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

by Alexandre Dumas

  “I do, until I have a proof of it. Forgive me, madame, but she has given me her word; and her mind and heart are too upright to tell a falsehood.”

  “You require a proof! So be it. Come with me, then.”

  14

  A Domiciliary Visit

  THE PRINCESS, PRECEDING RAOUL, led him through the courtyard towards that part of the building which La Vallière inhabited, and, ascending the same staircase which Raoul had himself ascended that very morning, she paused at the door of the room in which the young man had been so strangely received by Montalais. The opportunity had been well chosen to carry out the project which Madame Henrietta had conceived, for the chateau was empty. The King, the courtiers and the ladies of the court, had set off for Saint-Germain; Madame Henrietta was the only one who knew of Bragelonne’s return, and, thinking over the advantages which might be drawn from this return, had feigned indisposition in order to remain behind. Madame was therefore confident of finding La Vallière’s room and Saint-Aignan’s apartment perfectly empty. She took a pass-key from her pocket and opened the door of her maid-of-honour’s apartment. Bragelonne’s gaze was immediately fixed upon the interior of .the room, which he recognised at once; and the impression which the sight of it produced upon him was one of the first tortures which awaited him. The Princess looked at him, and her practised eye could at once detect what was passing in the young man’s heart.

  “You asked me for proofs,” she said, “do not be astonished, then, if I give you them. But if you do not think you have courage enough to confront them, there is still time to withdraw.”

  “I thank you, madame,” said Bragelonne; “but I came here to be convinced. You promised to convince me,—do so.”

  “Enter then,” said Madame, “and shut the door behind you.”

  Bragelonne obeyed, and then turned towards the Princess, whom he interrogated by a look.

  “You know where you are, I suppose?” inquired Madame Henrietta.

  “Everything leads me to believe I am in Mademoiselle de la Vallière’s room.”

  “You are.”

  “But I would observe to your Highness that this room is a room, and is not a proof.”

  “Wait,” said the Princess, as she walked to the foot of the bed, folded up the screen into its several compartments, and stooped down towards the floor. “Look here,” she continued; “stoop down, and lift up this trap-door yourself.”

  “A trap-door!” said Raoul, astonished; for d‘Artagnan’s words began to return to his memory, and he had an indistinct recollection that d’Artagnan had made use of the same word. He looked, but uselessly so, for some cleft or crevice which might indicate an opening or a ring to assist in lifting up some portion of the planking.

  “Ah, I forgot,” said Madame Henrietta, “I forgot the secret spring; the fourth plank of the flooring,—press on the spot where you will observe a knot in the wood. Those are the instructions; press, Vicomte! press, I say, yourself!”

  Raoul, pale as death, pressed his finger on the spot which had been indicated to him; at the same moment the spring began to work, and the trap rose of its own accord.

  “It is ingenious enough, certainly,” said the Princess; “and one can see that the architect foresaw that a very little hand only would have to make use of this spring, for see how easily the trap-door opened without assistance.”

  “A staircase!” cried Raoul.

  “Yes, and a very pretty one, too,” said Madame Henrietta. “See, Vicomte, the staircase has a balustrade intended to prevent the falling of timid persons who might be tempted to descend the staircase; and I will risk myself on it accordingly. Come, Vicomte, follow me!”

  “But before following you, madame, may I ask where this staircase leads to?”

  “Ah, true; I forgot to tell you. You know, perhaps, that formerly M. de Saint-Aignan lived in the very next apartment to the King?”

  “Yes, madame, I am aware of that; that was the arrangement at least before I left; and more than once I have had the honour of visiting him in his old rooms.”

  “Well; he obtained the King’s leave to change his former convenient and beautiful apartment for the two rooms to which this staircase will conduct us, and which together form a lodging for him, twice as small, and at ten times greater distance from the King,—a close proximity to whom is by no means disdained, in general, by the gentlemen belonging to the court.”

  “Very good, madame,” returned Raoul; “but go on, I beg, for I do not understand yet.”

