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

by Alexandre Dumas

  Nothing more! The giant slept the eternal sleep, in the sepulchre which God had made to his measure.

  79

  The Epitaph of Porthos

  ARAMIS, SILENT, ICY, TREMBLING like a timid child, arose shivering from the stone. A Christian does not walk upon tombs. But though capable of standing, he was not capable of walking. It might be said that something of dead Porthos had just died within him. His Bretons surrounded him; Aramis yielded to their kind exertions, and the three sailors, lifting him up, carried him into the canoe. Then having laid him down upon the bench near the rudder, they took to their oars, preferring to get off by rowing to hoisting a sail, which might betray them.

  Of all that levelled surface of the ancient grotto of Locmaria, of all that flattened shore, one single little hillock attracted their eyes. Aramis never removed his from it; and, at a distance out in the sea, in proportion as the shore receded, the menacing and proud mass of rock seemed to draw itself up, as formerly Porthos used to draw himself up, and raise a smiling and invincible head towards heaven, like that of the honest and valiant friend, the strongest of the four, and yet the first dead. Strange destiny of these men of brass! The most simple of heart allied to the most crafty; strength of body guided by subtlety of mind; and in the decisive moment, when vigour alone could save mind and body, a stone, a rock, a vile and material weight, triumphed over vigour, and falling upon the body drove out the mind.

  Worthy Porthos! born to help other men, always ready to sacrifice himself for the safety of the weak, as if God had only given him strength for that purpose; when dying he only thought he was carrying out the conditions of his compact with Aramis, a compact, however, which Aramis alone had drawn up, and which Porthos had only known to suffer by its terrible solidarity. Noble Porthos! of what good are the chateaux overflowing with sumptuous furniture, the forests overflowing with game, the lakes overflowing with fish, the cellars overflowing with wealth! Of what good are the lackeys in brilliant liveries, and in the midst of them, Mousqueton, proud of the power delegated by thee! Oh! noble Porthos! careful heaper up of treasures, was it worth while to labour to sweeten and gild life, to come upon a desert shore, to the cries of sea birds, and lay thyself, with broken bones, beneath a cold stone? Was it worth while, in short, noble Porthos, to heap so much gold, and not have even the distich of a poor poet engraven upon thy monument? Valiant Porthos! He still, without doubt, sleeps, lost, forgotten, beneath the rock which the shepherds of the heath take for the mighty roof-stone of a sunken cromlech. And so many twining brambles, so many mosses, caressed by the bitter wind of the ocean, so many vivacious lichens have soldered the sepulchre to the earth, that the passenger will never imagine that such a block of granite can ever have been supported by the shoulders of one man.

  Aramis, still pale, still icy, his heart upon his lips, Aramis looked, even till, with the last ray of daylight, the shore faded on the horizon. Not a word escaped his lips, not a sigh rose from his deep breast. The superstitious Bretons looked at him trembling. That silence was not of a man, it was of a statue. In the meantime, with the first grey lines that descended from the heavens, the canoe had hoisted its little sail, which, swelling with the kisses of the breeze, and carrying them rapidly from the coast, made brave way with its head towards Spain, across the terrible gulf of Gascony, so rife with tempests. But scarcely half an hour after the sail had been hoisted, the rowers became inactive, reclining upon their benches and, making an eyeshade with their hands, pointed out to each other a white spot which appeared on the horizon as motionless as is in appearance a gull rocked by the insensible respiration of the waves. But that which might have appeared motionless to ordinary eyes was moving at a quick rate to the experienced eye of the sailor; that which appeared stationary on the ocean was cutting a rapid way through it. For some time, seeing the profound torpor in which their master was plunged, they did not dare to rouse him, and satisfied themselves with exchanging their conjectures in a low, disturbed voice. Aramis, in fact, so vigilant, so active—Aramis, whose eye, like that of the lynx, watched without ceasing, and saw better by night than by day—Aramis seemed to sleep in the despair of his soul. An hour passed thus, during which daylight gradually disappeared, but during which also the sail in view gained so swiftly on the barque, that Goenne, one of the three sailors, ventured to say aloud,—

  “Monseigneur, we are being chased!”

