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

by Alexandre Dumas

  “Speak,” said the King, in no little degree agitated by his minister’s last words. “What do you require?”

  “The pardon of M. d’Herblay and M. du Vallon.”

  “My assassins?”

  “Two rebels, sire, that is all.”

  “Oh! I understand, then, you ask me to forgive your friends.”

  “My friends!” said Fouquet, deeply wounded.

  “Your friends, certainly; but the safety of the State requires that an exemplary punishment should be inflicted on the guilty.”

  “I will not permit myself to remind your Majesty that I have just restored you to liberty, and have saved your life.”

  “Monsieur! ”

  “I will not allow myself to remind your Majesty that had M. d’Herblay wished to carry out his character of assassin, he could very easily have assassinated your Majesty this morning in the forest of Sénart, and all would have been over.”

  The King started.

  “A pistol bullet through the head,” pursued Fouquet, “and the disfigured features of Louis XIV, which no one could have recognised, would be M. d’Herblay’s complete and entire justification.”

  The King turned pale and giddy at the idea of the danger he had escaped.

  “If M. d‘Herblay,” continued Fouquet, “had been an assassin, he had no occasion to inform me of his plan, in order to succeed. Freed from the real king, it would have been impossible to guess the false king. And if the usurper had been recognised by Anne of Austria, he would have still been a son for her. The usurper, as far as Monsieur d’Herblay’s conscience was concerned, was still a king of the blood of Louis XIII. Moreover, the conspirator, in that course, would have had security, secrecy, and impunity. A pistol-bullet would have procured him all that. For the sake of Heaven, sire, grant me his forgiveness.”

  The King, instead of being touched by the picture he had drawn, so faithful in all its details, of Aramis’s generosity, felt himself most painfully and cruelly humiliated by it. His unconquerable pride revolted at the idea that a man had held suspended at the end of his finger the thread of his royal life. Every word that fell from Fouquet’s lips, and which he thought most efficacious in procuring his friend’s pardon, seemed to pour another drop of poison into the already ulcerated heart of Louis XIV. Nothing could bend or soften him. Addressing himself to Fouquet, he said, “I really don’t know, monsieur, why you should solicit the pardon of these men. What good is there in asking that which can be obtained without solicitation.”

  “I do not understand you, sire.”

  “It is not difficult, either. Where am I now?”

  “In the Bastille, sire.”

  “Yes; in a dungeon. I am looked upon as a madman, am I not?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “And no one is known here but Marchiali?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well; change nothing in the position of affairs. Let the madman rot in the dungeon of the Bastille, and M. d’Herblay and M. du Vallon will stand in no need of my forgiveness. Their new king will absolve them.”

  “Your Majesty does me a great injustice, sire; and you are wrong,” replied Fouquet dryly; “I am not child enough, nor is M. d’Herblay silly enough to have omitted to make all these reflections; and if I had wished to make a new king, as you say, I had no occasion to have come here to force open all the gates and doors of the Bastille, to free you from this place. That would show a want of common sense even. Your Majesty’s mind is disturbed by anger; otherwise you would be far from offending, groundlessly, the very one of your servants who has rendered you the most important service of all.”

  Louis perceived that he had gone too far, that the gates of the Bastille were still closed upon him; whilst, by degrees, the floodgates were gradually being opened behind which the generous-hearted Fouquet had restrained his anger. “I did not say that to humiliate you, Heaven knows, monsieur,” he replied. “Only you are addressing yourself to me, in order to obtain a pardon, and I answer you according as my conscience dictates. And so, judging by my conscience, the criminals we speak of are not worthy of consideration or forgiveness.”

  Fouquet was silent.

  “What I do is as generous,” added the King, “as what you have done, for I am in your power. I will even say, it is more generous, inasmuch as you place before me certain conditions, upon which my liberty, my life, may depend; and to reject which is to make a sacrifice of them both.”

  “I was wrong, certainly,” replied Fouquet. “Yes—I had the appearance of extorting a favour; I regret it, and entreat your Majesty’s forgiveness.”

