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

by Alexandre Dumas

  “It is the prisoner,” said the Surintendant to him, “whom M. d’Herblay carried away the day before yesterday?”

  “Yes, monseigneur.”

  “And whom he brought back this morning?” added Fouquet, quickly: for he understood immediately the mechanism of Aramis’s plan.

  “Precisely, monseigneur.”

  “And his name is Marchiali, you say?”

  “Yes, Marchiali. If monseigneur has come here to remove him, so much the better, for I was going to write about him.”

  “What has he done, then?”

  “Ever since this morning he had annoyed me extremely. He has had such terrible fits of passion, as almost to make me believe that he would bring the Bastille itself down about our ears.”

  “I will soon relieve you of his presence,” said Fouquet.

  “Ah! so much the better.”

  “Conduct me to his prison.”

  “Will monseigneur give me the order?”

  “What order?”

  “An order from the King.”

  “Wait until I sign you one.”

  “That will not be sufficient, monseigneur. I must have an order from the King.”

  Fouquet assumed an irritated expression. “As you are so scrupulous,” he said, “with regard to allowing prisoners to leave, show me the order by which this one was set at liberty.”

  Baisemeaux showed him the order to release Seldon.

  “Very good,” said Fouquet; “but Seldon is not Marchiali.”

  “But Marchiali is not at liberty, monseigneur; he is here.”

  “But you said that M. d’Herblay carried him away and brought him back again.”

  “I did not say so.”

  “So surely did you say it, that I almost seem to hear it now.”

  “It was a slip of my tongue, then, monseigneur.”

  “Take care, Monsieur Baisemeaux, take care.”

  “I have nothing to fear, monseigneur; I am acting according to strict regulation.”

  “Do you dare to say so?”

  “I would say so in the presence of an apostle himself. M. d’Herblay brought me an order to set Seldon at liberty; and Seldon is free.”

  “I tell you that Marchiali has left the Bastille.”

  “You must prove that, monseigneur.”

  “Let me see him.”

  “You, monseigneur, who govern this kingdom, know very well that no one can see any of the prisoners without an express order from the King.”

  “M. d’Herblay has entered, however.”

  “That is to be proved, monseigneur.”

  “Monsieur de Baisemeaux, once more I warn you to pay particular attention to what you are saying.”

  “All the documents are there, monseigneur.”

  “M. d’Herblay is overthrown.”

  “Overthrown?—M. d’Herblay! Impossible!”

  “You see that he has undoubtedly influenced you.”

  “No, monseigneur; what does, in fact, influence me, is the King’s service. I am doing my duty. Give me an order from him, and you shall enter.”

  “Stay, monsieur, I give you my word that if you allow me to see the prisoner, I will give you an order from the King at once.

  “Give me it now, monseigneur.”

  “And that, if you refuse me, I will have you and all your officers arrested on the spot.”

  “Before you commit such an act of violence, monseigneur, you will reflect,” said Baisemeaux, who had turned very pale, “that we will only obey an order signed by the King; and that it will be just as easy for you to obtain one to see Marchiali as to obtain one to do me so much injury; me, too, who am perfectly innocent.”

  “True, true!” cried Fouquet furiously; “perfectly true, M. de Baisemeaux,” he added, in a sonorous voice, drawing the unhappy governor towards him, “do you know why I am so anxious to speak to the prisoner?”

  “No, monseigneur; and allow me to observe that you are terrifying me out of my senses; I am trembling all over, and feel as if I were going to faint.”

  “You will stand a better chance of fainting outright, Monsieur Baisemeaux, when I return here at the head of ten thousand men and thirty pieces of cannon.”

  “Good Heavens, monseigneur, you are losing your senses.”

  “When I have raised the whole population of Paris against you and your cursed towers, and have battered open the gates of this place, and hanged you up to the bars of that tower in the corner there.”

  “Monseigneur! monseigneur! for pity’s sake.”

