“We have him,” said Grimaud.
“If we wait a little it is certain he will leave; don’t you think so, my friend?”
“Unless, indeed, d’Artagnan also be a prisoner,” replied Porthos, “in which case everything is lost.”
Raoul returned no answer, for any hypothesis was admissible. He instructed Grimaud to lead the horses to the little street Jean-Beausire, so as to give rise to less suspicion, and himself, with his piercing gaze, watched for the exit either of d’Artagnan or the carriage. Nor had he decided wrongly; for twenty minutes had not elapsed before the gate reopened and the carriage reappeared. A dazzling of the eyes prevented Raoul from distinguishing what figures occupied the interior. Grimaud averred that he had seen two persons, and that one of them was his master. Porthos kept looking at Raoul and Grimaud by turns, in the hope of understanding their idea.
“It is clear,” said Grimaud, “that if the Comte is in the carriage, either he is set at liberty or they are taking him to another prison.”
“We shall soon see that by the road he takes,” answered Porthos.
“If he is set at liberty,” said Grimaud, “they will conduct him home.”
“True,” rejoined Porthos.
“The carriage does not take that way,” cried Raoul; and indeed the horses were just disappearing down the Faubourg St. Antoine.
“Let us hasten,” said Porthos; “we will attack the carriage on the road and tell Athos to flee.”
“Rebellion,” murmured Raoul.
Porthos darted a second glance at Raoul, quite worthy of the first. Raoul replied only by spurring the flanks of his steed. In a few moments the three cavaliers had overtaken the carriage, and followed it so closely that their horses’ breath moistened the back of it. D‘Artagnan, whose senses were ever on the alert, heard the trot of the horses, at the moment when Raoul was telling Porthos to pass the chariot so as to see who was the person accompanying Athos. Porthos complied, but could not see anything, for the blinds were lowered. Rage and impatience were gaining mastery over Raoul. He had just noticed the mystery preserved by Athos’s companion, and determined on proceeding to extremities. On his part d’Artagnan had perfectly recognised Porthos, and Raoul also, from under the blinds, and had communicated to the Comte the result of his observation. They were desirous only of seeing whether Raoul and Porthos would push the affair to the uttermost. And this they speedily did, for Raoul, presenting his pistol, threw himself on the leader, commanding the coachman to stop. Porthos seized the coachman and dragged him from his seat. Grimaud already had hold of the carriage door. Raoul threw open his arms, exclaiming, “M. le Comte! M. le Comte!”
“Ah! it is you, Raoul,” said Athos, intoxicated with joy.
“Not bad, indeed!” added d’Artagnan, with a burst of laughter, and they both embraced the young man and Porthos who had taken possession of them.
“My brave Porthos! best of friends,” cried Athos, “it is still the same with you.”
“He is still only twenty,” said d’Artagnan, “brave Porthos!”
“Confound it,” answered Porthos, slightly confused, “we thought that you were being arrested.”
“While,” rejoined Athos, “the matter in question was nothing but my taking a drive in M. d’Artagnan’s carriage.”
“But we followed you from the Bastille,” returned Raoul, with a tone of suspicion and reproach.
“Where we had been to take supper with our good friend M. Baisemeaux. Do you recollect Baisemeaux, Porthos?”
“Very well, indeed.”
“And there we saw Aramis.”
“In the Bastille?”
“At supper.”
“Ah!” said Porthos, again breathing freely. “He gave us a thousand messages for you.”
“And where is M. le Comte going?” asked Grimaud, already recompensed by a smile from his master.
“We were going home to Blois.”
“How can that be?”
“At once?” said Raoul.
“Yes, right forward.”
“Without any luggage?”
“Oh! Raoul would have been instructed to forward me mine, or to bring it with him on his return, if he returns.”
“If nothing detains him longer in Paris,” said d’Artagnan, with a glance firm and cutting as steel, and as painful (for it reopened the poor young fellow’s wounds), “he will do well to follow you, Athos.”