  “And you are forgiven, my dear Monsieur Fouquet,” said the King, with a smile, which restored the serene expression of his features which so many circumstances had altered since the preceding evening.

  “I have my own forgiveness,” replied the minister, with some degree of persistence; “but M. d’Herblay, and M. du Vallon?”

  “They will never obtain theirs as long as I live,” replied the inflexible King. “Do me the kindness not to speak of it again.”

  “Your Majesty shall be obeyed.”

  “And you will bear me no ill will for it?”

  “Oh! no, sire; for I anticipated it as being most likely.”

  “You had ‘anticipated’ that I should refuse to forgive those gentlemen?”

  “Certainly; and all my measures were taken in consequence.

  “What do you mean to say?” cried the King, surprised.

  “M. d‘Herblay came, as may be said, to deliver himself into my hands. M. d’Herblay left to me the happiness of saving my King and my country. I could not condemn M. d’Herblay to death; nor could I, on the other hand, expose him to your Majesty’s most justifiable wrath; it would have been just the same as if I had killed him myself.”

  “Well; and what have you done?”

  “Sire, I gave M. d’Herblay the best horses in my stables, and four hours’ start over all those your Majesty might, probably, despatch after him.”

  “Be it so!” murmured the King. “But still, the world is wide enough and large enough for those whom I may send to overtake your horses, notwithstanding the ‘four hours’ start’ which you have given to M. d’Herblay.”

  “In giving him those four hours, sire, I knew I was giving him his life, and he will save his life.”

  “In what way?” “After having galloped as hard as possible, with the four hours’ start, before your musketeers, he will reach my chateau of Belle-Isle, where I have given him a safe asylum.”

  “That may be! But you forget that you have made me a present of Belle-Isle.”

  “But not for you to arrest my friends.”

  “You take it back again, then?”

  “As far as that goes—yes, sire.”

  “My musketeers will capture it, and the affair will be at end.”

  “Neither your musketeers, nor your whole army could take Belle-Isle,” said Fouquet coldly. “Belle-Isle is impregnable.”

  The King became perfectly livid; a lightning flash seemed to dart from his eyes. Fouquet felt that he was lost, but he was not one to shrink when the voice of honour spoke loudly within him. He bore the King’s wrathful gaze; the latter swallowed his rage, and after a few moments’ silence, said, “Are you going to return to Vaux?”

  “I am at your Majesty’s orders,” replied Fouquet, with a low bow; “but I think that your Majesty can hardly dispense with changing your clothes previous to appearing before your court.”

  “We shall pass by the Louvre,” said the King. “Come.” And they left the prison, passing before Baisemeaux, who looked completely bewildered as he saw Marchiali once more leave; and, in his helplessness, tore out the few remaining hairs he had left. It was perfectly true, however, that Fouquet wrote and gave him an authority for the prisoner’s release, and that the King wrote beneath it, “Seen and approved, Louis”; a piece of madness that Baisemeaux, incapable of putting two ideas together, acknowledged by giving himself a ter
rible blow with his fist on his jaws.