  “I give you ten minutes to make up your mind,” added Fouquet, in a calm voice. “I will sit down here, in this arm-chair, and wait for you; if, in ten minutes’ time you still persist, I leave this place, and you may think me as mad as you like, but you will see.”

  Baisemeaux stamped his foot on the ground like a man in a state of despair, but he did not reply a single syllable; whereupon Fouquet seized a pen and ink, and wrote:—

  “Order for M. le Prévot des Marchands to assemble the municipal guard and to march upon the Bastille for the King’s service. ”

  Baisemeaux shrugged his shoulders. Fouquet wrote:—

  “Order for the Duc de Bouillon and M. le Prince de Condé to assume command of the Swiss guards, of the King’s guards, and to march upon the Bastille for the King’s service.”

  Baisemeaux reflected. Fouquet still wrote:—

  “Order for every soldier, citizen, or gentleman to seize and apprehend, wherever he may be found, the Chevalier d’Herblay, Bishop of Vannes, and his accomplices, who are: lst, M. de Baisemeaux, governor of the Bastille, suspected of the crimes of high treason and rebellion—”

  “Stop, monseigneur!” cried Baisemeaux; “I do not understand a single thing of the whole matter; but so many misfortunes, even were it madness itself that had set them at work, might happen here in a couple of hours, that the King, by whom I shall be judged, will see whether I have been wrong in withdrawing the countersign before so many imminent catastrophes. Come with me to the keep, monseigneur, you shall see Marchiali.”

  Fouquet darted out of the room, followed by Baisemeaux as he wiped the perspiration from his face. “What a terrible morning!” he said; “what a disgrace!”

  “Walk faster,” replied Fouquet.

  Baisemeaux made a sign to the jailer to precede them. He was afraid of his companion, which the latter could not fail to perceive.

  “A truce to this child’s play,” he said roughly. “Let the man remain here, take the keys yourself, and show me the way. Not a single person, do you understand, must hear what is going to take place here.”

  “Ah!” said Baisemeaux, undecided.

  “Again,” cried Fouquet. “Ah! say ‘no’ at once, and I will leave the Bastille and will myself carry my own despatches.”

  Baisemeaux bowed his head, took the keys, and unaccompanied, except by the minister, ascended the staircase. The higher they advanced up the spiral staircase, certain smothered murmurs became distinct cries and fearful imprecations. “What is that?” asked Fouquet.

  “That is your Marchiali,” said the governor; “that is the way these madmen call out.”

  And he accompanied that reply with a glance more indicative of injurious allusions, as far as Fouquet was concerned, than of politeness. The latter trembled; he had just recognised in one cry more terrible than any that had preceded it, the King’s voice. He paused on the staircase, snatching the bunch of keys from Baisemeaux, who thought this new madman was going to dash out his brains with one of them. “Ah!” he cried, “M. d’Herblay did not say a word about that.”

  “Give me the keys at once!” cried Fouquet, tearing them from his hand. “Which is the key of the door I am to open?”

  “That one.”

  A fearful cry, followed by a violent blow against the door, made the whole staircase resound with the echo. “Leave this place,” said Fouquet to Baisemeaux, in a threatening voice.

  “I ask nothing better,” murmured the l
atter, “there will be a couple of madmen face to face, and the one will kill the other, I am sure.”

  “Go!” repeated Fouquet. “If you place your foot in this staircase before I call you, remember that you shall take the place of the meanest prisoner in the Bastille.”

  “This job will kill me, I am sure it will,” muttered Baisemeaux, as he withdrew with tottering steps.

  The prisoner’s cries became more and more terrible. When Fouquet had satisfied himself that Baisemeaux had reached the bottom of the staircase, he inserted the key in the first lock. It was then that he heard the hoarse, choking voice of the King, crying out, in a frenzy of rage, “Help, help! I am the King.” The key of the second door was not the same as the first, and Fouquet was obliged to look for it on the bunch. The King, however, furious, and almost mad with rage and passion, shouted at the top of his voice, “It was M. Fouquet who brought me here. Help me against M. Fouquet! I am the King! Help the King against M. Fouquet!”

