he accept?" said Aramis.
"No, he remains standing."
"Let us listen, then." And the future king and the future pope listened
eagerly to the simple mortals they held under their feet, ready to crush
them when they liked.
"Colbert," said the king, "you have annoyed me exceedingly to-day."
"I know it, sire."
"Very good; I like that answer. Yes, you knew it, and there was courage
in the doing of it."
"I ran the risk of displeasing your majesty, but I risked, also, the
concealment of your best interests."
"What! you were afraid of something on "my" account?"
"I was, sire, even if it were nothing more than an indigestion," said
Colbert; "for people do not give their sovereigns such banquets as the
one of to-day, unless it be to stifle them beneath the burden of good
living." Colbert awaited the effect this coarse jest would produce upon
the king; and Louis XIV., who was the vainest and the most fastidiously
delicate man in his kingdom, forgave Colbert the joke.
"The truth is," he said, "that M. Fouquet has given me too good a meal.
Tell me, Colbert, where does he get all the money required for this
enormous expenditure,--can you tell?"
"Yes, I do know, sire."
"Will you be able to prove it with tolerable certainty?"
"Easily; and to the utmost farthing."
"I know you are very exact."
"Exactitude is the principal qualification required in an intendant of
"But all are not so."
"I thank you majesty for so flattering a compliment from your own lips."
"M. Fouquet, therefore, is rich--very rich, and I suppose every man
knows he is so."
"Every one, sire; the living as well as the dead."
"What does that mean, Monsieur Colbert?"
"The living are witnesses of M. Fouquet's wealth,--they admire and
applaud the result produced; but the dead, wiser and better informed
than we are, know how that wealth was obtained--and they rise up in
"So that M. Fouquet owes his wealth to some cause or other."
"The occupation of an intendant very often favors those who practice
"You have something to say to me more confidentially, I perceive; do not
be afraid, we are quite alone."
"I am never afraid of anything under the shelter of my own conscience,
and under the protection of your majesty," said Colbert, bowing.
"If the dead, therefore, were to speak--"
"They do speak sometimes, sire,--read."
"Ah!" murmured Aramis, in the prince's ear, who, close beside him,
listened without losing a syllable, "since you are placed here,
monseigneur, in order to learn your vocation of a king, listen to a
piece of infamy--of a nature truly royal. You are about to be a
witness of one of those scenes which the foul fiend alone conceives and
executes. Listen attentively,--you will find your advantage in it."
The prince redoubled his attention, and saw Louis XIV. take from
Colbert's hands a letter the latter held out to him.
"The late cardinal's handwriting," said the king.
"Your majesty has an excellent memory," replied Colbert, bowing; "it
is an immense advantage for a king who is destined for hard work to
recognize handwritings at the first glance."
The king read Mazarin's letter, and, as its contents are already known
to the reader, in consequence of the misunderstanding between Madame de
Chevreuse and Aramis, nothing further would be learned if we stated them
"I do not quite understand," said the king, greatly interested.
"Your majesty has not acquired the utilitarian habit of checking the
"I see that it refers to money that had been given to M. Fouquet."
"Thirteen millions. A tolerably good sum."
"Yes. Well, these thirteen millions are wanting to balance the total of
the account. That is what I do not very well understand. How was this
"Possible I do not say; but there is no doubt about fact that it is
"You say that these thirteen millions are found to be wanting in the
"I do not say so, but the registry does."
"And this letter of M. Mazarin indicates the employment of that sum and
the name of the person with whom it was deposited?"
"As your majesty can judge for yourself."
"Yes; and the result is, then, that M. Fouquet has not yet restored the
"That results from the accounts, certainly, sire."
"Well, and, consequently--"
"Well, sire, in that case, inasmuch as M. Fouquet has not yet given
back the thirteen millions, he must have appropriated them to his own
purpose; and with those thirteen millions one could incur four times and
a little more as much expense, and make four times as great a display,
as your majesty was able to do at Fontainebleau, where we only spent
three millions altogether, if you remember."
For a blunderer, the "souvenir" he had evoked was a rather skillfully
contrived piece of baseness; for by the remembrance of his own "fete"
he, for the first time, perceived its inferiority compared with that of
Fouquet. Colbert received back again at Vaux what Fouquet had given him
at Fontainebleau, and, as a good financier, returned it with the best
possible interest. Having once disposed the king's mind in this artful
way, Colbert had nothing of much importance to detain him. He felt that
such was the case, for the king, too, had again sunk into a dull and
gloomy state. Colbert awaited the first words from the king's lips
with as much impatience as Philippe and Aramis did from their place of
"Are you aware what is the usual and natural consequence of all this,
Monsieur Colbert?" said the king, after a few moments' reflection.
"No, sire, I do not know."
"Well, then, the fact of the appropriation of the thirteen millions, if
it can be proved--"
"But it is so already."
"I mean if it were to be declared and certified, M. Colbert."
"I think it will be to-morrow, if your majesty--"
"Were we not under M. Fouquet's roof, you were going to say, perhaps,"
replied the king, with something of nobility in his demeanor.
"The king is in his own palace wherever he may be--especially in houses
which the royal money has constructed."
"I think," said Philippe in a low tone to Aramis, "that the architect
who planned this dome ought, anticipating the use it could be put to at
a future opportunity, so to have contrived that it might be made to fall
upon the heads of scoundrels such as M. Colbert."
"I think so too," replied Aramis; "but M. Colbert is so very "near the
king" at this moment."
"That is true, and that would open the succession."
"Of which your younger brother would reap all the advantage,
monseigneur. But stay, let us keep quiet, and go on listening."
"We shall not have long to listen," said the young prince.
"Why not, monseigneur?"
"Because, if I were king, I should make no further reply."
"And what would you do?"
"I should wait until to-morrow morning to give myself time for
Louis XIV. at last raised his eyes, and finding Colbert attentively
waiting for his next remarks, said, hastily, changing the conversation,
"M. Colbert, I perceive it is getting very late, and I shall now retire
to bed. By to-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind."
"Very good, sire," returned Colbert, greatly incensed, although he
restrained himself in the presence of the king.
The king made a gesture of adieu, and Colbert withdrew with a respectful
bow. "My attendants!" cried the king; and, as they entered the
apartment, Philippe was about to quit his post of observation.
"A moment longer," said Aramis to him, with his accustomed gentleness of
manner; "what has just now taken place is only a detail, and to-morrow
we shall have no occasion to think anything more about it; but the
ceremony of the king's retiring to rest, the etiquette observed in
addressing the king, that indeed is of the greatest importance. Learn,
sire, and study well how you ought to go to bed of a night. Look! look!"
Chapter XV. Colbert.