  52

  The False King

  IN THE MEANTIME, USURPED royalty was playing out its part bravely at Vaux. Philippe gave orders for a full reception at his petit lever. He determined to give this order notwithstanding the absence of M. d’Herblay, who did not return, and our readers know for what reason. But the Prince, not believing that absence could be prolonged, wished, as all rash spirits do, to try his valour and his fortune when far from all protection and all counsel. Another reason urged him to do this: Anne of Austria was about to appear; the guilty mother was about to stand in the presence of her sacrificed son. Philippe was not willing, if he had a weakness, to render the man a witness of it, before whom he was bound thenceforth to display so much strength. Philippe opened his folding doors, and several persons entered silently. Philippe did not stir whilst his valets-de-chambre dressed him. He had watched, the evening before, all the habits of his brother, and played the king in such a manner as to awaken no suspicion. He was then completely dressed in his hunting costume, when he received his visitors. His own memory and the notes of Aramis announced everybody to him, first of all Anne of Austria, to whom Monsieur gave his hand, and then Madame with M. de Saint-Aignan. He smiled at seeing these countenances, but trembled on recognising his mother. That figure so noble, so imposing, ravaged by pain, pleaded in his heart the cause of that famous Queen who had immolated a child to reasons of State. He found his mother still handsome. He knew that Louis XIV loved her, and he promised himself to love her likewise, and not to prove a cruel chastisement for her old age. He contemplated his brother with a tenderness easily to be understood.ag The latter had usurped nothing over him, had cast no shade over his life. A separate branch, he allowed the stem to rise without heeding its elevation or the majesty of its life. Philippe promised himself to be a kind brother to this Prince, who required nothing but gold to minister to his pleasures. He bowed with a friendly air to Saint-Aignan, who was all reverences and smiles, and tremblingly held out his hand to Henrietta, his sister-in-law, whose beauty struck him; but he saw in the eyes of that Princess an expression of coldness which would facilitate, as he thought, their future relations.

  “How much more easy,” thought he, “it will be to be the brother of that woman than her gallant, if she evinces towards me a coldness that my brother could not have for her, and which is imposed upon me as a duty.” The only visit he dreaded at this moment was that of the Queen; his heart—his mind—had just been shaken by so violent a trial, that, in spite of their firm temperament, they would not, perhaps, support another shock. Happily the Queen did not come. Then commenced, on the part of Anne of Austria, a political dissertation upon the welcome M. Fouquet had given to the house of France. She mixed up hostilities with compliments addressed to the King and questions as to his health, with little maternal flatteries and diplomatic artifices.

  “Well, my son,” said she, “are you convinced with regard to M. Fouquet?”

  “Saint-Aignan,” said Philippe, “have the goodness to go and inquire after the Queen.”

  At these words, the first Philippe had pronounced aloud, the slight difference that there was between his voice and that of the King was sensible to maternal ears, and Anne of Austria looked earnestly at her son. Saint-Aignan left the room, and Philippe continued.

  “Madame, I do not like to hear M. Fouquet ill-spoken of, you know I do not—and you have even spoken well of him yourself.”

  “That is true; therefore I only question you on the state of your sentiments with respect to him.”

  “Sire,” said Henrietta, “I, on my part, have always liked M. Fouquet. He is a man of good taste—he is a superior man.”

  “A Surintendant who is never sordid or niggardly,” added Monsieur; “and who pays in gold all the orders I have on him.”

  “Every one in this thinks too much of himself, and nobody for the State,” said the old Queen. “M. Fouquet, it is a fact, M. Fouquet is ruining the State.”

  “Well, mother! replied Philippe, in rather a lower key, ”do you likewise constitute yourself the buckler of M. Colbert?”

  “How is that?” replied the old Queen, rather surprised. “Why, in truth,” replied Philippe, “you speak that just as your old friend Madame de Chevreuse would speak.”

  “Why do you mention Madame de Chevreuse to me!” said she, “and what sort of humour are you in to-day towards me?”

  Philippe continued: “Is not Madame de Chevreuse always in league against somebody? Has not Madame de Chevreuse been to pay you a visit, mother?”

  “Monsieur, you speak to me now in such a manner that I can almost fancy I am listening to your father.”

  “My father did not like Madame de Chevreuse, and had good reason for not liking her,” said the Prince. “For my part, I like her no better than he did; and if she thinks proper to come here as she formerly did, to sow divisions and hatreds under the pretext of begging money—why—”

  “Well! what?” said Anne of Austria proudly, herself provoking the storm.

  “Well!” replied the young man firmly, “I will drive Madame de Chevreuse out of my kingdom—and with her all who meddle with secrets and mysteries.”

  He had not calculated the effect of this terrible speech, or perhaps he wished to judge of the effect of it, like those who, suffering from a chronic pain, and seeking to break the monotony of that suffering, touch their wound to procure a sharper pang. Anne of Austria was near fainting; her eyes, open but meaningless, ceased to see for several seconds; she stretched out her hands towards her other son, who supported and embraced her without fear of irritating the King.