  These cries tore the minister’s heart with mingled emotions. They were followed by a shower of terrible blows levelled against the door with a part of the broken chair with which the King had armed himself. Fouquet at last succeeded in finding the key. The King was almost exhausted; he could hardly articulate distinctly as he shouted, “Death to Fouquet! death to the traitor Fouquet!” The door flew open.

  51

  The King’s Gratitude

  THE TWO MEN WERE on the point of darting towards each other when they suddenly and abruptly stopped, as a mutual recognition took place, and each uttered a cry of horror.

  “Have you come to assassinate me, monsieur?” said the King, when he recognised Fouquet.

  “The King in this state!” murmured the minister.

  Nothing could be more terrible indeed than the appearance of the young Prince at the moment Fouquet had surprised him; his clothes were in tatters; his shirt, open and torn to rags, was stained with sweat, and with the blood which streamed from his lacerated breast and arms. Haggard, ghastly pale, his hair in dishevelled masses, Louis XIV presented the most perfect picture of despair, hunger, and fear combined, that could possibly be united in one figure. Fouquet was so touched, so affected and disturbed by it, that he ran towards him with his arms stretched out and his eyes filled with tears. Louis held up the massive piece of wood of which he had made such a furious use.

  “Sire,” said Fouquet, in a voice trembling with emotion, “do you not recognise the most faithful of your friends?”

  “A friend—you!” repeated Louis, gnashing his teeth in a manner which betrayed his hate and desire for speedy vengeance.

  “The most respectful of your servants,” added Fouquet, throwing himself on his knees. The King let the rude weapon fall from his grasp. Fouquet approached him, kissed his knees, and took him in his arms with inconceivable tenderness.

  “My King, my child,” he said, “how you must have suffered!”

  Louis recalled to himself by the change of situation, looked at himself, and ashamed of the disordered state of his apparel, ashamed of his conduct, and ashamed of the air of pity and protection that was shown towards him, drew back. Fouquet did not understand this movement; he did not perceive that the King’s feeling of pride would never forgive him for having been a witness of such an exhibition of weakness.

  “Come, sire,” he said, “you are free.”

  “Free?” repeated the King. “Oh! you set me at liberty, then, after having dared to lift up your hand against me.”

  “You do not believe that! exclaimed Fouquet indignantly; ”you cannot believe me to be guilty of such an act.”

  And rapidly, warmly even, he related the whole particulars of the intrigue, the details of which are already known to the reader. While the recital continued, Louis suffered the most horrible anguish of mind; and when it was finished, the magnitude of the danger he had run struck him far more than the importance of the secret relative to his twin brother.

  “Monsieur,” he said suddenly to Fouquet, “this double birth is a falsehood; it is impossible—you cannot have been the dupe of it.”

  “Sire!”

  “It is impossible, I tell you, that the honour, the virtue of my mother can be suspected. And my first minister has not yet done justice on the criminals?”

  “Reflect, sire, before you are hurried away by your anger,” replied Fouquet. “The birth of your brother—”

  “I have only one brother—and that is Monsieur. You know it as well as myself. There is a plot, I tell you, beginning with the governor of the Bastille.”

  “Be careful, sire, for this man has been deceived as every one else has by the Prince’s likeness to yourself.”

  “Likeness! Absurd!”

  “This Marchiali must be singularly like your Majesty to be able to deceive every one’s eye,” Fouquet persisted.

  “Ridiculous.”

  “Do not say so, sire; those who had prepared everything in order to face and deceive your ministers, your mother, your officers of state, the members of your family, must be quite confident of the resemblance between you.”

  “But where are these persons, then?” murmured the King.

  “At Vaux.”

  “At Vaux! and you suffer them to remain there!”

  “My most pressing duty seemed to be your Majesty’s release. I have accomplished that duty; and now, whatever your Majesty may command, shall be done. I await your orders.”

  Louis reflected for a few moments.

  “Muster all the troops in Paris,” he said.

  “All the necessary orders are given for that purpose,” replied Fouquet.