History will tell us, or rather history has told us, of the various
events of the following day, of the splendid "fetes" given by the
surintendant to his sovereign. Nothing but amusement and delight was
allowed to prevail throughout the whole of the following day; there
was a promenade, a banquet, a comedy to be acted, and a comedy, too,
in which, to his great amazement, Porthos recognized "M. Coquelin de
Voliere" as one of the actors, in the piece called "Les Facheux." Full
of preoccupation, however, from the scene of the previous evening, and
hardly recovered from the effects of the poison which Colbert had then
administered to him, the king, during the whole of the day, so brilliant
in its effects, so full of unexpected and startling novelties, in which
all the wonders of the "Arabian Night's Entertainments" seemed to be
reproduced for his especial amusement--the king, we say, showed himself
cold, reserved, and taciturn. Nothing could smooth the frowns upon
his face; every one who observed him noticed that a deep feeling of
resentment, of remote origin, increased by slow degrees, as the source
becomes a river, thanks to the thousand threads of water that increase
its body, was keenly alive in the depths of the king's heart. Towards
the middle of the day only did he begin to resume a little serenity of
manner, and by that time he had, in all probability, made up his mind.
Aramis, who followed him step by step in his thoughts, as in his walk,
concluded that the event he was expecting would not be long before it
was announced. This time Colbert seemed to walk in concert with the
bishop of Vannes, and had he received for every annoyance which he
inflicted on the king a word of direction from Aramis, he could not
have done better. During the whole of the day the king, who, in all
probability, wished to free himself from some of the thoughts which
disturbed his mind, seemed to seek La Valliere's society as actively as
he seemed to show his anxiety to flee that of M. Colbert or M. Fouquet.
The evening came. The king had expressed a wish not to walk in the park
until after cards in the evening. In the interval between supper and
the promenade, cards and dice were introduced. The king won a thousand
pistoles, and, having won them, put them in his pocket, and then rose,
saying, "And now, gentlemen, to the park." He found the ladies of the
court were already there. The king, we have before observed, had won a
thousand pistoles, and had put them in his pocket; but M. Fouquet had
somehow contrived to lose ten thousand, so that among the courtiers
there was still left a hundred and ninety thousand francs' profit to
divide, a circumstance which made the countenances of the courtiers and
the officers of the king's household the most joyous countenances in
the world. It was not the same, however, with the king's face; for,
notwithstanding his success at play, to which he was by no means
insensible, there still remained a slight shade of dissatisfaction.
Colbert was waiting for or upon him at the corner of one of the avenues;
he was most probably waiting there in consequence of a rendezvous which
had been given him by the king, as Louis XIV., who had avoided him, or
who had seemed to avoid him, suddenly made him a sign, and they then
struck into the depths of the park together. But La Valliere, too, had
observed the king's gloomy aspect and kindling glances; she had remarked
this--and as nothing which lay hidden or smoldering in his heart
was hidden from the gaze of her affection, she understood that this
repressed wrath menaced some one; she prepared to withstand the current
of his vengeance, and intercede like an angel of mercy. Overcome by
sadness, nervously agitated, deeply distressed at having been so long
separated from her lover, disturbed at the sight of the emotion she
had divined, she accordingly presented herself to the king with an
embarrassed aspect, which in his then disposition of mind the king
interpreted unfavorably. Then, as they were alone--nearly alone,
inasmuch as Colbert, as soon as he perceived the young girl approaching,
had stopped and drawn back a dozen paces--the king advanced towards
La Valliere and took her by the hand. "Mademoiselle," he said to her,
"should I be guilty of an indiscretion if I were to inquire if you were
indisposed? for you seem to breathe as if you were oppressed by some
secret cause of uneasiness, and your eyes are filled with tears."
"Oh! sire, if I be indeed so, and if my eyes are indeed full of tears, I
am sorrowful only at the sadness which seems to oppress your majesty."
"My sadness? You are mistaken, mademoiselle; no, it is not sadness I
"What is it, then, sire?"
"Humiliation? oh! sire, what a word for you to use!"
"I mean, mademoiselle, that wherever I may happen to be, no one else
ought to be the master. Well, then, look round you on every side, and
judge whether I am not eclipsed--I, the king of France--before the
monarch of these wide domains. Oh!" he continued, clenching his hands
and teeth, "when I think that this king--"
"Well, sire?" said Louise, terrified.
"--That this king is a faithless, unworthy servant, who grows proud and
self-sufficient upon the strength of property that belongs to me, and
which he has stolen. And therefore I am about to change this impudent
minister's "fete" into sorrow and mourning, of which the nymph of Vaux,
as the poets say, shall not soon lose the remembrance."
"Oh! your majesty--"
"Well, mademoiselle, are you about to take M. Fouquet's part?" said
"No, sire; I will only ask whether you are well informed. Your majesty
has more than once learned the value of accusations made at court."
Louis XIV. made a sign for Colbert to approach. "Speak, Monsieur
Colbert," said the young prince, "for I almost believe that Mademoiselle
de la Valliere has need of your assistance before she can put any faith
in the king's word. Tell mademoiselle what M. Fouquet has done; and you,
mademoiselle, will perhaps have the kindness to listen. It will not be
Why did Louis XIV. insist upon it in such a manner? A very simple
reason--his heart was not at rest, his mind was not thoroughly
convinced; he imagined there lay some dark, hidden, tortuous intrigue
behind these thirteen millions of francs; and he wished that the
pure heart of La Valliere, which had revolted at the idea of theft
or robbery, should approve--even were it only by a single word--the
resolution he had taken, and which, nevertheless, he hesitated before
carrying into execution.
"Speak, monsieur," said La Valliere to Colbert, who had advanced;
"speak, since the king wishes me to listen to you. Tell me, what is the
crime with which M. Fouquet is charged?"
"Oh! not very heinous, mademoiselle," he returned, "a mere abuse of
"Speak, speak, Colbert; and when you have related it, leave us, and go
and inform M. d'Artagnan that I have certain orders to give him."
"M. d'Artagnan, sire!" exclaimed La Valliere; "but why send for M.
d'Artagnan? I entreat you to tell me."
""Pardieu!" in order to arrest this haughty, arrogant Titan who, true to
his menace, threatens to scale my heaven."
"Arrest M. Fouquet, do you say?"
"Ah! does that surprise you?"
"In his own house!"
"Why not? If he be guilty, he is as guilty in his own house as anywhere
"M. Fouquet, who at this moment is ruining himself for his sovereign."
"In plain truth, mademoiselle, it seems as if you were defending this
Colbert began to chuckle silently. The king turned round at the sound of
this suppressed mirth.
"Sire," said La Valliere, "it is not M. Fouquet I am defending; it is
"Me! you are defending me?"
