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

by Alexandre Dumas

  “HERE I AM!”

  And his hands fell down slowly, as if he himself had laid them on the bed.

  Death had been kind and mild to this noble creature. It had spared him the tortures of the agony, the convulsions of the last departure; it had opened with an indulgent finger the gates of eternity to that noble soul, worthy of every respect. God had no doubt ordered it thus that the pious remembrance of this death should remain in the hearts of those present, and in the memory of other men—a death which caused to be loved the passage from this life to the other by those whose existence upon this earth leads them not to dread the last judgment. Athos preserved, even in the eternal sleep, that placid and sincere smile—an ornament which was to accompany him to the tomb. The quietude of his features, the calm of his nothingness, made his servants for a long time doubt whether he had really quitted life. The Comte’s people wished to remove Grimaud, who, from a distance, devoured the face growing so pale, and did not approach, from the pious fear of bringing to him the breath of death. But Grimaud, fatigued as he was, refused to leave the room. He sat himself down upon the threshold, watching his master with the vigilance of a sentinel, and jealous to receive either his first waking look, or his last dying sigh. The noises were all quieted in the house, and every one respected the slumber of their lord. But Grimaud, by anxiously listening, perceived that the Comte no longer breathed. He raised himself, with his hands leaning on the ground, looked to see if there did not appear some motion in the body of his master. Nothing! Fear seized him; he rose completely up, and, at the very moment, heard some one coming up the stairs. A noise of spurs knocking against a sword—a warlike sound, familiar to his ears—stopped him as he was going towards the bed of Athos. A voice still more sonorous than brass or steel resounded within three paces of him.

  “Athos! Athos! my friend!” cried this voice, agitated even to tears.

  “Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan!” faltered out Grimaud.

  “Where is he? Where is he?” continued the musketeer.

  Grimaud seized his arm in his bony fingers, and pointed to the bed, upon the sheets of which the livid tint of the dead already showed.

  A choked respiration, the opposite to a sharp cry, swelled the throat of d‘Artagnan. He advanced on tip-toe, trembling, frightened at the noise his feet made upon the floor, and his heart rent by a nameless agony. He placed his ear to the breast of Athos, his face to the Comte’s mouth. Neither noise, nor breath! D’Artagnan drew back. Grimaud, who had followed him with his eyes, and for whom each of his movements had been a revelation, came timidly, and seated himself at the foot of the bed, and glued his lips to the sheet which was raised by the stiffened feet of his master. Then large drops began to flow from his red eyes. This old man in despair, who wept, bent double without uttering a word, presented the most moving spectacle that d’Artagnan, in a life so filled with emotion, had ever met with.

  The captain remained standing in contemplation before that smiling dead man, who seemed to have kept his last thought, to make to his best friend, to the man he had loved next to Raoul, a gracious welcome even beyond life; and as if to reply to that exalted flattery of hospitality, d’Artagnan went and kissed Athos fervently on the brow, and with his trembling fingers closed his eyes. Then he seated himself by the pillow without dread of that dead man, who had been so kind and affectionate to him for thirty-five years; he fed himself greedily with the remembrances which the noble visage of the Comte brought to his mind in crowds—some blooming and charming as that smile—some dark, dismal, and icy as that face with its eyes closed for eternity.

  All at once, the bitter flood which mounted from minute to minute invaded his heart, and swelled his breast almost to bursting. Incapable of mastering his emotion, he arose, and tearing himself violently from the chamber where he had just found dead him to whom he came to report the news of the death of Porthos, he uttered sobs so heart-rending that the servants who seemed only to wait for an explosion of grief, answered to it by their lugubrious clamours, and the dogs of the late Comte by their lamentable howlings. Grimaud was the only one who did not lift up his voice. Even in the paroxysm of his grief he would not have dared to profane the dead, or for the first time disturb the slumber of his master. Athos had accustomed him never to speak.

  At daybreak, d‘Artagnan, who had wandered about the lower hall, biting his fingers to stifle his sighs—d’Artagnan went up once more; and, watching the moment when Grimaud turned his head towards him, he made him a sign to come to him, which the faithful servant obeyed without making more noise than a shadow. D’Artagnan went down again, followed by Grimaud; and when he had gained the vestibule, taking the old man’s hands, “Grimaud,” said he, “I have seen how the father died; now let me know how the son died.”