  “Sire,” murmured she, “you treat your mother cruelly.”

  “In what, madame?” replied he. “I am only speaking of Madame de Chevreuse; does my mother prefer Madame de Chevreuse to the security of the State and to the security of my person? Well, then, madame, I tell you Madame de Chevreuse is returned to France to borrow money, and that she addressed herself to M. Fouquet to sell him a certain secret.”

  “A certain secret!” cried Anne of Austria.

  “Concerning pretended robberies that Monsieur le Surintendant had committed, which is false,” added Philippe. “M. Fouquet rejected her offers with indignation, preferring the esteem of the King to all complicity with intriguers. Then Madame de Chevreuse sold the secret to Monsieur Colbert, and as she is insatiable, and was not satisfied with having extorted a hundred thousand crowns from that clerk, she has flown still higher, and has endeavoured to find still deeper springs. Is that true, madame?”

  “You know all, sire,” said the Queen, more uneasy than irritated.

  “Now,” continued Philippe, “I have good reason to dislike this fury, who comes to my court to plan the dishonour of some and the ruin of others. If God has suffered certain crimes to be committed, and has concealed them in the shade of His clemency, I will not permit Madame de Chevreuse to have the power to counteract the designs of God.”

  The latter part of this speech had so agitated the Queen-Mother, that her son had pity on her. He took her hand and kissed it tenderly; she did not feel that in that kiss, given in spite of repulsions and bitternesses of the heart, there was a pardon for six years of horrible suffering. Philippe allowed the silence of a moment to swallow the emotions that had just developed themselves. Then, with a cheerful smile:—

  “We will not go to-day,” said he, “I have a plan.” And, turning towards the door, he hoped to see Aramis, whose absence began to alarm him. The Queen-Mother wished to leave the room.

  “Remain where you are, mother,” said he, “I wish you to make your peace with M. Fouquet.”

  “I bear no ill will towards M. Fouquet; I only dreaded his prodigalities.”

  “We will put that to rights, and will take nothing of the Surintendant but his good qualities.”

  “What is your Majesty looking for?” said Henrietta, seeing the King’s eyes constantly turned towards the door, and wishing to let fly a
little poisoned arrow at his heart, supposing he was so anxiously expecting either La Vallière or a letter from her.

  “My sister,” said the young man, who had divined her thought, thanks to that marvellous perspicuity of which fortune was from that time about to allow him the exercise, “my sister, I am expecting a most distinguished man, a most able counsellor, whom I wish to present to you all, recommending him to your good graces. Ah! come in then, d’Artagnan.”

  “What does your Majesty wish?” said d’Artagnan, appearing.

  “Where is monsieur the Bishop of Vannes, your friend?”

  “Why, sire—”

  “I am waiting for him, and he does not come. Let him be sought for.”

  D‘Artagnan remained for an instant stupefied; but soon, reflecting that Aramis had left Vaux secretly with a mission from the King, he concluded that the King wished to preserve the secret of it. “Sire,” replied he, “does your Majesty absolutely require M. d’Herblay to be brought to you?”

  “Absolutely is not the word,” said Philippe; “I do not want him so particularly as that; but if he can be found—”

  “I thought so,” said d’Artagnan to himself.

  “Is this M. d’Herblay Bishop of Vannes?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “A friend of M. Fouquet?”

  “Yes, madame, an old musketeer.”

  Anne of Austria blushed.

  “One of the four braves who formerly performed such wonders.”

  The old Queen repented of having wished to bite; she broke off the conversation, in order to preserve the rest of her teeth. “Whatever may be your choice, sire,” said she, “I have no doubt it will be excellent.”

  All bowed in support of that sentiment.

  “You will find in him,” continued Philippe, “the depth and penetration of M. de Richelieu, without the avarice of M. de Mazarin.”