  Aramis made no reply; the ship still gained upon them. Then, of their own accord, two of the sailors, by the direction of the skipper Yves, lowered the sail, in order that that single point which appeared above the surface of the waters should cease to be a guide to the eye of the enemy who was pursuing them. On the part of the ship in sight, on the contrary, two more small sails were run up at the extremities of the masts. Unfortunately, it was the time of the finest and longest days of the year, and the moon in all her brilliancy succeeded to this inauspicious daylight. The corvette, which was pursuing the little barque before the wind, had then still half an hour of twilight, and a whole night almost as light as day.

  “Monseigneur! monseigneur! we are lost!” said the skipper; “look! they see us although we have lowered our sail.”

  “That is not to be wondered at,” murmured one of the sailors, “since they say that, by the aid of the devil, the people of the cities have fabricated instruments with which they see as well at a distance as near, by night as well as by day.”

  Aramis took a telescope from the bottom of the boat, arranged it silently, and passing it to the sailor: “Here,” said he, “look!” The sailor hesitated.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” said the Bishop, “there is no sin in it; and if there is any sin, I will take it upon myself.”

  The sailor lifted the glass to his eye and uttered a cry. He believed that the vessel, which appeared to be distant about cannonshot, had suddenly and at a single bound cleared the distance. But, on withdrawing the instrument from his eye, he saw that, except the way which the corvette had been able to make during that short instant, it was still at the same distance.

  “So,” murmured the sailor, “they can see us as we see them.”

  “They see us,” said Aramis, and sank again into his impassibility.

  “How—they see us!” said Yves, “impossible!”

  “Well, look yourself,” said the sailor. And he passed the glass to the skipper.

  “Monseigneur assures me that the devil has nothing to do with this?” asked the skipper. Aramis shrugged his shoulders.

  The skipper lifted the glass to his eye. “Oh! monseigneur,” said he, “it is a miracle—they are there; it seems as if I were going to touch them. Twenty-five men at least! Ah! I see the captain forward. He holds a glass like this, and is looking at us. Ah! He turns round, and gives an order; they are rolling a piece of cannon forward—they are charging it—they are pointing it. Miséricorde! they are firing at us.”

  And by a mechanical movement, the skipper took the glass off, and the objects, sent back to the horizon, appeared again in their true aspect. The vessel was still at the distance of nearly a league, but the manoeuvre announced by the skipper was not less real. A light cloud of smoke appeared under the sails, more blue then they, and spreading like a flower opening; then, at about a mile from the little canoe, they saw the ball take the crown off two or three waves, dig a white furrow in the sea, and disappear at the end of that furrow, as inoffensive as the stone with which, at play, a boy makes ducks and drakes. That was at once a menace and a warning.

  “What is to be done?” asked the skipper.

  “They will sink us!” said Goenne, “give us absolution, monseigneur!” And the sailors fell on their knees before him.

  “You forget that they can see you,” said he.

  “That is true,” said the sailors, ashamed of their weakness. “Give us your orders, monseigneur; we are ready to die for you.”

  “Let us wait,” said Aramis.

  “How—let us wait?”

  “Yes; do you n
ot see, as you just now said, that if we endeavour to fly, they will sink us.”

  “But, perhaps,” the skipper ventured to say, “perhaps by the favour of the night we could escape them.”

  “Oh!” said Aramis, “they have, little doubt, some Greek fire to lighten their own course and ours likewise.”

  At the same moment, as if the little vessel wished to reply to the appeal of Aramis, a second cloud of smoke mounted slowly to the heavens, and from the bosom of that cloud sparked an arrow of flame, which described its parabola like a rainbow, and fell into the sea, where it continued to burn, illuminating a space of a quarter of a league in diameter.

  The Bretons looked at each other in terror. “You see plainly,” said Aramis, “it will be better to wait for them.”

