“I am now face to face with my destiny,” said Philippe, with his eyes on fire, and his face lividly white. “Is it likely to be more terrifying then my captivity has been sad and gloomy? When I am compelled to follow out, at every moment, the sovereign power and authority I have usurped, shall I never cease to listen to the scruples of my heart? Yes! the King has lain on this bed; it is indeed his head that has left its impression on this pillow, his bitter tears which have stained this handkerchief; and yet, I hesitate to throw myself on the bed, or to press in my hand the handkerchief which is embroidered with my brother’s arms. Away with this weakness; let me imitate M. d‘Herblay, who asserts that a man’s action should always be one degree above his thought; let me imitate M. d’Herblay, whose thoughts are of and for himself alone, who regards himself as a man of honour, so long as he injures or betrays his enemies only. I, I alone, should have occupied this bed, if Louis XIV had not, owing to my mother’s criminal abandonment of me, stood in my way; and this handkerchief, embroidered with the arms of France, would, in right and justice, belong to me alone, if, as M. d’Herblay observes, I had been left in my place in the royal cradle. Philippe, son of France, take your place on that bed; Philippe, sole king of France, resume the blazonry which is yours! Philippe, sole heir presumptive to Louis XIII, your father, show yourself without pity or mercy for the usurper, who, at this moment, has not even to suffer the agony of the remorse of all that you have had to submit to.”
With these words, Philippe, notwithstanding an instinctive repugnance of feeling, and in spite of the shudder of terror which mastered his will, threw himself on the royal bed, and forced his muscles to press the still warm place where Louis XIV had lain, while he buried his burning face in the handkerchief still moistened by his brother’s tears. With his head thrown back and buried in the soft down of his pillow, Philippe perceived above him the crown of France, suspended, as we have stated, by angels with outspread golden wings.
A man may be ambitious of lying in a lion’s den, but can hardly hope to sleep there quietly. Philippe listened attentively to every sound; his heart panted and throbbed at the very suspicion of approaching terror and misfortune; but, confident in his own strength, which was confirmed by the force of an overpowering, resolute determination, he waited until some decisive circumstance should permit him to judge for himself. He hoped that some imminent danger would be revealed for him, like those phosphoric lights of the tempests which show the sailors the altitude of the waves against which they have to struggle. But nothing approached. Silence, the mortal enemy of restless hearts, the mortal enemy of ambitious minds, shrouded in the thickness of its gloom during the remainder of the night the future King of France, who lay there sheltered beneath his stolen crown. Towards the morning a shadow, rather than a body, glided into the royal chamber. Philippe expected his approach, and neither expressed nor exhibited any surprise.
“Well, M. d’Herblay?” he said.
“Well, sire, all is done.”
“How?”
“Exactly as we expected.”
“Did he resist?”
“Terribly! tears and entreaties.”
“And then?”
“A perfect stupor.”
“But at last?”
“Oh! at last, a complete victory, and absolute silence.”
“Did the governor of the Bastille suspect anything?”
“Nothing.”
“The resemblance, however——”
“That was the cause of the success.”
“But the prisoner cannot fail to explain himself. Think well of that; I have myself been able to do that on a former occasion.”
“I have already provided for everything. In a few days, sooner, if necessary, we will take the captive out of his prison and will send him out of the country, to a place of exile so remote—”
“People can return from their exile, Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“To a place of exile so distant, I was going to say, that human strength and the duration of human life would not be enough for his return.”
And once more a cold look of intelligence passed between Aramis and the young King.
“And M. du Vallon?” asked Philippe, in order to change the conversation.
“He will be presented to you to-day, and confidentially will congratulate you on the danger which that conspirator has made you run.”
“What is to be done with him?”
“With M. du Vallon?”
“Yes; confer a dukedom on him, I suppose.”
“A dukedom,” replied Aramis, smiling in a significant manner.
“Why do you laugh, Monsieur d’Herblay?”
“I laugh at the extreme caution of your idea.”
“Cautious! why so?”
“Your Majesty is doubtless afraid that poor Porthos may probably become a troublesome witness, and you wish to get rid of him.”
“What! in making him a duke?”
“Certainly; you would assuredly kill him, for he would die from joy, and the secret would die with him.”
“Good Heavens!”
“Yes,” said Aramis, phlegmatically; “I should lose a very good friend.”
At this moment, and in the middle of this idle conversation, under the light tone of which the two conspirators concealed their joy and pride at their mutual success, Aramis heard something which made him prick up his ears.
“What is that?” said Philippe.
“The dawn, sire.”
“Well?”
“Well, before you retired to bed last night, you probably decided to do something this morning at the break of day.”
“Yes, I told my captain of the musketeers,” replied the young man hurriedly, “that I should expect him?”
“If you told him that, he will certainly be here, for he is a most punctual man.”
“I hear a step in the vestibule.”
“It must be he.”
“Come, let us begin the attack,” said the young King, resolutely.