  “You have given orders!” exclaimed the King.

  “For that purpose, yes, sire; your Majesty will be at the head of ten thousand men in less than an hour.”

  The only reply the King made was to take hold of Fouquet’s hand with such an expression of feeling, that it was very easy to perceive how strongly he had, until that remark, maintained his suspicions of the minister, notwithstanding the latter’s intervention.

  “And with these troops,” he said, “we shall go at once and besiege in your house the rebels who by this time will have established and entrenched themselves there.”

  “I should be surprised if that were the case,” replied Fouquet.

  “Why?”

  “Because their chief—the very soul of the enterprise, having been unmasked by me, the whole plan seems to me to have miscarried.”

  “You have unmasked this false prince also?”

  “No, I have not seen him.”

  “Whom have you seen, then?”

  “The leader of the enterprise, not that unhappy young man; the latter is merely an instrument, destined through his whole life to wretchedness, I plainly perceive.”

  “Most certainly.”

  “It is M. l‘Abbé d’Herblay, Bishop of Vannes.”

  “Your friend.”

  “He was my friend, sire,” replied Fouquet nobly.

  “An unfortunate circumstance for you,” said the King, in a less generous tone of voice.

  “Such friendships, sire, had nothing dishonourable in them so long as I was ignorant of the crime.”

  “You should have foreseen it.”

  “If I am guilty, I place myself in your Majesty’s hands.”

  “Ah! Monsieur Fouquet, it was not that I meant,” returned the King, sorry to have shown the bitterness of his thoughts in such a manner. “Well! I assure you that notwithstanding the mask with which the villain covered his face, I had something like a vague suspicion that it might be he. But with this chief of the enterprise there was a man of prodigious strength, the one who menaced me with a force almost herculean; what is he?”

  “It must be his friend the Baron du Vallon, formerly one of the musketeers.”

  “The friend of d’Artagnan? the friend of the Comte de la Fère. Ah!” exclaimed the King, as he paused at the name of the latter, “we must not forget the connection that existed between the consp
irators and M. de Bragelonne.”

  “Sire, sire, do not go too far! M. de la Fère is the most honourable man in France. Be satisfied with those whom I deliver up to you.”

  “With those whom you deliver up to me, you say? Very good, for you will deliver up those who are guilty to me.”

  “What does your Majesty understand by that?” inquired Fouquet.

  “I understand,” replied the King, “that we shall soon arrive at Vaux with a large body of troops, that we will lay violent hands upon that nest of vipers, and that not a soul shall escape.

  “Your Majesty will put these men to death?” cried Fouquet.

  “To the very meanest of them.”

  “Oh! sire.”

  “Let us understand each other, Monsieur Fouquet,” said the King haughtily. “We no longer live in times when assassination was the only and the last resource which kings had in their power. No! Heaven be praised! I have Parliaments who sit and judge in my name, and I have scaffolds on which my supreme authority is carried out.”

  Fouquet turned pale. “I will take the liberty of observing to your Majesty, that any proceedings instituted respecting these matters would bring down the greatest scandal upon the dignity of the throne. The august name of Anne of Austria must never be allowed to pass the lips of the people accompanied by a smile.”

  “Justice must be done, however, monsieur.”

  “Good, sire; but the royal blood cannot be shed on a scaffold.”

  “The royal blood! you believe that!” cried the King, with fury in his voice, stamping his foot on the ground. “This double birth is an invention; and in that invention particularly, do I see M. d’Herblay’s crime. It is the crime I wish to punish rather than their violence, or their insult.”

  “And punish it with death, sire?”

  “With death; yes, monsieur.”

  “Sire,” said the Surintendant with firmness, as he raised his head proudly, “your Majesty will take the life, if you please, of your brother Philippe of France; that concerns you alone, and you will doubtless consult the Queen-Mother upon the subject. Whatever she may command will be perfectly correct. I do not wish to mix myself up in it, not even for the honour of your crown, but I have a favour to ask of you, and I beg to submit it to you.”