  Grimaud drew from his breast a large letter, upon the envelope of which was traced the address of Athos. He recognised the writing of M. de Beaufort, broke the seal and began to read, walking about in the first blue rays of day, in the dark alley of old limes, marked by the still visible footprints of the Comte who had just died.

  87

  The Bulletin

  THE DUC DE BEAUFORT wrote to Athos. The letter destined for the living only reached the dead. God had changed the address.

  “My Dear Comte,” wrote the Prince in his large, bad, schoolboy’s hand,—

  “a great misfortune has struck us amidst a great triumph. The King loses one of the bravest of soldiers. I lose a friend. You lose M. de Bragelonne. He has died gloriously, and so gloriously that I have not the strength to weep as I could wish. Receive my sad compliments, my dear Comte. Heaven distributes trials according to the greatness of our hearts. This is an immense one, but not above your courage. Your good friend,

  “Le Duc de Beaufort.”

  The letter contained a relation written by one of the Prince’s secretaries. It was the most touching recital, and the most true, of that dismal episode which unravelled two existences. D’Artagnan, accustomed to battle emotions, and with a heart armed against tenderness, could not help starting on reading the name of Raoul, the name of that beloved boy who had become, as his father had, a shade.

  “In the morning,” said the Prince’s secretary, “monseigneur commanded the attack. Normandy and Picardy had taken position in the grey rocks dominated by the heights of the mountain, upon the declivity of which were raised the bastions of Gigelli.

  “The cannon beginning to fire opened the action; the regiments marched full of resolution; the pikemen had their pikes elevated, the bearers of muskets had their weapons ready. The Prince followed attentively the march and movements of the troops, so as to be able to sustain them with a strong reserve. With monseigneur were the oldest captains and his aides-de-camp. M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne had received orders not to leave His Highness. In the meantime the enemy’s cannon, which at first had thundered with little success against the masses, had regulated its fire, and the balls, better directed, had killed several men near the Prince. The regiments formed in column and which were advancing against the ramparts were rather roughly handled. There was a sort of hesitation in our troops, who found themselves ill-seconded by the artillery. In fact the batteries which had been established the evening before had but a weak and uncertain aim, on account of their position. The direction from low to high lessened the justness of the shots as well as their range.

  “Monseigneur, comprehending the bad effect of this position of the siege artillery, commanded the frigates moored in the little road to commence a regular fire against the place. M. de Bragelonne offered himself at once to carry this order. But monseigneur refused to acquiesce in the Vicomte’s request. Monseigneur was right, for he loved and wished to spare the young nobleman. He was quite right, and the event took upon itself to justify his foresight and refusal; for scarcely had the sergeant charged with the message solicited by M. de Bragelonne gained the sea-shore, when two shots from long carbines issued from the enemy’s ranks and laid him low. The sergeant fell,
dyeing the sand with his blood; observing which, M. de Bragelonne smiled at monseigneur, who said to him, ‘You see, Vicomte, I have saved your life. Report that, some day, to M. le Comte de la Fère, in order that, learning it from you, he may thank me.’ The young nobleman smiled sadly, and replied to the Duc, ‘It is true, monseigneur, that but for your kindness I should have been killed, where the poor sergeant has fallen, and should be at rest.’ M. de Bragelonne made this reply in such a tone that monseigneur answered him warmly. ‘Vrai Dieu! young man, one would say that your mouth waters for death; but, by the soul of Henry IV! I have promised your father to bring you back alive; and please the Lord, I will keep my word.’

  “Monseigneur de Bragelonne coloured, and replied in a lower voice, ‘Monseigneur, pardon me, I beseech you; I have always had the desire to go to meet good opportunities; and it is so delightful to distinguish ourselves before our general, particularly when that general is M. le Duc de Beaufort.’