"Sire, you would dishonor yourself if you were to give such an order."
"Dishonor myself!" murmured the king, turning pale with anger. "In plain
truth, mademoiselle, you show a strange persistence in what you say."
"If I do, sire, my only motive is that of serving your majesty," replied
the noble-hearted girl: "for that I would risk, I would sacrifice my
very life, without the least reserve."
Colbert seemed inclined to grumble and complain. La Valliere, that
timid, gentle lamb, turned round upon him, and with a glance like
lightning imposed silence upon him. "Monsieur," she said, "when the
king acts well, whether, in doing so, he does either myself or those
who belong to me an injury, I have nothing to say; but were the king to
confer a benefit either upon me or mine, and if he acted badly, I should
tell him so."
"But it appears to me, mademoiselle," Colbert ventured to say, "that I
too love the king."
"Yes, monseigneur, we both love him, but each in a different manner,"
replied La Valliere, with such an accent that the heart of the young
king was powerfully affected by it. "I love him so deeply, that the
whole world is aware of it; so purely, that the king himself does not
doubt my affection. He is my king and my master; I am the least of all
his servants. But whoso touches his honor assails my life. Therefore, I
repeat, that they dishonor the king who advise him to arrest M. Fouquet
under his own roof."
Colbert hung down his head, for he felt that the king had abandoned him.
However, as he bent his head, he murmured, "Mademoiselle, I have only
one word to say."
"Do not say it, then, monsieur; for I would not listen to it. Besides,
what could you have to tell me? That M. Fouquet has been guilty of
certain crimes? I believe he has, because the king has said so; and,
from the moment the king said, 'I think so,' I have no occasion for
other lips to say, 'I affirm it.' But, were M. Fouquet the vilest of
men, I should say aloud, 'M. Fouquet's person is sacred to the king
because he is the guest of M. Fouquet. Were his house a den of thieves,
were Vaux a cave of coiners or robbers, his home is sacred, his palace
is inviolable, since his wife is living in it; and that is an asylum
which even executioners would not dare to violate.'"
La Valliere paused, and was silent. In spite of himself the king could
not but admire her; he was overpowered by the passionate energy of her
voice; by the nobleness of the cause she advocated. Colbert yielded,
overcome by the inequality of the struggle. At last the king breathed
again more freely, shook his head, and held out his hand to La Valliere.
"Mademoiselle," he said, gently, "why do you decide against me? Do you
know what this wretched fellow will do, if I give him time to breathe
"Is he not a prey which will always be within your grasp?"
"Should he escape, and take to flight?" exclaimed Colbert.
"Well, monsieur, it will always remain on record, to the king's eternal
honor, that he allowed M. Fouquet to flee; and the more guilty he may
have been, the greater will the king's honor and glory appear, compared
with such unnecessary misery and shame."
Louis kissed La Valliere's hand, as he knelt before her.
"I am lost," thought Colbert; then suddenly his face brightened up
again. "Oh! no, no, aha, old fox!--not yet," he said to himself.
And while the king, protected from observation by the thick covert of an
enormous lime, pressed La Valliere to his breast, with all the ardor of
ineffable affection, Colbert tranquilly fumbled among the papers in his
pocket-book and drew out of it a paper folded in the form of a letter,
somewhat yellow, perhaps, but one that must have been most precious,
since the intendant smiled as he looked at it; he then bent a look, full
of hatred, upon the charming group which the young girl and the king
formed together--a group revealed but for a moment, as the light of the
approaching torches shone upon it. Louis noticed the light reflected
upon La Valliere's white dress. "Leave me, Louise," he said, "for some
one is coming."
"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, some one is coming," cried Colbert, to
expedite the young girl's departure.
Louise disappeared rapidly among the trees; and then, as the king, who
had been on his knees before the young girl, was rising from his humble
posture, Colbert exclaimed, "Ah! Mademoiselle de la Valliere has let
"What is it?" inquired the king.
"A paper--a letter--something white; look there, sire."
The king stooped down immediately and picked up the letter, crumpling it
in his hand, as he did so; and at the same moment the torches arrived,
inundating the blackness of the scene with a flood of light as bight as
Chapter XVI. Jealousy.
The torches we have just referred to, the eager attention every one
displayed, and the new ovation paid to the king by Fouquet, arrived in
time to suspend the effect of a resolution which La Valliere had already
considerably shaken in Louis XIV.'s heart. He looked at Fouquet with a
feeling almost of gratitude for having given La Valliere an opportunity
of showing herself so generously disposed, so powerful in the influence
she exercised over his heart. The moment of the last and greatest
display had arrived. Hardly had Fouquet conducted the king towards
the chateau, when a mass of fire burst from the dome of Vaux, with a
prodigious uproar, pouring a flood of dazzling cataracts of rays on
every side, and illumining the remotest corners of the gardens. The
fireworks began. Colbert, at twenty paces from the king, who was
surrounded and "feted" by the owner of Vaux, seemed, by the obstinate
persistence of his gloomy thoughts, to do his utmost to recall Louis's
attention, which the magnificence of the spectacle was already, in his
opinion, too easily diverting. Suddenly, just as Louis was on the point
of holding it out to Fouquet, he perceived in his hand the paper which,
as he believed, La Valliere had dropped at his feet as she hurried away.
The still stronger magnet of love drew the young prince's attention
towards the "souvenir" of his idol; and, by the brilliant light, which
increased momentarily in beauty, and drew from the neighboring villages
loud cheers of admiration, the king read the letter, which he supposed
was a loving and tender epistle La Valliere had destined for him. But as
he read it, a death-like pallor stole over his face, and an expression
of deep-seated wrath, illumined by the many-colored fire which gleamed
so brightly, soaringly around the scene, produced a terrible spectacle,
which every one would have shuddered at, could they only have read into
his heart, now torn by the most stormy and most bitter passions. There
was no truce for him now, influenced as he was by jealousy and mad
passion. From the very moment when the dark truth was revealed to
him, every gentler feeling seemed to disappear; pity, kindness of
consideration, the religion of hospitality, all were forgotten. In
the bitter pang which wrung his heart, he, still too weak to hide his
sufferings, was almost on the point of uttering a cry of alarm, and
calling his guards to gather round him. This letter which Colbert had
thrown down at the king's feet, the reader has doubtlessly guessed, was
the same that had disappeared with the porter Toby at Fontainebleau,
after the attempt which Fouquet had made upon La Valliere's heart.
Fouquet saw the king's pallor, and was far from guessing the evil;
Colbert saw the king's anger, and rejoiced inwardly at the approach
of the storm. Fouquet's voice drew the young prince from his wrathful
"What is the matter, sire?" inquired the superintendent, with an
expression of graceful interest.