“There is nothing to keep me any longer in Paris,” said Raoul.
“Then we will go immediately,” replied Athos.
“And M. d’Artagnan?”
“Oh! as for me, I was only accompanying Athos as far as the barrier, and I return with Porthos.”
“Very good,” said the latter.
“Come, my son,” added the Comte, gently passing his arm round Raoul’s neck to draw him into the carriage, and again embracing him. “Grimaud,” continued the Comte, “you will return quietly to Paris with your horse and M. de Vallon’s, for Raoul and I will mount here and give up the carriage to these two gentlemen to return to Paris in; and then, as soon as you arrive, you will take my clothes and letters and forward the whole to me at home.”
“But,” observed Raoul, who was anxious to make the Comte converse, “when you return to Paris, there will not be a single thing there for you—which will be very inconvenient.”
“I think it will be a very long time, Raoul, ere I return to Paris. The last sojourn we have made there has not been of a nature to encourage me to repeat it.”
Raoul hung his head and said not a word more. Athos descended from the carriage and mounted the horse which had brought Porthos, and which seemed no little pleased at the exchange. Then they embraced, clasped each other’s hands, interchanged a thousand pledges of eternal friendship. Porthos promised to spend a month with Athos at the first opportunity. D‘Artagnan engaged to take advantage of his first leave of absence; and then, having embraced Raoul for the last time: “To you, my boy,” said he, “I will write.” Coming from d’Artagnan, who he knew wrote but very seldom, these words expressed everything. Raoul was moved even to tears. He tore himself away from the musketeer and departed.
D’Artagnan rejoined Porthos in the carriage: “Well,” said he, “my dear friend, what a day we have had!”
“Indeed we have,” answered Porthos.
“You must be quite worn out?”
“Not quite; however, I shall retire early to rest, so as to be ready to-morrow.”
“And wherefore?”
“Why! to complete what I have begun.”
“You make me shudder, my friend, you seem to me quite angry. What the devil have you begun which is not finished?”
“Listen; Raoul has not fought, but I must fight!”
“With whom? with the King?”
“How!” exclaimed Porthos astounded, “with the King?”
“Yes, I say, you great baby, with the King!”
“I assure you it is with M. de Saint-Aignan.”
“Look now, this is what I mean: you draw your sword against the King in fighting with this gentleman.”
“Ah!” said Porthos, staring; “are you sure of it?”
“Indeed I am.”
“What in the world are we to do then?”
“We must try to make a good supper, Porthos. The captain of the musketeers keeps a tolerable table. There you will see the handsome Saint-Aignan, and will drink his health.”
“I!” cried Porthos, horrified.
“What!” said d’Artagnan, “you refuse to drink the King’s health?”
“But body alive! I am not talking to you about the King at all; I am speaking of M. de Saint-Aignan.”
“But since I repeat that it is the same thing.”
“Ah, well, well!” said Porthos, overcome.
“You understand, don’t you?”
“No,” answered Porthos, “but ’tis all the same.”
28
M. de Baisemeaux’s “Society”
&
nbsp; THE READER HAS NOT forgotten that, on quitting the Bastille, d’Artagnan and the Comte de la Fère had left Aramis in close confabulation with Baisemeaux. When once these two guests had departed, Baisemeaux did not in the least perceive that the conversation suffered by their absence. He used to think that wine after supper, and that of the Bastille in particular, was excellent; and that it was a stimulant quite sufficient to make an honest man talk. But he little knew his greatness, who was never more impenetrable than at dessert. His greatness, however, perfectly understood M. de Baisemeaux, when he reckoned on making the governor discourse on the means which the latter regarded as efficacious. The conversation, therefore, without flagging in appearance, flagged in reality; for Baisemeaux not only had it nearly all to himself, but further, kept speaking only of that singular event—the incarceration of Athos—followed by so prompt an order to set him again at liberty. Nor, moreover, had Baisemeaux failed to observe that the two orders, of arrest and of liberation, were both in the King’s hand. But then, the King would not take the trouble to write similar orders except under pressing circumstances. All this was very interesting, and, above all, very puzzling to Baisemeaux; but as, on the other hand, all this was very clear to Aramis, the latter did not attach to the occurrence the same importance as did the worthy governor. Besides, Aramis rarely put himself out of the way for anything, and he had not yet told M. de Baisemeaux for what reason he had now done so. And so at the very climax of Baisemeaux’s dissertation, Aramis suddenly interrupted him.