  “Well, then, it accidentally happened,” continued the Princess, “that M. de Saint-Aignan’s apartment is situated underneath the apartments of my maids of honour, and particularly underneath the room of La Vallière.”

  “But what was the motive of this trap-door and this staircase?”

  “That I cannot tell you. Would you like us to go down to Monsieur de Saint-Aignan’s rooms? Perhaps we shall be able to find the solution of the enigma there.”

  And Madame set the example by going down herself, while Raoul, sighing deeply, followed her. At every step Bragelonne took, he advanced farther into that mysterious apartment which had been witness to La Vallière’s sighs, and still retained the sweetest perfume of her presence. Bragelonne fancied that he perceived, as he inhaled his every breath, that the young girl must have passed through there. Then succeeded to these emanations of herself, which he regarded as invisible though certain proofs, the flowers she preferred to all others,—the books of her own selection. Had Raoul preserved a single doubt on the subject, it would have vanished at the secret harmony of tastes, and connection of the mind with the use of the ordinary objects of life. La Vallière, in Bragelonne’s eyes, was present there in every article of furniture, in the colour of the hangings, in every thing that surrounded him. Dumb, and completely overwhelmed, there was nothing further for him now to learn, and he followed his pitiless conductress as blindly as the culprit follows the executioner; while Madame, as cruel as all women of delicate and nervous temperaments are, did not spare him the slightest detail. But, it must be admitted that, notwithstanding the kind of apathy into which he had fallen, none of these details, even had he been left alone, would have escaped him. The happiness of the woman who loves, when that happiness is derived from a rival, is a living torture for a jealous man; but for a jealous man such as Raoul was, for one whose heart had for the first time been steeped in gall and bitterness, Louise’s happiness was in reality an ignominious death, a death of body and soul. He guessed all; he fancied he could see them, with their hands clasped in each other’s, their faces drawn close together, and reflected, side by side, in loving proximity, as they gazed upon the mirrors around them—so sweet an occupation for lovers, who, as they thus see themselves twice over, impress the picture more enduringly in their memories. He could guess, too, the stolen kiss snatched as they separated from each other’s loved society. The luxury, the studied elegance, eloquent of the perfection of indolence, of ease; the extreme care shown, either to spare the loved object every annoyance or to occasion her a delightful surprise; that strength and power of love multiplied by the strength and power of royalty itself, seemed like a death-blow to Raoul. If there be anything which can in any way assuage or mitigate the tortures of jealousy, it is the inferiority of the man who is preferred to yourself; whilst, on the very contrary, if there be an anguish more bitter than another, a misery for which language has no descriptive words, it is the superiority of the man preferred to yourself, superior, perhaps, in youth, beauty, grace. It is in such moments as these that Heaven almost seems to have taken part against the disdained and rejected lover.

  One final pang was reserved for poor Raoul. Madame Henrietta lifted up a silk curtain, and behind the canvas he perceived La Vallière’s portrait. Not only the portrait of La Vallière, but of La Vallière eloquent of youth, beauty and happiness, inhaling life and enjoyment at every pore, because at eighteen years of age love itself is life.

  “Louise!” murmured Bragelon
ne,—“Louise! is it true, then? Oh, you have never loved me, for never have you looked at me in that manner.” And he felt as if his heart were crushed within his bosom.

  Madame Henrietta looked at him, almost envious of his extreme grief, although she well knew that there was nothing to envy in it, and that she herself was as passionately loved by de Guiche as Louise by Bragelonne. Raoul interpreted Madame Henrietta’s look.

  “Oh, forgive me, forgive me, madame; in your presence I know I ought to have greater mastery over myself. But Heaven grant that you may never be struck by a similar misery to that which crushes me at this moment, for you are but a woman, and would not be able to endure so terrible an affliction. Forgive me, I again entreat you, madame; I am but a man without rank or position, while you belong to a race whose happiness knows no bounds, whose power acknowledges no limit.”

