Athos and Raoul wandered for some time round the fences of the garden without finding anyone to introduce them to the governor. They ended by making their own way into the garden. It was at the hottest time of the day. Everything sought shelter beneath grass or stone. The heavens spread their fiery veils as if to stifle all noises, to envelop all existences; the rabbit under the broom, the fly under the leaf, slept as the wave did beneath the heavens. Athos saw nothing living but a soldier, upon the terrace between the second and third court, who was carrying a basket of provisions on his head. This man returned almost immediately without his basket, and disappeared in the shade of his sentry-box. Athos supposed this man must have been carrying dinner to some one, and, after having done so, returned to dine himself. All at once they heard some one call out and, raising their heads, perceived in the frame of the bars of the window something of a white colour, like a hand that was waved backwards and forwards—something shining, like a polished weapon struck by the rays of the sun. And before they were able to ascertain what it was they saw, a luminous train, accompanied by a hissing sound in the air, called their attention from the donjon to the ground. A second dull noise was heard from the ditch, and Raoul ran to pick up a silver plate which was rolling along the dry sand. The hand which had thrown this plate made a sign to the two gentlemen, and then disappeared. Athos and Raoul, approaching each other, commenced an attentive examination of the dusty plate, and they discovered, in characters traced upon the bottom of it with the point of a knife, this inscription:—
“I am the brother of the King of France—a prisoner to-day,—a madman to-morrow. French gentlemen and Christians, pray to God for the soul and the reason of the son of your masters.”
The plate fell from the hands of Athos whilst Raoul was endeavouring to make out the meaning of these dismal words. At the same instant they heard a cry from the top of the donjon. As quick as lightning, Raoul bent down his head and forced down that of his father likewise. A musket barrel glittered from the crest of the wall. A white smoke floated like a plume from the mouth of the musket, and a ball was flattened against a stone within six inches of the two gentlemen.
“Cordieu!” cried Athos. “What, are people assassinated here? Come down, cowards as you are!”
“Yes, come down!” cried Raoul, furiously shaking his fist at the castle.
One of the assailants—he who was about to fire—replied to these cries by an exclamation of surprise; and, as his companion, who wished to continue the attack, had seized his loaded musket, he who had cried out, threw up the weapon, and the ball flew into the air. Athos and Raoul seeing them disappear from the platform, expected they would come to them, and waited with a firm demeanour. Five minutes had not elapsed, when a stroke upon a drum called the eight soldiers of the garrison to arms, and they showed themselves on the other side of the ditch with their muskets in hand. At the head of these men was an officer, whom Athos and Raoul recognised as the one who had fired the first musket. The man ordered the soldiers to “make ready.”
“We are going to be shot!” cried Raoul; “but, sword in hand, at least, let us leap the ditch! We shall kill at least two of these scoundrels when their muskets are empty.” And, suiting the action to the word, Raoul was springing forward, followed by Athos, when a well-known voice resounded behind them—“Athos ! Raoul!”
“D’Artagnan!” replied the two gentlemen.
“Recover arms! Mordioux!” cried the captain to the soldiers, “I was sure I could not be mistaken.”
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Athos. “What! were we to be shot without warning?”
“It was I who was going to shoot you, and if the governor missed you, I should not have missed you, my dear friends. How fortunate it is that I am accustomed to take a long aim, instead of firing the instant I raise my weapon! I thought I recognised you! Ah! my dear friends, how fortunate!” And d’Artagnan wiped his brow, for he had run fast, and emotion with him was not feigned.
“How!” said Athos. “And is the gentleman who fired at us the governor of the fortress?”
“In person.”
“And why did he fire at us? What have we done to him?”
“Pardieu! you received what the prisoner threw to you?”
“That is true.”
“That plate—the prisoner has written something on the bottom of it, has be not?”
“Yes. ”
“Good Heavens! I was afraid he had.”
And d’Artagnan, with all the marks of mortal disquietude, seized the plate to read the inscription. When he had read it, a fearful pallor spread over his countenance. “Oh! Good Heavens!” repeated he. “Silence!—Here is the governor.”
“And what will he do to us? Is it our fault?”
“It is true, then?” said Athos, in a subdued voice. “Is it true?”
“Silence! I tell you,—silence! If he only believes you can read; if he only suspects you have understood; I love you, my dear friends, I will be killed for you, but—”
“But—” said Athos and Raoul.
“But, I could not save you from perpetual imprisonment, if I saved you from death. Silence, then! Silence, again!”
The governor came up, having crossed the ditch upon a plank bridge.
“Well!” said he to d’Artagnan, “what stops us?”
“You are Spaniards—you do not understand a word of French,” said the captain eagerly, to his friends, in a low voice.
“Well!” replied he, addressing the governor, “I was right; these gentlemen are two Spanish captains with whom I was acquainted at Ypres, last year; they don’t know a word of French.”
“Ah!” said the governor sharply. “And yet they were trying to read the inscription on the plate.”