“Tell me, my dear M. Baisemeaux,” said he, “have you never any other diversions at the Bastille than those at which I assisted during the two or three visits I have had the honour to pay you?”
This address was so unexpected that the governor, like a vane which suddenly receives an impulsion opposed to that of the wind, was quite dumbfounded at it. “Diversions,” said he, “but I take them continually, monseigneur.”
“Oh, to be sure! And these diversions?”
“Are of every kind.”
“Visits, no doubt?”
“No, not visits. Visits are not frequent at the Bastille.”
“What, are visits rare, then?”
“Very much so.”
“Even on the part of your society?”
“What do you term by my society—the prisoners?”
“Oh, no!—your prisoners, indeed! I know well it is you who visit them, and not they you. By your society I mean, my dear de Baisemeaux, the society of which you are a member.”
Baisemeaux looked fixedly at Aramis, and then, as if the idea which had flashed across his mind were impossible, “Oh!” he said, “I have very little society at present. If I must own it to you, dear M. d’Herblay, the fact is, to stay at the Bastille appears, for the most part, distressing and distasteful to persons of the gay world. As for the ladies, it is never without a dread, which costs me infinite trouble to allay, that they succeed in reaching my quarters. And, indeed, how should they avoid trembling a little, poor things, when they see those gloomy dungeons, and reflect that they are inhabited by prisoners who—” And in proportion as the eyes of Baisemeaux concentrated their gaze on the face of Aramis, the worthy governor’s tongue faltered more and more, until it ended by stopping altogether.
“No, you don’t understand me, my dear M. Baisemeaux; you don’t understand me. I do not at all mean to speak of society in general, but of a particular society—of the society, in a word,—to which you are affiliated.”
Baisemeaux nearly dropped the glass of muscat which he was in the act of raising to his lips. “Affiliated!” cried he, “affiliated!”
“Yes, affiliated, undoubtedly,” repeated Aramis, with the greatest self-possession. “Are you not a member of a secret society, my dear M. Baisemeaux?”
“Secret?”
“Secret or mysterious.”
“Oh, Monsieur d’Herblay!”
“Consider now, don’t deny it.”
“But believe me.”
“I believe what I know.”
“I swear to you.”
“Listen to me, my dear M. Baisemeaux; I say yes, you say no; one of us two necessarily says what is true, and the other, it inevitably follows, what is false.”
“Well, and then?”
“Well, we shall come to an understanding presently.”
“Let us see,” said Baisemeaux; “let us see.”
“Now drink your glass of muscat, dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis. “What the devil! you look quite scared.”
“No, no; not the least in the world; no.”
“Drink then.” Baisemeaux drank, but he swallowed the wrong way.
“Well,” resumed Aramis, “if I say you are not a member of a secret or mysterious society, which you like to call it, the epithet is of no consequence; if I say you are not a member of a society similar to that I wish to designate, well, then, you will not understand a word of what I am going to say, that is all.”
“Oh! be sure, beforehand, that I shall not understand anything.”
“Well, well!”
“Try now, let us see.”
“That is what I am going to do.”
“If, on the contrary, you are one of the members of this society, you will immediately answer me,—yes, or no.”
“Begin your questions,” continued Baisemeaux, trembling.
“You will agree, dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux,” continued Aramis, with the same impassibility, “that it is evident a man cannot be a member of a society, it is evident that he cannot enjoy the advantages it offers to the affiliated, without being himself bound to certain little services.”
