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

by Alexandre Dumas

  “Doubtless he will be; but be at ease, Porthos; he will do for me what he won’t do for another. Only you must allow yourself to be measured.”

  “Ah!” said Porthos, with a sigh, “’tis vexatious, but what would you have me do?”

  “Do? as the 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 well allow him to measure me.”

  31

  Who Messire Jean Percerin Was

  THE KING’S TAILOR, MESSIRE Jean Percerin, occupied a rather large house in the Rue St Honoré, near the Rue de l’ Arbre Sec. He was a man of great taste in elegant stuffs, embroideries, and velvet, 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, fancies 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 loved to wear, seeing that they were marvellously 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 inexpensive indeed for Queen Catherine, who ended by being pleased at the preservation of a Huguenot, on whom she had long looked with aversion. 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 upon 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 as good 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 skilfully ; and that at the very moment he felt his powers of invention declining. He left a son and 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 aforementioned 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 Italianise 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 Concini 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 his pistol at the Pont du Louvre.

  And this is the doublet, issuing from M. Percerin’s workshop, which the Parisians rejoiced in hacking into so many pieces with the human flesh it covered. Notwithstanding the favour 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,13 and stitched on to Buckingham’s mantle those famous pearls which were destined to be scattered about the pavement of the Louvre. A man becomes easily notable who has made the dresses of M. de Buckingham, M. de Cinq-Mars, Mademoiselle Ninon, M. de Beaufort, and 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 intuition. Great geniuses of every kind live upon unseen, intangible ideas; they act without themselves knowing why. The great Percerin (for, contrary to the rule in dynasties, it was, above all, the last of the Percerins who deserved the surname 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 the measure of M. Colbert. “That man,” he used often to say, “is beyond my art; my needle can never hit him off.” We need scarcely say that Percerin was M. Fouquet’s tailor, and that the Surintendant 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 former order.

  It is easy to see at once that a tailor of such standing, 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 great lord 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 to me I will 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.”

  “And then?”

  “The fellow refused to supply me.”

  “Oh, a misunderstanding, no doubt, which ’tis pressing to set right. Mouston must have made a mistake.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “He has confused the names.”

  “Possibly. That rascal Mouston never can remember names.”

  “I will take it all upon myself.”

  “Very good.”

  “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 1’Arbre Sec.”

  “’Tis true, but look.”

  “Well, I do look, and I see—”

  “What?”

  “Pardieu! that we are at the Halles!”

  “You do not, I suppose, want our horses to clamber up on top of the carriage in front of us?”

  “No.”

  “Nor the carriage in front of us to mount on 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, indee
d. What a number of people! And what are they all about?”

  “’Tis very simple. They are waiting their turn.”

  “Bah! Have the comedians of the hotel do Bourgogne shifted their quarters?”

  “No; their turn to obtain an entrance to M. Percerin’s house.”

  “And are we going to wait too?”

  “Oh, we shall show ourselves more ready and less proud than they.”

  “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 then,” said Porthos.

  They both 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 favoured, in confidence, that M. Percerin was engaged upon five dresses for the King, and that, owing to the urgency of the case, he was meditating in his office on the ornaments, colours, and cut of these five suits. Some, contented with this reason, went away again, happy to repeat it to others; but others, more tenacious, insisted on having the doors opened, and amongst these last three Blue Ribands, 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 journeymen 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 turn a sentence; and when wounded pride, or disappointed expectation, brought down upon them too cutting rebukes, he who was attacked made a dive and disappeared under the counter. The line of discontented lords formed a very remarkable picture. Our captain of musketeers, a man of sure and rapid observation, took it all in at a glance; but 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, which 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 recognising, 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 Molière?”

  “Hush, M. d’Artagnan!” replied the man softly, “you will make them recognise me.”

  “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 so?”

  “Alas! no; for I was occupied in looking at some excellent figures.”

  “Go on—go on, Monsieur Molière. I quite understand the interest you take in it—I will not disturb your study.”

  “Thank you.”

  “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?”

  “Unapproachable.”

  “For everybody?”

  “For 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 Molière, but you will go and tell him I am here.”

  “I!” exclaimed Molière, 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 won’t go directly and tell M. Percerin that I am here, my dear Molière,” 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.”

  Molière indicated Porthos by an imperceptible gesture, “This gentleman, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  Molière fixed upon Porthos one of those looks which penetrate the minds and hearts of men. The subject doubtless appeared very promising to him, for he immediately rose and led the way into the adjoining chamber.

  32

  The Patterns

  DURING ALL THIS TIME the crowd was slowly rolling away, leaving at every angle of the counter either a murmur or a menace, as the waves leave foam or scattered sea-weed on the sands, when they retire with the ebbing tide. In about ten minutes Molière 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 lustre. 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 civil manner.

  “The captain of the musketeers will excuse me, I am sure, for I am engaged.”

  “Eh! yes, on the King’s costumes; I know that, my dear Monsieur Percerin. You are making three, they tell me.”

  “Five, my dear monsieur, 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 world, they must first be made; and to do this, captain, I am pressed for time.”

  “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 favour 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 discontentedly.

  “Very likely,” said Percerin; “I am nearly always pushed for time.”

  “My friend,” returned Porthos sententiously, “there is always time when one chooses to find it.”

  Percerin turned crimson, a very ominous sign indeed in old men blanched by age. “Monsieur is very free to confer his custom elsewhere.”

  “Come, come, Percerin,” interposed d’Artagnan, “you are not in a good temper to-day. We
ll, 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 Surintendant?” he inquired.

  “I am attached to myself,” shouted Porthos, at the very moment that the tapestry was raised to introduce a new speaker in the dialogue. Molière 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 before eight days.”

  “That then is as much as to refuse, because the dress is wanted for the fête 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 dismiss them.”

  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, “Go and get measured on the other side,” said he rudely.

  Porthos coloured in a formidable manner. D’Artagnan saw the storm coming, and, addressing Molière, 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.”