  The oars dropped from the hands of the sailors, and the barque, ceasing to make way, rocked motionless on the summits of the waves. Night came on, but the vessel still approached nearer. It might be said it redoubled its speed with the darkness. From time to time, as a bloody-necked vulture rears its head out of its nest, the formidable Greek fire darted from its sides, and cast its flame into the ocean like an incandescent snow. At last it came within musket-shot. All the men were on deck, arms in hand; the cannoniers were at their guns, and matches were burning. It might be thought they were about to board a frigate and to combat a crew superior in number to their own, and not to take a canoe manned by four people.

  “Surrender!” cried the commander of the corvette, with the aid of the speaking trumpet.

  The sailors looked at Aramis. Aramis made a sign with his head. Yves waved a white cloth at the end of a gaff. This was like striking their flag. The vessel came on like a racehorse. It launched a fresh Greek fire which fell within twenty paces of the little canoe, and threw a stronger light upon them than the most ardent ray of the sun could have done.

  “At the first sign of resistance,” cried the commander of the corvette, “fire!” And the soldiers brought their muskets to the present.

  “Did not we say we surrendered?” said Yves.

  “Living! living! captain!” cried some highly excited soldiers. “They must be taken living.”

  “Well, yes—living,” said the captain. Then turning towards the Bretons, “Your lives are all safe, my friends!” cried he, “except the Chevalier d’Herblay.”

  Aramis started imperceptibly. For an instant his eye was fixed upon the depths of the ocean enlightened by the last flashes of the Greek fire, flashes which ran along the sides of the waves, played upon their crests like plumes, and rendered still more dark, more mysterious and more terrible the abysses they covered.

  “Do you hear, monseigneur?” said the sailors.

  “Yes.”

  “What are your orders?”

  “Accept!”

  “But you, monseigneur!”

  Aramis leant still more forward, and played with the ends of his long white fingers with the green water of the sea, to which he turned smiling as a friend.

  “Accept! he repeated.

  “We accept,” repeated the sailors; “but what security have we?”

  “The word of a gentleman,” said the officer. “By my rank and by my name I swear, that all but M. le Chevalier d’Herblay shall have their lives spared. I am lieutenant of the King’s frigate the Pomona, and my name is Louis Constant de Pressigny.”

  With a rapid gesture, Aramis—already bent over the side of the barque towards the sea—with a rapid gesture, Aramis raised his head, drew himself up, and with a flashing eye, and a smile upon his lips, “Throw out the ladder, messieurs,” said he, as if the command had belonged to him. He was obeyed. Then Aramis, seizing the rope-ladder, instead of the terror which was expected to be displayed upon his countenance, the surprise of the sailors of the corvette was great, when they saw him walk straight up to the commander, with a firm step, look at him earnestly, make a sign to him with his hand, a mysterious and unknown sign, at the sight of which the officer turned pale, trembled, and bowed his head. Without saying a word, Aramis then raised his hand close to the eyes of the commander, and showed him the collet of a ring which he wore on the ring-finger of his left hand. And while making this sign, Aramis, draped in cold, silent, and haughty majesty, had the air of an emperor giving his hand to be kissed. The commandant, who for a moment had raised his head, bowed a second time with marks of the most profound respect. Then, stretching his hand out towards the poop, that is to say, towards his own cabin, he drew back to allow Aramis to go first. The three Bretons, who had come on board after their Bishop, looked at each other, stupefied. The crew were struck with silence. Five minutes after, the commander called the second lieutenant, who returned immediately, and gave directions for the head to be put towards Corunna. Whilst the order was being executed Aramis reappeared upon the deck, and took a seat near the bulwarks. The night had fallen, the moon had not yet risen, and yet Aramis looked incessantly towards Belle-Isle. Yves then approached the captain who had returned to take his post in the stern, and said, in a low and humble voice, “What course are we to follow, captain?”

  “We take what course monseigneur pleases,” replied the officer.

  Aramis passed the night leaning upon the bulwarks. Yves, on approaching him the next morning, remarked, that “the night must have been very humid, for the wood upon which the Bishop’s head had rested, was soaked with dew.” Who knows!—that dew was, perhaps, the first tears that had ever fallen from the eyes of Aramis!

  What epitaph would have been worth that? Good Porthos!