Louis made a violent effort over himself, as he replied, "Nothing."
"I am afraid your majesty is suffering?"
"I am suffering, and have already told you so, monsieur; but it is
And the king, without waiting for the termination of the fireworks,
turned towards the chateau. Fouquet accompanied him, and the whole court
followed, leaving the remains of the fireworks consuming for their own
amusement. The superintendent endeavored again to question Louis XIV.,
but did not succeed in obtaining a reply. He imagined there had been
some misunderstanding between Louis and La Valliere in the park,
which had resulted in a slight quarrel; and that the king, who was not
ordinarily sulky by disposition, but completely absorbed by his passion
for La Valliere, had taken a dislike to every one because his mistress
had shown herself offended with him. This idea was sufficient to console
him; he had even a friendly and kindly smile for the young king, when
the latter wished him good night. This, however, was not all the king
had to submit to; he was obliged to undergo the usual ceremony, which on
that evening was marked by close adherence to the strictest etiquette.
The next day was the one fixed for the departure; it was but proper that
the guests should thank their host, and show him a little attention
in return for the expenditure of his twelve millions. The only remark,
approaching to amiability, which the king could find to say to M.
Fouquet, as he took leave of him, were in these words, "M. Fouquet,
you shall hear from me. Be good enough to desire M. d'Artagnan to come
But the blood of Louis XIV., who had so profoundly dissimulated his
feelings, boiled in his veins; and he was perfectly willing to order
M. Fouquet to be put an end to with the same readiness, indeed, as his
predecessor had caused the assassination of le Marechal d'Ancre; and so
he disguised the terrible resolution he had formed beneath one of those
royal smiles which, like lightning-flashes, indicated "coups d'etat".
Fouquet took the king's hand and kissed it; Louis shuddered throughout
his whole frame, but allowed M. Fouquet to touch his hand with his lips.
Five minutes afterwards, D'Artagnan, to whom the royal order had been
communicated, entered Louis XIV.'s apartment. Aramis and Philippe were
in theirs, still eagerly attentive, and still listening with all their
ears. The king did not even give the captain of the musketeers time
to approach his armchair, but ran forward to meet him. "Take care," he
exclaimed, "that no one enters here."
"Very good, sire," replied the captain, whose glance had for a long time
past analyzed the stormy indications on the royal countenance. He gave
the necessary order at the door; but, returning to the king, he said,
"Is there something fresh the matter, your majesty?"
"How many men have you here?" inquired the king, without making any
other reply to the question addressed to him.
"What for, sire?"
"How many men have you, I say?" repeated the king, stamping upon the
ground with his foot.
"I have the musketeers."
"Well; and what others?"
"Twenty guards and thirteen Swiss."
"How many men will be required to--"
"To do what, sire?" replied the musketeer, opening his large, calm eyes.
"To arrest M. Fouquet."
D'Artagnan fell back a step.
"To arrest M. Fouquet!" he burst forth.
"Are you going to tell me that it is impossible?" exclaimed the king, in
tones of cold, vindictive passion.
"I never say that anything is impossible," replied D'Artagnan, wounded
to the quick.
"Very well; do it, then."
D'Artagnan turned on his heel, and made his way towards the door; it was
but a short distance, and he cleared it in half a dozen paces; when he
reached it he suddenly paused, and said, "Your majesty will forgive me,
but, in order to effect this arrest, I should like written directions."
"For what purpose--and since when has the king's word been insufficient
"Because the word of a king, when it springs from a feeling of anger,
may possibly change when the feeling changes."
"A truce to set phrases, monsieur; you have another thought besides
"Oh, I, at least, have certain thoughts and ideas, which, unfortunately,
others have not," D'Artagnan replied, impertinently.
The king, in the tempest of his wrath, hesitated, and drew back in the
face of D'Artagnan's frank courage, just as a horse crouches on his
haunches under the strong hand of a bold and experienced rider. "What is
your thought?" he exclaimed.
"This, sire," replied D'Artagnan: "you cause a man to be arrested when
you are still under his roof; and passion is alone the cause of that.
When your anger shall have passed, you will regret what you have done;
and then I wish to be in a position to show you your signature. If that,
however, should fail to be a reparation, it will at least show us that
the king was wrong to lose his temper."
"Wrong to lose his temper!" cried the king, in a loud, passionate voice.
"Did not my father, my grandfathers, too, before me, lose their temper
at times, in Heaven's name?"
"The king your father and the king your grandfather never lost their
temper except when under the protection of their own palace."
"The king is master wherever he may be."
"That is a flattering, complimentary phrase which cannot proceed from
any one but M. Colbert; but it happens not to be the truth. The king is
at home in every man's house when he has driven its owner out of it."
The king bit his lips, but said nothing.
"Can it be possible?" said D'Artagnan; "here is a man who is positively
ruining himself in order to please you, and you wish to have him
arrested! "Mordioux!" Sire, if my name was Fouquet, and people treated
me in that manner, I would swallow at a single gulp all sorts of
fireworks and other things, and I would set fire to them, and send
myself and everybody else in blown-up atoms to the sky. But it is all
the same; it is your wish, and it shall be done."
"Go," said the king; "but have you men enough?"
"Do you suppose I am going to take a whole host to help me? Arrest M.
Fouquet! why, that is so easy that a very child might do it! It is like
drinking a glass of wormwood; one makes an ugly face, and that is all."
"If he defends himself?"
"He! it is not at all likely. Defend himself when such extreme harshness
as you are going to practice makes the man a very martyr! Nay, I am sure
that if he has a million of francs left, which I very much doubt, he
would be willing enough to give it in order to have such a termination
as this. But what does that matter? it shall be done at once."
"Stay," said the king; "do not make his arrest a public affair."
"That will be more difficult."
"Because nothing is easier than to go up to M. Fouquet in the midst of
a thousand enthusiastic guests who surround him, and say, 'In the king's
name, I arrest you.' But to go up to him, to turn him first one way
and then another, to drive him up into one of the corners of the
chess-board, in such a way that he cannot escape; to take him away from
his guests, and keep him a prisoner for you, without one of them, alas!
having heard anything about it; that, indeed, is a genuine difficulty,
the greatest of all, in truth; and I hardly see how it is to be done."
"You had better say it is impossible, and you will have finished much
sooner. Heaven help me, but I seem to be surrounded by people who
prevent me doing what I wish."
"I do not prevent your doing anything. Have you indeed decided?"
"Take care of M. Fouquet, until I shall have made up my mind by
"That shall be done, sire."
"And return, when I rise in the morning, for further orders; and now
leave me to myself."