D’Artagnan took it out of his hands, effacing the characters with the point of his sword.
“How!” cried the governor—“what are you doing? I cannot read them now!”
“It is a State secret,” replied d’Artagnan bluntly; “and as you know that, according to the King’s order, it is under the penalty of death any one should penetrate it. I will, if you like, allow you to read it, and have you shot immediately afterwards.”
During this apostrophe—half serious, half ironical—Athos and Raoul preserved the coolest, most unconcerned silence.
“But is it possible,” said the governor, “that these gentlemen do not comprehend at least some words?”
“Suppose they do! If they do understand a few spoken words, it does not follow that they should understand what is written. They cannot even read Spanish. A noble Spaniard, remember, ought never to know how to read.”
The governor was obliged to be satisfied with these explanations, but he was still tenacious. “Invite these gentlemen to come to the fortress,” said he.
“That I will willingly do, I was about to propose it to you.” The fact is, the captain had quite another idea, and would have wished his friends a hundred leagues off. But he was obliged to make the best of it. He addressed the two gentlemen in Spanish, giving them a polite invitation, which they accepted. They all turned towards the entrance of the fort and, the incident being exhausted, the eight soldiers returned to their delightful leisure for a moment disturbed by this unexpected adventure.
60
Captive and Jailers
WHEN THEY HAD ENTERED the fort, and whilst the governor was making some preparations for the reception of his guests—“Come,” said Athos, “let us have a word of explanation whilst we are alone.”
“It is simply this,” replied the musketeer. “I have conducted hither a prisoner, whom the King commands shall not be seen. You came here, he has thrown something to you through the lattice of his window; I was at dinner with the governor, I saw the object thrown, and I saw Raoul pick it up. It does not take long to understand this. I understood it; and I thought you in intelligence with my prisoner. And then—”
“And then—you commanded us to be shot.”
“Ma foi
! I admit it; but if I was the first to seize a musket, fortunately I was the last to take aim at you.”
“If you had killed me, d’Artagnan, I should have had the good fortune to die for the royal house of France, and it would be an honour to die by your hand—you, its noblest and most loyal defender.”
“What the devil, Athos, do you mean by the royal house?” stammered d’Artagnan. “You don’t mean that you, a well-informed and sensible man, can place any faith in the nonsense written by an idiot?”
“I do believe in it.”
“With so much the more reason, my dear Chevalier, from your having orders to kill all those who do believe in it,” said Raoul.
“That is because,” replied the captain of the musketeers,—“because every calumny, however absurd it may be, has the almost certain chance of becoming popular.”
“No, d’Artagnan,” replied Athos promptly; “but because the King is not willing that the secret of his family should transpire among the people, and cover with shame the executioners of the son of Louis XIII.”
“Do not talk in such a childish manner, Athos, or I shall begin to think you have lost your senses. Besides, explain to me how it is possible Louis XIII should have a son in the Isle of Sainte-Marguerite?”
“A son whom you have brought hither masked, in a fishing boat,” said Athos. “Why not?”
D’Artagnan was brought to a pause.
“Ah! ah!” said he; “whence do you know that a fishing boat—”
“Brought you to Sainte-Marguerite’s with the carriage containing the prisoner—with a prisoner whom you styled monseigneur. Oh! I am acquainted with all that,” resumed the Comte. D’Artagnan bit his moustache.
“If it were true,” said he, “that I had brought hither in a boat, and with a carriage, a masked prisoner, nothing proves that this prisoner must be a prince—a prince of the house of France?”
“Oh! ask that of Aramis,” replied Athos coolly.
“Of Aramis!” cried the musketeer, quite at a stand. “Have you seen Aramis?”
“After his discomfiture at Vaux, yes; I have seen Aramis, a fugitive, pursued, ruined; and Aramis has told me enough to make me believe in the complaints that this unfortunate young man cut upon the bottom of the plate.”
D’Artagnan’s head sank upon his breast with confusion. “This is the way,” said he, “in which God turns to nothing that which men call their wisdom! A fine secret must that be of which twelve or fifteen persons hold the tattered fragments! Athos, cursed be the chance which has brought you face to face with me in this affair! for now—”
“Well!” sad Athos, with his customary mild severity, “is your secret lost because I know it? Consult your memory, my friend. Have I not borne secrets as heavy as this?”
“You have never borne one so dangerous,” replied d’Artagnan, in a tone of sadness. “I have something like a sinister idea that all who are concerned with this secret will die, and die unfortunately.”
“The will of God be done!” said Athos, “but here is your governor.”
D‘Artagnan and his friends immediately resumed their parts. The governor, suspicious and hard, behaved towards d’Artagnan with a politeness almost amounting to obsequiousness. With respect to the travellers, he contented himself with offering them good cheer, and never taking his eye from them. Athos and Raoul observed that he often tried to embarrass them by sudden attacks, or to catch them off their guard; but neither the one nor the other gave him the least advantage. What d’Artagnan had said was probable, if the governor did not believe it to be quite true. They rose from table to repose awhile.