  80

  The Round of M. de Gesvres

  D‘ARTAGNAN WAS NOT ACCUSTOMED to resistances like that he had just experienced. He returned, profoundly irritated, to Nantes. Irritation with this vigorous man vented itself in an impetuous attack, which few people, hitherto, were they King, were they giants, had been able to resist. D’Artagnan, trembling with rage, went straight to the castle, and asked to speak to the King. It might be about seven o‘clock in the morning, and, since his arrival at Nantes, the King had been an early riser. But, on arriving at the little corridor with which we are acquainted, d’Artagnan found M. de Gesvres, who stopped him very politely, telling him not to speak too loud and disturb the King. “Is the King asleep?” said d‘Artagnan—“well, I will let him sleep. But about what o’clock do you suppose he will rise?”

  “Oh! in about two hours; the King has been up all night.”

  D‘Artagnan took his hat again, bowed to M. de Gesvres, and returned to his own apartments. He came back at half-past nine, and was told that the King was at breakfast. “That will just suit me,” said d’Artagnan, “I will talk to the King while he is eating.”

  M. de Brienne reminded d’Artagnan that the King would not receive anyone during his repasts.

  “But,” said d’Artagnan, looking askant at Brienne, “you do not know, perhaps, monsieur, that I have the privilege of en-tree anywhere, and at any hour.”

  Brienne took the hand of the captain kindly, and said, “Not at Nantes, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan. The King in this journey has changed everything.”

  D‘Artagnan, a little softened, asked about what o’clock the King would have finished his breakfast.

  “We don’t know.”

  “How—don’t know! What does that mean? You don’t know how much time the King devotes to eating? It is generally an hour; and, if we admit that the air of the Loire gives an additional appetite, we will extend it to an hour and a half; that is enough, I think. I will wait where I am.”

  “Oh! dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, the order is, not to allow any person to remain in this corridor; I am on guard for that purpose.”

  D‘Artagnan felt his anger mounting a second time to his brain. He went out quickly for fear of complicating the affair by a display of ill-humour. As soon as he was out he began to reflect. “The King,” said he, “will not receive me, that is evident. The young man is angry; he is afraid of the words I may speak to him. Yes; but in the meantime, Belle-Isle is
besieged, and my two friends are taken or killed. Poor Porthos! As to master Aramis, he is always full of resources, and I am quite easy on his account. But, no, no; Porthos is not yet an invalid and Aramis is not yet in his dotage. The one with his arm, the other with his imagination, will find work for His Majesty’s soldiers. Who knows if these brave men may not get up for the edification of His Most Christian Majesty a little bastion of Saint-Gervais! I don’t despair of it. They have cannon and a garrison. And yet,” continued d’Artagnan, “I don’t know whether it would not be better to stop the combat. For myself alone, I will not put up with either surly looks, or treason, on the part of the King; but for my friends, rebuffs, insults, I have a right to receive everything. Shall I go to M. Colbert? Now there is a man whom I must acquire the habit of terrifying. I will go to M. Colbert.” And d‘Artagnan set forward bravely to find M. Colbert, but he was told he was working with the King, at the castle of Nantes. “Good,” cried he, “the times are returned in which I measured my steps from M. de Tréville to the Cardinal, from the Cardinal to the Queen, from the Queen to Louis XIII. Truly is it said, that men, in growing old, become children again!—to the castle, then!” He returned thither. M. de Lyonne was coming out. He gave d’Artagnan both hands, but told him that the King had been busy all the preceding evening and all night, and that orders had been given that no one should he admitted.

  “Not even the captain who takes the order,” cried d’Artagnan. “I think that is rather too strong.”

  “Not even he,” said M. de Lyonne.

  “Since that is the case,” replied d’Artagnan, wounded to the heart; “since the captain of the musketeers, who has always entered the King’s chamber, is no longer allowed to enter it, his cabinet, or his salle-à-manger: either the King is dead, or his captain is in disgrace. In either case, he can no longer want him. Do me the favour then, M. de Lyonne, who are in favour, to return and tell the King plainly, I send him my resignation.”