"You do not even want M. Colbert, then?" said the musketeer, firing his
last shot as he was leaving the room. The king started. With his whole
mind fixed on the thought of revenge, he had forgotten the cause and
substance of the offense.
"No, no one," he said; "no one here! Leave me."
D'Artagnan quitted the room. The king closed the door with his own
hands, and began to walk up and down his apartment at a furious pace,
like a wounded bull in an arena, trailing from his horn the colored
streamers and the iron darts. At last he began to take comfort in the
expression of his violent feelings.
"Miserable wretch that he is! not only does he squander my finances, but
with his ill-gotten plunder he corrupts secretaries, friends, generals,
artists, and all, and tries to rob me of the one to whom I am most
attached. This is the reason that perfidious girl so boldly took
his part! Gratitude! and who can tell whether it was not a stronger
feeling--love itself?" He gave himself up for a moment to the bitterest
reflections. "A satyr!" he thought, with that abhorrent hate with which
young men regard those more advanced in life, who still think of love.
"A man who has never found opposition or resistance in any one, who
lavishes his gold and jewels in every direction, and who retains his
staff of painters in order to take the portraits of his mistresses
in the costume of goddesses." The king trembled with passion as he
continued, "He pollutes and profanes everything that belongs to me! He
destroys everything that is mine. He will be my death at last, I
know. That man is too much for me; he is my mortal enemy, but he
shall forthwith fall! I hate him--I hate him--I hate him!" and as he
pronounced these words, he struck the arm of the chair in which he was
sitting violently, over and over again, and then rose like one in an
epileptic fit. "To-morrow! to-morrow! oh, happy day!" he murmured, "when
the sun rises, no other rival shall that brilliant king of space possess
but me. That man shall fall so low that when people look at the abject
ruin my anger shall have wrought, they will be forced to confess at
last and at least that I am indeed greater than he." The king, who was
incapable of mastering his emotions any longer, knocked over with a blow
of his fist a small table placed close to his bedside, and in the very
bitterness of anger, almost weeping, and half-suffocated, he threw
himself on his bed, dressed as he was, and bit the sheets in his
extremity of passion, trying to find repose of body at least there. The
bed creaked beneath his weight, and with the exception of a few broken
sounds, emerging, or, one might say, exploding, from his overburdened
chest, absolute silence soon reigned in the chamber of Morpheus.
Chapter XVII. High Treason.
The ungovernable fury which took possession of the king at the sight and
at the perusal of Fouquet's letter to La Valliere by degrees subsided
into a feeling of pain and extreme weariness. Youth, invigorated by
health and lightness of spirits, requiring soon that what it loses
should be immediately restored--youth knows not those endless, sleepless
nights which enable us to realize the fable of the vulture unceasingly
feeding on Prometheus. In cases where the man of middle life, in his
acquired strength of will and purpose, and the old, in their state of
natural exhaustion, find incessant augmentation of their bitter sorrow,
a young man, surprised by the sudden appearance of misfortune, weakens
himself in sighs, and groans, and tears, directly struggling with his
grief, and is thereby far sooner overthrown by the inflexible enemy with
whom he is engaged. Once overthrown, his struggles cease. Louis could
not hold out more than a few minutes, at the end of which he had ceased
to clench his hands, and scorch in fancy with his looks the invisible
objects of his hatred; he soon ceased to attack with his violent
imprecations not M. Fouquet alone, but even La Valliere herself; from
fury he subsided into despair, and from despair to prostration. After he
had thrown himself for a few minutes to and fro convulsively on his
bed, his nerveless arms fell quietly down; his head lay languidly on
his pillow; his limbs, exhausted with excessive emotion, still trembled
occasionally, agitated by muscular contractions; while from his breast
faint and infrequent sighs still issued. Morpheus, the tutelary deity of
the apartment, towards whom Louis raised his eyes, wearied by his anger
and reconciled by his tears, showered down upon him the sleep-inducing
poppies with which his hands are ever filled; so presently the monarch
closed his eyes and fell asleep. Then it seemed to him, as it often
happens in that first sleep, so light and gentle, which raises the body
above the couch, and the soul above the earth--it seemed to him, we say,
as if the god Morpheus, painted on the ceiling, looked at him with eyes
resembling human eyes; that something shone brightly, and moved to and
fro in the dome above the sleeper; that the crowd of terrible dreams
which thronged together in his brain, and which were interrupted for
a moment, half revealed a human face, with a hand resting against the
mouth, and in an attitude of deep and absorbed meditation. And strange
enough, too, this man bore so wonderful a resemblance to the king
himself, that Louis fancied he was looking at his own face reflected in
a mirror; with the exception, however, that the face was saddened by a
feeling of the profoundest pity. Then it seemed to him as if the dome
gradually retired, escaping from his gaze, and that the figures and
attributes painted by Lebrun became darker and darker as the distance
became more and more remote. A gentle, easy movement, as regular as
that by which a vessel plunges beneath the waves, had succeeded to the
immovableness of the bed. Doubtless the king was dreaming, and in this
dream the crown of gold, which fastened the curtains together, seemed
to recede from his vision, just as the dome, to which it remained
suspended, had done, so that the winged genius which, with both its
hand, supported the crown, seemed, though vainly so, to call upon the
king, who was fast disappearing from it. The bed still sunk. Louis,
with his eyes open, could not resist the deception of this cruel
hallucination. At last, as the light of the royal chamber faded away
into darkness and gloom, something cold, gloomy, and inexplicable in
its nature seemed to infect the air. No paintings, nor gold, nor velvet
hangings, were visible any longer, nothing but walls of a dull gray
color, which the increasing gloom made darker every moment. And yet the
bed still continued to descend, and after a minute, which seemed in its
duration almost an age to the king, it reached a stratum of air, black
and chill as death, and then it stopped. The king could no longer see
the light in his room, except as from the bottom of a well we can see
the light of day. "I am under the influence of some atrocious dream," he
thought. "It is time to awaken from it. Come! let me wake."
Every one has experienced the sensation the above remark conveys; there
is hardly a person who, in the midst of a nightmare whose influence is
suffocating, has not said to himself, by the help of that light which
still burns in the brain when every human light is extinguished, "It is
nothing but a dream, after all." This was precisely what Louis XIV. said
to himself; but when he said, "Come, come! wake up," he perceived that
not only was he already awake, but still more, that he had his eyes open
also. And then he looked all round him. On his right hand and on his
left two armed men stood in stolid silence, each wrapped in a huge
cloak, and the face covered with a mask; one of them held a small lamp
in his hand, whose glimmering light revealed the saddest picture a king
could look upon. Louis could not help saying to himself that his dream
still lasted, and that all he had to do to cause it to disappear was
to move his arms or to say something aloud; he darted from his bed, and
found himself upon the damp, moist ground. Then, addressing himself to
the man who held the lamp in his hand, he said:
"What is this, monsieur, and what is the meaning of this jest?"