“In short,” stammered Baisemeaux, “that would be intelligible, if—”
“Well,” resumed Aramis, “there is in the society of which I speak, and of which, as it seems, you are not a member.”
“Allow me,” said Baisemeaux, “I should not like to say absolutely.”
“There is an engagement entered into by all the governors and captains of fortresses affiliated with the order.” Baisemeaux grew pale.
“Now the engagement,” continued Aramis firmly, “is of this nature.”
Baisemeaux rose, manifesting unspeakable emotion; “Go on, dear M. d’Herblay; go on,” said he.
Aramis then spoke, or rather recited the following paragraph in the same tone as if he had been reading it from a book. “The aforesaid captain or governor of a fortress shall allow to enter, when need shall arise, and on demand of the prisoner, a confessor affiliated to the order.” He stopped. Baisemeaux was quite distressing to look at, being so wretchedly pale and trembling. “Is not that the text of the agreement?” quietly asked Aramis.
“Monseigneur!” began Baisemeaux.
“Ah! well you begin to understand, I think.”
“Monseigneur,” cried Baisemeaux, “do not trifle with my unhappy mind! I find myself nothing in your hands, if you have the malignant desire to draw from me the little secrets of my administration.”
“Oh! by no means; pray undeceive yourself, dear M. Baisemeaux; it is not the little secrets of your administration, but those of your conscience that I aim at.”
“Well, then, my conscience be it, dear M. d’Herblay. But have some consideration for the situation I am in, which is no ordinary one.”
“It is no ordinary one, my dear monsieur,” continued the inflexible Aramis, “if you are a member of this society; but it is quite a natural one if free from all engagements. You are answerable only to the King.”
“Well, monsieur, well! I obey only the King, and whom else would you have a French nobleman obey?”
Aramis did not yield an inch; but with that silvery voice of his, continued, “It is very pleasant,” said he, “for a French nobleman, for a prelate of France, to hear a man of your mark express himself so loyally, dear de Baisemeaux, and having heard you to believe no more than you do.”
“Have you doubted, monsieur?”
“I? oh, no!”
“And so y
ou doubt no longer?”
“I have no longer any doubt that such a man as you, monsieur,” said Aramis, gravely, “does not faithfully serve the masters whom he voluntarily chose for himself.”
“Masters!” cried Baisemeaux.
“Yes, masters I said.”
“Monsieur d’Herblay, you are still jesting, are you not?”
“Oh, yes! I understand that it is a more difficult position to have several masters than one; but the embarrassment is owing to you, my dear Baisemeaux, and I am not the cause of it.”
“Certainly not,” returned the unfortunate governor, more embarrassed than ever; “but what are you doing? You are leaving the table?”
“Assuredly.”
“Are you going?”
“Yes, I am going.”
“But you are behaving very strangely towards me, monseigneur.”
“I am behaving strangely,—how do you make that out?”
“Have you sworn, then, to put me to the torture?”
“No, I should be sorry to do so.”
“Remain then.”
“I cannot.”
“And why?”
“Because I have no longer anything to do here; and, indeed, I have duties to fulfil elsewhere.”
“Duties, so late as this?”
“Yes; understand me now, my dear de Baisemeaux; they told me at the place whence I came, ‘The aforesaid governor or captain will allow to enter, as need shall arise, on the prisoner’s demand, a confessor affiliated with the order.’ I came; you do not know what I mean, and so I shall return to tell them that they are mistaken, and that they must send me elsewhere.”
“What! you are—” cried Baisemeaux, looking at Aramis almost in terror.
“The confessor affiliated with the order,” said Aramis, without changing his voice.
But, gentle as the words were, they had the same effect on the unhappy governor as a clap of thunder. Baisemeaux became livid, and it seemed to him as if Aramis’s beaming eyes were two forks of flame, piercing to the very bottom of his soul. “The confessor!” murmured he; “you, monseigneur, the confessor to the order!”
Man in the Iron Mask (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 25