“Be cautious, for Heaven’s sake; to begin the attack, and with d‘Artagnan, would be madness. D’Artagnan knows nothing, he has seen nothing; he is a hundred miles from suspecting our mystery in the slightest degree; but if he comes into this room the first this morning, he will be sure to detect something which has taken place, and which he would think his business to occupy himself about. Before we allow d’Artagnan to penetrate into this room, we must air the room thoroughly, or introduce so many people into it, that the keenest scent in the whole kingdom may be deceived by the traces of twenty different persons.”
“But how can I send him away, since I have given him a rendezvous ?” observed the Prince, impatient to measure swords with so redoubtable an antagonist.
“I will take care of that,” replied the Bishop, “and in order to begin, I am going to strike a blow which will completely stupefy our man.”
“He too is striking a blow, for I hear him at the door,” added the Prince, hurriedly.
And in fact, a knock at the door was heard at that moment. Aramis was not mistaken; for it was indeed d’Artagnan who adopted that mode of announcing himself.
We have seen how he passed the night in philosophising with M. Fouquet, but the musketeer was very wearied, even of feigning to fall asleep, and as soon as the dawn illumined with its pale blue light the sumptuous cornices of the Surintendant’s room, d’Artagnan rose from his arm-chair, arranged his sword, brushed his coat and hat with his sleeve like a private soldier getting ready for inspection.
“Are you going out?” said Fouquet.
“Yes, monseigneur. And you?”
“No, I shall remain.”
“You give me your word?”
“Certainly.”
“Very good. Besides, my only reason for going out is to try to get that reply—you know what I mean?”
“That sentence, you mean—”
“Stay, I have something of the old Roman in me. This morning when I got up, I remarked that my s
word got entangled with my lace, and that my shoulder-belt had slipped quite off. That is an infallible sign.”
“Of prosperity?”
“Yes, be sure of it; for every time that that confounded belt of mine sticks fast to my back, it always signified a punishment from M. de Tréville, or a refusal of money by M. de Mazarin. Every time my sword hung fast to my shoulder-belt, it always predicted some disagreeable commission or another for me to execute, and I have had showers of them all my life through. Every time, too, my sword danced about in his sheath, a duel, fortunate in its result, was sure to follow; whenever it dangled about the calves of my legs, it was a slight wound; every time it fell completely out of the scabbard, I was booked, and made up my mind that I should have to remain in the field of battle, with two or three months under the surgeon’s care into the bargain.”
“I never knew your sword kept you so well informed,” said Fouquet, with a faint smile, which showed how he was struggling against his own weaknesses. “Is your sword bewitched, or under the influence of some charm?”
“Why, you must know that my sword may almost be regarded as part of my own body. I have heard that certain men seem to have warnings given them by feeling something the matter with their legs, or by a throbbing of their temples. With me, it is my sword that warns me. Well, it told me of nothing this morning. But, stay a moment; look here, it has just fallen of its own accord into the last hole of the belt. Do you know what that is a warning of?”
“No.”
“Well, that tells me of an arrest that will have to be made this very day.”
“Well,” said the Surintendant, more astonished than annoyed by his frankness, “if there is nothing disagreeable predicted to you by your sword, I am to conclude that it is not disagreeable for you to arrest me.”
“You! arrest you!”
“Of course. The warning—”
“Does not concern you, since you have been arrested ever since yesterday. It is not you I shall have to arrest, be assured of that. That is the reason why I am delighted, and also the reason why I said that my day will be a happy one.”
And with these words, pronounced with the most affectionate graciousness of manner, the captain took leave of Fouquet in order to wait upon the King. He was on the point of leaving the room, when Fouquet said to him, “One last mark of your kindness.”
“What is it, monseigneur?”
“M. d‘Herblay; let me see Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“I am going to try to get him to come to you.”
D’Artagnan did not think himself so good a prophet. It was written that the day would pass away and realise all the predictions that had been made in the morning. He had accordingly knocked, as we have seen, at the King’s door. The door opened. The captain thought that it was the King who had just opened it himself; and this supposition was not altogether inadmissible, considering the state of agitation in which he had left Louis XIV the previous evening; but instead of his royal master, whom he was on the point of saluting with the greatest respect, he perceived the long, calm features of Aramis. So extreme was his surprise, that he could hardly refrain from uttering a loud exclamation. “Aramis! he said.
“Good morning, dear d’Artagnan,” replied the prelate coldly.
“You here,” stammered the musketeer.
“His Majesty desires you to report that he is still sleeping, after having been greatly fatigued during the whole night.”
“Ah!” said d‘Artagnan, who could not understand how the Bishop of Vannes, who had been so indifferent a favourite the previous evening, had become in half a dozen hours the largest mushroom of fortune which had ever sprung up in a sovereign’s bedroom. In fact, to transmit the orders of the King even to the mere threshold of that monarch’s room, to serve as an intermediary of Louis XIV, so as to be able to give a single order in his name at a couple of paces from him, he must be greater than Richelieu had ever been to Louis XIII. D’Artagnan’s expressive eye, his half-opened lips, his curling moustache, said as much indeed, in the plainest language to the chief favourite who remained calm and perfectly unmoved.