"It is no jest," replied in a deep voice the masked figure that held the
"Do you belong to M. Fouquet?" inquired the king, greatly astonished at
"It matters very little to whom we belong," said the phantom; "we are
your masters now, that is sufficient."
The king, more impatient than intimidated, turned to the other masked
figure. "If this is a comedy," he said, "you will tell M. Fouquet that I
find it unseemly and improper, and that I command it should cease."
The second masked person to whom the king had addressed himself was a
man of huge stature and vast circumference. He held himself erect and
motionless as any block of marble. "Well!" added the king, stamping his
foot, "you do not answer!"
"We do not answer you, my good monsieur," said the giant, in a
stentorian voice, "because there is nothing to say."
"At least, tell me what you want," exclaimed Louis, folding his arms
with a passionate gesture.
"You will know by and by," replied the man who held the lamp.
"In the meantime tell me where I am."
Louis looked all round him; but by the light of the lamp which the
masked figure raised for the purpose, he could perceive nothing but the
damp walls which glistened here and there with the slimy traces of the
snail. "Oh--oh!--a dungeon," cried the king.
"No, a subterranean passage."
"Will you be good enough to follow us?"
"I shall not stir from hence!" cried the king.
"If you are obstinate, my dear young friend," replied the taller of the
two, "I will lift you up in my arms, and roll you up in your own cloak,
and if you should happen to be stifled, why--so much the worse for you."
As he said this, he disengaged from beneath his cloak a hand of which
Milo of Crotona would have envied him the possession, on the day when
he had that unhappy idea of rending his last oak. The king dreaded
violence, for he could well believe that the two men into whose power he
had fallen had not gone so far with any idea of drawing back, and
that they would consequently be ready to proceed to extremities, if
necessary. He shook his head and said: "It seems I have fallen into the
hands of a couple of assassins. Move on, then."
Neither of the men answered a word to this remark. The one who carried
the lantern walked first, the king followed him, while the second masked
figure closed the procession. In this manner they passed along a winding
gallery of some length, with as many staircases leading out of it as
are to be found in the mysterious and gloomy palaces of Ann Radcliffe's
creation. All these windings and turnings, during which the king heard
the sound of running water "over his head", ended at last in a long
corridor closed by an iron door. The figure with the lamp opened the
door with one of the keys he wore suspended at his girdle, where, during
the whole of the brief journey, the king had heard them rattle. As soon
as the door was opened and admitted the air, Louis recognized the balmy
odors that trees exhale in hot summer nights. He paused, hesitatingly,
for a moment or two; but the huge sentinel who followed him thrust him
out of the subterranean passage.
"Another blow," said the king, turning towards the one who had just had
the audacity to touch his sovereign; "what do you intend to do with the
king of France?"
"Try to forget that word," replied the man with the lamp, in a tone
which as little admitted of a reply as one of the famous decrees of
"You deserve to be broken on the wheel for the words that you have just
made use of," said the giant, as he extinguished the lamp his companion
handed to him; "but the king is too kind-hearted."
Louis, at that threat, made so sudden a movement that it seemed as if
he meditated flight; but the giant's hand was in a moment placed on
his shoulder, and fixed him motionless where he stood. "But tell me, at
least, where we are going," said the king.
"Come," replied the former of the two men, with a kind of respect in his
manner, and leading his prisoner towards a carriage which seemed to be
The carriage was completely concealed amid the trees. Two horses, with
their feet fettered, were fastened by a halter to the lower branches of
a large oak.
"Get in," said the same man, opening the carriage-door and letting down
the step. The king obeyed, seated himself at the back of the carriage,
the padded door of which was shut and locked immediately upon him and
his guide. As for the giant, he cut the fastenings by which the horses
were bound, harnessed them himself, and mounted on the box of the
carriage, which was unoccupied. The carriage set off immediately at a
quick trot, turned into the road to Paris, and in the forest of Senart
found a relay of horses fastened to the trees in the same manner the
first horses had been, and without a postilion. The man on the box
changed the horses, and continued to follow the road towards Paris with
the same rapidity, so that they entered the city about three o'clock in
the morning. They carriage proceeded along the Faubourg Saint-Antoine,
and, after having called out to the sentinel, "By the king's order," the
driver conducted the horses into the circular inclosure of the Bastile,
looking out upon the courtyard, called La Cour du Gouvernement. There
the horses drew up, reeking with sweat, at the flight of steps, and a
sergeant of the guard ran forward. "Go and wake the governor," said the
coachman in a voice of thunder.
With the exception of this voice, which might have been heard at the
entrance of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, everything remained as calm in
the carriage as in the prison. Ten minutes afterwards, M. de Baisemeaux
appeared in his dressing-gown on the threshold of the door. "What is the
matter now?" he asked; "and whom have you brought me there?"
The man with the lantern opened the carriage-door, and said two or three
words to the one who acted as driver, who immediately got down from his
seat, took up a short musket which he kept under his feet, and placed
its muzzle on his prisoner's chest.
"And fire at once if he speaks!" added aloud the man who alighted from
"Very good," replied his companion, without another remark.
With this recommendation, the person who had accompanied the king in the
carriage ascended the flight of steps, at the top of which the governor
was awaiting him. "Monsieur d'Herblay!" said the latter.
"Hush!" said Aramis. "Let us go into your room."
"Good heavens! what brings you here at this hour?"
"A mistake, my dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux," Aramis replied, quietly.
"It appears that you were quite right the other day."
"What about?" inquired the governor.
"About the order of release, my dear friend."
"Tell me what you mean, monsieur--no, monseigneur," said the governor,
almost suffocated by surprise and terror.
"It is a very simple affair: you remember, dear M. de Baisemeaux, that
an order of release was sent to you."
"Yes, for Marchiali."
"Very good! we both thought that it was for Marchiali?"
"Certainly; you will recollect, however, that I would not credit it, but
that you compelled me to believe it."
"Oh! Baisemeaux, my good fellow, what a word to make use of!--strongly
recommended, that was all."
"Strongly recommended, yes; strongly recommended to give him up to you;
and that you carried him off with you in your carriage."
"Well, my dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, it was a mistake; it was
discovered at the ministry, so that I now bring you an order from the
king to set at liberty Seldon,--that poor Seldon fellow, you know."
"Seldon! are you sure this time?"
"Well, read it yourself," added Aramis, handing him the order.
"Why," said Baisemeaux, "this order is the very same that has already
passed through my hands."