“What is this man’s name? I don’t like the looks of him,” said Athos to d’Artagnan, in Spanish.
“Saint-Mars,” replied the captain.
“He is then, I suppose, the Prince’s jailer?”
“Eh? how can I tell? I may be kept at Sainte-Marguerite for ever.”
“Oh! no, not you!”
“My friend, I am in the situation of a man who finds a treasure in the midst of a desert. He would like to carry it away, but he cannot; he would like to leave it, but he dares not. The King will not dare to recall me, for fear no one else should serve him as faithfully as I should; he regrets not having me near him, from being aware that no one will be of so much service near his person as myself. But it will happen as it may please God.”
“But,” observed Raoul, “your not being certain proves that your situation here is provisional, and you will return to Paris.”
“Ask these gentlemen,” interrupted the governor, “what was their purpose in coming to Sainte-Marguerite?”
“They came from learning there was a convent of Benedictines at Sainte-Honorat which is considered curious; and from being told there was excellent shooting in the island.”
“That is quite at their service as well as yours,” replied Saint-Mars. D’Artagnan politely thanked him.
“When will they depart?” added the governor.
“To-morrow,” replied d’Artagnan.
M. de Saint-Mars went to make his rounds, and left d’Artagnan alone with the pretended Spaniards.
“Oh!” exclaimed the musketeer, “here is a life with a society that suits me but little. I command this man, and he bores me, mordioux! Come let us have a shot or two at the rabbits; the walk will be beautiful, and not fatiguing. The isle is but a league and a half in length, upon a breadth of a league; a real park. Let us try to amuse ourselves.”
“As you please, d’Artagnan; not for the sake of amusing ourselves, but to gain an opportunity for talking freely.”
D’Artagnan made a sign to a soldier, who brought the gentlemen some guns, and then returned to the fort.
“And now,” said the musketeer, “answer me the question put to you by that black-looking Saint-Mars: ‘What did you come to do at the Lerin Isles?’ ”
“To bid you farewell.”
“Bid me farewell! What do you mean by that? Is Raoul going anywhere?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will lay a wager it is with M. de Beaufort?”
“With M. de Beaufort it is, my dear friend; you always guess rightly.”
“From habit.”
Whilst the two friends were commencing their conversation, Raoul, with his head hanging down and his heart oppressed, seated himself on a mossy rock, his gun across his knees, looking at the sea—looking at the heavens, and listening to the voice of his soul—he allowed the sportsmen to attain a considerable distance from him. D’Artagnan remarked his absence.
“He has not recovered the blow,” said he to Athos.
“He is struck to death.”
“Oh! your fears exaggerate, I hope. Raoul is of a fine nature. Around all hearts so noble as his, there is a second envelope which forms a cuirass. The first bleeds, the second resists.”
“No,” replied Athos, “Raoul will die of it.”
“Mordioux!” said d’Artagnan, in a melancholy tone. And he did not add a word to this explanation. Then, a minute after, “Why do you let him go?”
“Because he insists upon going.”
“And why do you not go with him?”
“Because I could not bear to see him die.”
D’Artagnan looked his friend earnestly in the face. “You know one thing,” continued the Comte, leaning upon the arm of the captain; “you know that in the course of my life I have been afraid of but few things. Well! I have an incessant, gnawing, insurmountable fear that a day will arrive in which I shall hold the dead body of that boy in my arms.”
“Oh!” murmured d’Artagnan, “oh!”
“He will die, I know. I have a perfect conviction of that; but I would not see him die.”
“How is this, Athos? you come and place yourself in the presence of the bravest man you say you have ever seen, of your own d’Artagnan, of that man without an equal, as you formerly called him, and you come and tell him with your arms folded that you are afraid of witnessing the death of your son, you who have
seen all that can be seen in this world! Why have you this fear, Athos? Man upon this earth must expect everything, and ought to face everything.”
“Listen to me, my friend. After having worn myself out upon this earth of which you speak, I have preserved but two religions; that of life, my friendships, my duty as a father—that of eternity, love and respect for God. Now I have within me the revelation that if God should decree that my friend or my son should render up his last sigh in my presence—oh! no, I cannot even tell you, d’Artagnan!”
“Speak, speak, tell me!”
“I am strong against everything, except the death of those I love. For that only there is no remedy. He who dies, gains; he who sees others die, loses. No; this is it—to know that I should no more meet upon earth him whom I now behold with joy; to know that there would nowhere be a d‘Artagnan any more, nowhere again be a Raoul, oh! I am old, see you, I have no longer courage; I pray God to spare me in my weakness; but if he struck me so plainly and in that fashion, I should curse him. A Christian gentleman ought not to curse his God, d’Artagnan; it is quite enough to have cursed a king!”
Man in the Iron Mask (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 55