“Moreover,” continued the Bishop, “you will be good enough, captain, to allow those only to pass into the King’s room this morning who have special permission. His Majesty does not wish to be disturbed just yet.”
“But,” objected d’Artagnan, almost on the point of refusing to obey this order, and particularly of giving unrestrained passage to the suspicions which the King’s silence had aroused—“but, my Lord Bishop, His Majesty gave me a rendezvous for this morning.”
“Later, later,” said the King’s voice, from the bottom of the alcove; a voice which made a cold shudder pass through the musketeer’s veins. He bowed, amazed, confused, and stupefied by the smile which with Aramis seemed to overwhelm him, as soon as those words had been pronounced.
“And then,” continued the Bishop, “as an answer to what you were coming to ask the King, my dear d’Artagnan, here is an order of His Majesty, which you will be good enough to attend to forthwith, for it concerns M. Fouquet.”
D’Artagnan took the order which was held out to him.
“To be set at liberty!” he murmured. “Ah!” and he uttered a second “ah!” still more full of intelligence than the former; for this order explained Aramis’s presence with the King, and that Aramis, in order to have obtained Fouquet’s pardon, must have made considerable progress in the royal favour, and that this favour explained, in its tenor, the hardly conceivable assurance with which M. d‘Herblay issued the orders in the King’s name. For d’Artagnan it was quite sufficient to have understood something in order to understand everything. He bowed and withdrew a couple of steps, as if he were about to leave.
“I am going with you,” said the Bishop.
“Where to?”
“To M. Fouquet; I wish to be a witness of his delight.”
“Ah! Aramis, how you puzzled me just now!” said d’Artagnan again.
“And you understand now, I suppose?”
“Of course I understand,” he said aloud; but then added in a low tone to himself, almost hissing the words through his teeth, “No, no, I do not understand yet. But it is all the same, for here is the order for it.” And then he added, “I will lead the way, monseigneur,” and he conducted Aramis to Fouquet’s apartments.
49
The King’s Friend
FOUQUET WAS WAITING WITH anxiety; he had already sent away many of his servants and his friends, who, anticipating the usual hour of his ordinary receptions, had called at his door to inquire after him. Preserving the utmost silence respecting the danger which hung suspended over his head, he only asked them, as he did every one indeed who came to the door, where Aramis was. When he saw d‘Artagnan return, and when he perceived the Bishop of Vannes behind him, he could hardly restrain his delight; it was fully equal to his previous uneasiness. The mere sight of Aramis was a complete compensation to the Surintendant for the unhappiness he had undergone in being arrested. The prelate was silent and grave; d’Artagnan completely bewildered by such an accumulation of events.
“Well, captain; so you have brought M. d’Herblay to me.”
“And something better still, monseigneur.”
“What is that?”
“Liberty.”
“I am free!”
“Yes; by the King’s order.”
Fouquet resumed his usual serenity, that he might interrogate Aramis with his look.
“Oh! yes, you can thank the Bishop of Vannes,” pursued d’Artagnan, “for it is indeed to him that you owe the change that has taken place in the King.”
“Oh!” said Fouquet, more humiliated at the service than grateful at its success.
“But you,” continued d’Artagnan, addressing Aramis, “you who have become M. Fouquet’s protector and patron, can you not do something for me?”
“Anything you like, my friend,” replied the Bishop, in a calm voice.
“One thing only, then, and I
shall be perfectly satisfied. How have you managed to become the favourite of the King, you who have never spoken to him more than twice in your life?”
“From a friend such as you are,” said Aramis, “I cannot conceal anything.”
“Ah! very good; tell me, then.”
“Very well. You think that I have seen the King only twice, while the fact is I have seen him more than a hundred times; only we have kept it very secret, that is all.” And without trying to remove the colour which at this revelation made d’Artagnan’s face flush scarlet, Aramis turned towards M. Fouquet, who was as much surprised as the musketeer. “Monseigneur,” he resumed, “the King desires me to inform you that he is more than ever your friend and that your beautiful fête, so generously offered by you on his behalf, has touched him to the very heart.”
And thereupon he saluted M. Fouquet with so much reverence of manner, that the latter, incapable of understanding a man whose diplomacy was of so prodigious a character, remained incapable of uttering a single syllable, and equally incapable of thought or movement. D’Artagnan fancied he perceived that these two men had something to say to each other, and he was about to yield to that feeling of instinctive politeness which in such a case hurries a man towards the door, when he feels his presence is an inconvenience for others; but his eager curiosity, spurred on by so many mysteries, counselled him to remain.
Man in the Iron Mask (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 45