"It is the very one I assured you I saw the other evening. "Parbleu!" I
recognize it by the blot of ink."
"I do not know whether it is that; but all I know is, that I bring it
"But then, what about the other?"
"I have got him here with me."
"But that is not enough for me. I require a new order to take him back
"Don't talk such nonsense, my dear Baisemeaux; you talk like a child!
Where is the order you received respecting Marchiali?"
Baisemeaux ran to his iron chest and took it out. Aramis seized hold
of it, coolly tore it in four pieces, held them to the lamp, and burnt
them. "Good heavens! what are you doing?" exclaimed Baisemeaux, in an
extremity of terror.
"Look at your position quietly, my good governor," said Aramis, with
imperturbable self-possession, "and you will see how very simple the
whole affair is. You no longer possess any order justifying Marchiali's
"I am a lost man!"
"Far from it, my good fellow, since I have brought Marchiali back to
you, and all accordingly is just the same as if he had never left."
"Ah!" said the governor, completely overcome by terror.
"Plain enough, you see; and you will go and shut him up immediately."
"I should think so, indeed."
"And you will hand over this Seldon to me, whose liberation is
authorized by this order. Do you understand?"
"You do understand, I see," said Aramis. "Very good." Baisemeaux clapped
his hands together.
"But why, at all events, after having taken Marchiali away from me, do
you bring him back again?" cried the unhappy governor, in a paroxysm of
terror, and completely dumbfounded.
"For a friend such as you are," said Aramis--"for so devoted a servant,
I have no secrets;" and he put his mouth close to Baisemeaux's ear, as
he said, in a low tone of voice, "you know the resemblance between that
unfortunate fellow, and--"
"And the king?--yes!"
"Very good; the first use that Marchiali made of his liberty was to
persist--Can you guess what?"
"How is it likely I should guess?"
"To persist in saying that he was king of France; to dress himself up in
clothes like those of the king; and then pretend to assume that he was
the king himself."
"That is the reason why I have brought him back again, my dear friend.
He is mad and lets every one see how mad he is."
"What is to be done, then?"
"That is very simple; let no one hold any communication with him. You
understand that when his peculiar style of madness came to the king's
ears, the king, who had pitied his terrible affliction, and saw that
all his kindness had been repaid by black ingratitude, became perfectly
furious; so that, now--and remember this very distinctly, dear Monsieur
de Baisemeaux, for it concerns you most closely--so that there is now, I
repeat, sentence of death pronounced against all those who may allow
him to communicate with any one else but me or the king himself. You
understand, Baisemeaux, sentence of death!"
"You need not ask me whether I understand."
"And now, let us go down, and conduct this poor devil back to his
dungeon again, unless you prefer he should come up here."
"What would be the good of that?"
"It would be better, perhaps, to enter his name in the prison-book at
"Of course, certainly; not a doubt of it."
"In that case, have him up."
Baisemeaux ordered the drums to be beaten and the bell to be rung, as
a warning to every one to retire, in order to avoid meeting a prisoner,
about whom it was desired to observe a certain mystery. Then, when the
passages were free, he went to take the prisoner from the carriage, at
whose breast Porthos, faithful to the directions which had been given
him, still kept his musket leveled. "Ah! is that you, miserable wretch?"
cried the governor, as soon as he perceived the king. "Very good, very
good." And immediately, making the king get out of the carriage, he led
him, still accompanied by Porthos, who had not taken off his mask, and
Aramis, who again resumed his, up the stairs, to the second Bertaudiere,
and opened the door of the room in which Philippe for six long years had
bemoaned his existence. The king entered the cell without pronouncing a
single word: he faltered in as limp and haggard as a rain-struck lily.
Baisemeaux shut the door upon him, turned the key twice in the lock,
and then returned to Aramis. "It is quite true," he said, in a low tone,
"that he bears a striking resemblance to the king; but less so than you
"So that," said Aramis, "you would not have been deceived by the
substitution of the one for the other?"
"What a question!"
"You are a most valuable fellow, Baisemeaux," said Aramis; "and now, set
"Oh, yes. I was going to forget that. I will go and give orders at
"Bah! to-morrow will be time enough."
"To-morrow!--oh, no. This very minute."
"Well; go off to your affairs, I will go away to mine. But it is quite
understood, is it not?"
"What 'is quite understood'?"
"That no one is to enter the prisoner's cell, expect with an order from
the king; an order which I will myself bring."
"Quite so. Adieu, monseigneur."
Aramis returned to his companion. "Now, Porthos, my good fellow, back
again to Vaux, and as fast as possible."
"A man is light and easy enough, when he has faithfully served his king;
and, in serving him, saved his country," said Porthos. "The horses will
be as light as if our tissues were constructed of the wind of heaven.
So let us be off." And the carriage, lightened of a prisoner, who might
well be--as he in fact was--very heavy in the sight of Aramis, passed
across the drawbridge of the Bastile, which was raised again immediately
Chapter XVIII. A Night at the Bastile.
Pain, anguish, and suffering in human life are always in proportion to
the strength with which a man is endowed. We will not pretend to say
that Heaven always apportions to a man's capability of endurance the
anguish with which he afflicts him; for that, indeed, would not be true,
since Heaven permits the existence of death, which is, sometimes, the
only refuge open to those who are too closely pressed--too bitterly
afflicted, as far as the body is concerned. Suffering is in proportion
to the strength which has been accorded; in other words, the weak suffer
more, where the trial is the same, than the strong. And what are the
elementary principles, we may ask, that compose human strength? Is it
not--more than anything else--exercise, habit, experience? We shall not
even take the trouble to demonstrate this, for it is an axiom in morals,
as in physics. When the young king, stupefied and crushed in every sense
and feeling, found himself led to a cell in the Bastile, he fancied
death itself is but a sleep; that it, too, has its dreams as well; that
the bed had broken through the flooring of his room at Vaux; that death
had resulted from the occurrence; and that, still carrying out his
dream, the king, Louis XIV., now no longer living, was dreaming one
of those horrors, impossible to realize in life, which is termed
dethronement, imprisonment, and insult towards a sovereign who formerly
wielded unlimited power. To be present at--an actual witness, too--of
this bitterness of death; to float, indecisively, in an incomprehensible
mystery, between resemblance and reality; to hear everything, to
see everything, without interfering in a single detail of agonizing
suffering, was--so the king thought within himself--a torture far
more terrible, since it might last forever. "Is this what is termed
eternity--hell?" he murmured, at the moment the door was closed upon
him, which we remember Baisemeaux had shut with his own hands. He did
not even look round him; and in the room, leaning with his back
against the wall, he allowed himself to be carried away by the terrible
supposition that he was already dead, as he closed his eyes, in order to
avoid looking upon something even worse still. "How can I have died?" he
said to himself, sick with terror. "The bed might have been let down by
some artificial means? But no! I do not remember to have felt a bruise,
nor any shock either. Would they not rather have poisoned me at my
meals, or with the fumes of wax, as they did my ancestress, Jeanne
d'Albret?" Suddenly, the chill of the dungeons seemed to fall like a wet
cloak upon Louis's shoulders. "I have seen," he said, "my father lying
dead upon his funeral couch, in his regal robes. That pale face, so calm
and worn; those hands, once so skillful, lying nerveless by his side;
those limbs stiffened by the icy grasp of death; nothing there betokened
a sleep that was disturbed by dreams. And yet, how numerous were the
dreams which Heaven might have sent that royal corpse--him whom so many
others had preceded, hurried away by him into eternal death! No, that
king was still the king: he was enthroned still upon that funeral
couch, as upon a velvet armchair; he had not abdicated one title of his
majesty. God, who had not punished him, cannot, will not punish me, who
have done nothing." A strange sound attracted the young man's attention.