  “Monsieur de Bragelonne,” replied Henrietta, “a heart such as yours merits all the consideration and respect which a Queen’s heart even can bestow. Regard me as your friend, monsieur; and as such, indeed, I would not allow your whole life to be poisoned by perfidy, and covered with ridicule. It was I, indeed, who, with more courage than any of your pretended friends—I except M. de Guiche—was the cause of your return from London; it is I, also, who have given you these melancholy proofs, necessary, however, for your cure, if you are a lover with courage in his heart, and not a weeping Amadis.p Do not thank me; pity me even, and do not serve the King less faithfully than you have done.”

  Raoul smiled bitterly. “Ah! true, true; I was forgetting that; the King is my master.”

  “Your liberty, nay, your very life, is in danger.”

  A steady, penetrating look informed Madame Henrietta that she was mistaken, and that her last argument was not a likely one to affect the young man. “Take care, Monsieur de Bragelonne,” she said, “for if you do not weigh well all your actions, you might throw into an extravagance of wrath, a prince, whose passions, once aroused, exceed the utmost limits of reason, and you would thereby involve your friends and family in the deepest distress; you must bend, you must submit, and must cure yourself.”

  “I thank you, madame; I appreciate the advice your Royal Highness is good enough to give me, and I will endeavour to follow it; but one final word, I beg.”

  “Name it.”

  “Should I be indiscreet in asking you the secret of this staircase, of this trap-door; a secret which, it seems, you have discovered ?”

  “Nothing is more simple. For the purpose of exercising a surveillance over the young girls who are attached to my service, I have duplicate keys of their doors. It seemed very strange to me that M. de Saint-Aignan should change his apartments. It seemed very strange that the King should come to see M. de Saint-Aignan every day, and, finally, it seemed very strange that so many things should be done during your absence that the very habits and customs of the court seemed to be changed. I do not wish to be trifled with by the King, nor to serve as a cloak for his love affairs; for, after La Vallière, who weeps incessantly, he will take a fancy to Montalais, who is always laughing; and then to Tonnay-Charente, who does nothing but sing all day; to act such a part as that would be unworthy of me. I have thrust aside the scruples which my friendship for you suggested. I have discovered the secret. I have wounded your feelings, I know; and I again entreat you to excuse me; but I had a duty to fulfil. I have discharged it. You are now forewarned; the tempest will soon burst; protect yourself accordingly.”

  “You naturally expect, however, that a result of some kind must follow,” replied Bragelonne, with firmness; “for you do not suppose I shall silently accept the shame which is thrust upon me, or the treachery which has been practised against me.”

  “You will take whatever steps in the matter you please, Monsieur Raoul, only do not betray the source whence you derived the truth. That is all I have to ask, that is the only price I require for the service I have rendered you.”

  “Fear nothing, madame,” said Bragelonne, with a bitter smile.

  “I bribed the locksmith, in whom the lovers had confided. You can just as well have done so as myself can you not?”

  “Yes, madame. Your Royal Highness, however, has no other advice or caution to give me except that of not betraying you.”

  “None other.”

  “I am about, therefore, to beg your Royal Highness to allow me to remain here for one moment.”

  “Without me?”

  “Oh! no, madame. It matters very little; for what I have to do can be done in your presence. I only ask one moment to write a line to some one.”

  “It is dangerous, Monsieur de Bragelonne. Take care.”

  “No one can possibly know that your Royal Highness has done me the honour to conduct me here. Besides, I shall sign the letter I am going to write.”

  “Do as you please, then.”

  Raoul drew out his tablet, and wrote rapidly on one of the leaves the following words:—

  “Monsieur le Comte.—

  Do not be surprised to find here this paper signed by me; the friend whom I shall very shortly send to call on you will have the honour to explain the object of my visit to you.

  Vicomte Raoul de Bragelonne.“

  He rolled up the paper, slipped it into the lock of the door which communicated with the room set apart for the two lovers, and satisfied himself that the paper was so apparent that Saint-Aignan could not but see it as he entered; he rejoined the Princess, who had already reached the top of the staircase. They then separated, Raoul pretending to thank Her Highness; Henrietta pitying, or seeming to pity, with all her heart, the poor wretched young man she had just condemned to such fearful torture. “Oh!” she said, as she saw him disappear, pale as death, and his eyes injected with blood, “if I had known this, I should have concealed the truth from that poor gentleman.”

  15

  Porthos’s Plan of Action

  THE NUMEROUS INDIVIDUALS WE have introduced into this long story is the cause of each of them being obliged to appear only in his own turn, and according to the exigencies of the recital. The result is that our readers have had no opportunity of again meeting our friend Porthos since his return from Fontainebleau. The honours which he had received from the King had not changed the easy, affectionate character of that excellent-hearted man; he may perhaps have held up his head a little higher than usual, and a majesty of demeanour as it were may have betrayed itself since the honour of dining at the King’s table had been accorded him. His Majesty’s banqueting-room had produced a certain effect upon Porthos. Le Seigneur de Bracieux et de Pierrefonds delighted to remember that during that memorable dinner, the numerous array of servants, and the large number of officials who were in attendance upon the guests, gave a certain tone and effect to the repast, and seemed to furnish the room. Porthos undertook to confer upon Moustonq a position of some kind or other, in order to establish a sort of hierarchy among his other domestics, and to create a military household, which was not unusual among the great captains of the age, since, in the preceding century, this luxury had been greatly encouraged by Messrs. de Tréville, de Schomberg, de la Vienville, without alluding to M. de Richelieu, M. de Condé, and de Bouillon-Turenne. And therefore why should not he, Porthos, the friend of the King, and of M. Fouquet, a baron, an engineer etc., why should not he indeed enjoy all the delightful privileges which large possessions and unusual merit invariably confer? Slightly neglected by Aramis, who we know was greatly occupied with M. Fouquet; neglected also, on account of his being on duty, by d’Artagnan; tired of Truchen and Planchet, Porthos was surprised to find himself dreaming, without precisely knowing why; but if any one had said to him, “Do you want anything, Porthos?” he would most certainly have replied “Yes.” After one of those dinners, during which Porthos attempted to recall to his recollection all the details of the royal banquet, half joyful, thanks to the excellence of the wines; half melancholy, thanks to his ambitious ideas, Porthos was gradually falling off into a gentle doze, when his servant
entered to announce that M. de Bragelonne wished to speak to him. Porthos passed into an adjoining room, where he found his young friend in the dispositionof mind we are already aware of. Raoul advanced towards Porthos, and shook him by the hand; Porthos, surprised at his seriousness of aspect, offered him a seat. “Dear M. du Vallon,” said Raoul, “I have a service to ask of you.”

  “Nothing could happen more fortunately, my young friend,” replied Porthos; “I have had eight thousand livres sent me this morning from Pierrefonds; and if you want any money—”

  “No, I thank you; it is not money.”

  “So much the worse, then. I have always heard it said that that is the rarest service, but the easiest to render. The remark struck me; I like to cite remarks that strike me.”

  “Your heart is as good as your mind is sound and true.”

  “You are too kind, I am sure. You will dine here, of course?”

  “No; I am not hungry.”

  “Eh! not dine! What a dreadful country England is.”

  “Not too much so indeed—but—”

  “Well. If such excellent fish and meat were not to be procured there, it would hardly be endurable.”

  “Yes, I came to—”

  “I am listening. Only just allow me to take something to drink. One gets thirsty in Paris”; and he ordered a bottle of champagne to be brought; and, having first filled Raoul’s glass, he filled his own, drank it down at a gulp, and then resumed, —“I needed that in order to listen to you with proper attention. I am now quite at your service. What have you to ask me, dear Raoul? What do you want?”

  “Give me your opinion upon quarrels in general, my dear friend.”

  “My opinion! Well—but——Explain your idea a little,” replied Porthos, rubbing his forehead.

  “I mean—are you generally good-humoured, or good-tempered, whenever any misunderstanding may arise between a friend of yours and a stranger, for instance?”