He looked round him, and saw on the mantel-shelf, just below an enormous
crucifix, coarsely painted in fresco on the wall, a rat of enormous size
engaged in nibbling a piece of dry bread, but fixing all the time, an
intelligent and inquiring look upon the new occupant of the cell. The
king could not resist a sudden impulse of fear and disgust: he moved
back towards the door, uttering a loud cry; and as if he but needed this
cry, which escaped from his breast almost unconsciously, to recognize
himself, Louis knew that he was alive and in full possession of his
natural senses. "A prisoner!" he cried. "I--I, a prisoner!" He looked
round him for a bell to summon some one to him. "There are no bells in
the Bastile," he said, "and it is in the Bastile I am imprisoned. In
what way can I have been made a prisoner? It must have been owing to a
conspiracy of M. Fouquet. I have been drawn to Vaux, as to a snare. M.
Fouquet cannot be acting alone in this affair. His agent--That voice
that I but just now heard was M. d'Herblay's; I recognized it. Colbert
was right, then. But what is Fouquet's object? To reign in my place and
stead?--Impossible. Yet who knows!" thought the king, relapsing into
gloom again. "Perhaps my brother, the Duc d'Orleans, is doing that which
my uncle wished to do during the whole of his life against my father.
But the queen?--My mother, too? And La Valliere? Oh! La Valliere, she
will have been abandoned to Madame. Dear, dear girl! Yes, it is--it must
be so. They have shut her up as they have me. We are separated forever!"
And at this idea of separation the poor lover burst into a flood of
tears and sobs and groans.
"There is a governor in this place," the king continued, in a fury of
passion; "I will speak to him, I will summon him to me."
He called--no voice replied to his. He seized hold of his chair, and
hurled it against the massive oaken door. The wood resounded against the
door, and awakened many a mournful echo in the profound depths of the
staircase; but from a human creature, none.
This was a fresh proof for the king of the slight regard in which he was
held at the Bastile. Therefore, when his first fit of anger had passed
away, having remarked a barred window through which there passed a
stream of light, lozenge-shaped, which must be, he knew, the bright orb
of approaching day, Louis began to call out, at first gently enough,
then louder and louder still; but no one replied. Twenty other attempts
which he made, one after another, obtained no other or better success.
His blood began to boil within him, and mount to his head. His nature
was such, that, accustomed to command, he trembled at the idea of
disobedience. The prisoner broke the chair, which was too heavy for him
to lift, and made use of it as a battering ram to strike against the
door. He struck so loudly, and so repeatedly, that the perspiration soon
began to pour down his face. The sound became tremendous and continuous;
certain stifled, smothered cries replied in different directions. This
sound produced a strange effect upon the king. He paused to listen;
it was the voice of the prisoners, formerly his victims, now his
companions. The voices ascended like vapors through the thick ceilings
and the massive walls, and rose in accusations against the author of
this noise, as doubtless their sighs and tears accused, in whispered
tones, the author of their captivity. After having deprived so many
people of their liberty, the king came among them to rob them of their
rest. This idea almost drove him mad; it redoubled his strength, or
rather his well, bent upon obtaining some information, or a conclusion
to the affair. With a portion of the broken chair he recommenced the
noise. At the end of an hour, Louis heard something in the corridor,
behind the door of his cell, and a violent blow, which was returned upon
the door itself, made him cease his own.
"Are you mad?" said a rude, brutal voice. "What is the matter with you
"This morning!" thought the king; but he said aloud, politely,
"Monsieur, are you the governor of the Bastile?"
"My good fellow, your head is out of sorts," replied the voice; "but
that is no reason why you should make such a terrible disturbance. Be
"Are you the governor?" the king inquired again.
He heard a door on the corridor close; the jailer had just left, not
condescending to reply a single word. When the king had assured himself
of his departure, his fury knew no longer any bounds. As agile as a
tiger, he leaped from the table to the window, and struck the iron bars
with all his might. He broke a pane of glass, the pieces of which
fell clanking into the courtyard below. He shouted with increasing
hoarseness, "The governor, the governor!" This excess lasted fully an
hour, during which time he was in a burning fever. With his hair in
disorder and matted on his forehead, his dress torn and covered with
dust and plaster, his linen in shreds, the king never rested until
his strength was utterly exhausted, and it was not until then that he
clearly understood the pitiless thickness of the walls, the impenetrable
nature of the cement, invincible to every influence but that of time,
and that he possessed no other weapon but despair. He leaned his
forehead against the door, and let the feverish throbbings of his heart
calm by degrees; it had seemed as if one single additional pulsation
would have made it burst.
"A moment will come when the food which is given to the prisoners will
be brought to me. I shall then see some one, I shall speak to him, and
get an answer."
And the king tried to remember at what hour the first repast of the
prisoners was served at the Bastile; he was ignorant even of this
detail. The feeling of remorse at this remembrance smote him like the
thrust of a dagger, that he should have lived for five and twenty years
a king, and in the enjoyment of every happiness, without having bestowed
a moment's thought on the misery of those who had been unjustly deprived
of their liberty. The king blushed for very shame. He felt that Heaven,
in permitting this fearful humiliation, did no more than render to the
man the same torture as had been inflicted by that man upon so many
others. Nothing could be more efficacious for reawakening his mind to
religious influences than the prostration of his heart and mind and soul
beneath the feeling of such acute wretchedness. But Louis dared not even
kneel in prayer to God to entreat him to terminate his bitter trial.
"Heaven is right," he said; "Heaven acts wisely. It would be cowardly
to pray to Heaven for that which I have so often refused my own
He had reached this stage of his reflections, that is, of his agony of
mind, when a simil
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