  “Monseigneur was a little softened by this; and, turning to the officers who surrounded him, gave his different orders. The grenadiers of the two regiments got near enough to the ditches and the entrenchments to launch their grenades, which had but little effect. In the meanwhile, M. d’Estrées,am who commanded the fleet, having seen the attempt of the sergeant to approach the vessels, understood that he must act without orders, and opened his fire. Then the Arabs, finding themselves seriously injured by the balls from the fleet, and beholding the destruction and the ruins of their bad walls, uttered the most fearful cries. Their horsemen descended the mountain at the gallop, bent over their saddles, and rushed full tilt upon the columns of infantry, which, crossing their pikes, stopped this mad assault. Repulsed by the firm attitude of the battalion, the Arabs threw themselves with great fury towards the general staff, which was not on its guard at that moment.

  “The danger was great; monseigneur drew his sword; his secretaries and people imitated him; the officers of the suite engaged in combat with the furious Arabs. It was then M. de Bragelonne was able to satisfy the inclination he had manifested from the commencement of the action. He fought near the Prince with the valour of a Roman, and killed three Arabs with his small sword. But it was evident that his bravery did not arise from one of those sentiments of pride natural to all who fight. It was impetuous, affected, forced even; he sought to intoxicate himself with noise and carnage. He heated himself to such a degree that monseigneur called out to him to stop. He must have heard the voice of monseigneur, because we who were close to him heard it. He did not, however, stop, but continued his course towards the entrenchments. As M. de Bragelonne was a well-disciplined officer, this disobedience to the orders of monseigneur very much surprised everybody, and M. de Beaufort redoubled his earnestness, crying, ‘Stop, Bragelonne! Where are you going? Stop,’ repeated monseigneur, ‘I command you.’

  “We all, imitating the gesture of M. le Duc, we all raised our hands. We expected that the cavalier would turn bridle; but M. de Bragelonne continued to ride towards the palisades.

  “‘Stop, Bragelonne!’ repeated the Prince, in a very loud voice; ‘stop! in the name of your father!’

  “At these words M. de Bragelonne turned round; his countenance expressed a lively grief; but he did not stop; we then concluded that his horse must have run away with him. When M. le Duc had imagined that the Vicomte was not master of his horse, and had seen him precede the first grenadiers, His Highness cried, ‘Musketeers, kill his horse! A hundred pistoles for him who shall kill his horse!’ But who could expect to hit the beast without at least wounding his rider? No one durst venture. At length one presented himself; he was a sharp-shooter of the regiment of Picardy, named Luzerne, who took aim at the animal, fired, and hit him in the quarters, for we saw the blood redden the hair of the horse. Instead of falling, the cursed jennet was irritated, and carried him on more furiously than ever. Every Picard who saw this unfortunate young man rushing on to meet death, shouted in the loudest manner, ‘Throw yourself off, Monsieur le Vicomte!—off!—off! throw yourself off!’ M. le Bragelonne was an officer much beloved in the army. Already had the Vicomte arrived within pistol-shot of the ramparts; a discharge was poured upon him, and enveloped him in its fire and smoke. We lost sight of him; the smoke dispersed; he was on foot, standing; his horse was killed.

  “The Vicomte was summoned to surrender by the Arabs, but he made them a negative sign with his head, and continued to march towards the palisades. This was a mortal imprudence. Nevertheless the whole army was pleased that he would not retreat, since ill chance had led him so near. He marched a few paces farther, and the two regiments clapped their hands. It was at this moment the second discharge shook the walls, and the Vicomte de Bragelonne again disappeared in the smoke; but this time the smoke was dispersed in vain; we no longer saw him standing. He was down, with his head lower than his legs, among the bushes, and the Arabs began to think of leaving their entrenchments to come and cut off his head or take his body, as is the custom with infidels. But Monseigneur le Duc de Beaufort had followed all this with his eyes, and the sad spectacle drew from him many and painful sighs. He then cried aloud, seeing the Arabs running like white phantoms among the mastic-trees, ‘Grenadiers! piqueurs! will you let them take that noble body?’

  “Saying these words, and waving his sword, he himself rode towards the enemy. The regiments, rushing in his steps, ran in their turns, uttering cries as terrible as those of the Arabs were wild.

  “The combat commenced over the body of M. de Bragelonne, and with such inveteracy was it fought that a hundred and sixty Arabs were left upon the field, by the side of at least fifty of our troops. It was a lieutenant from Normandy who took the body of the Vicomte on his shoulders and carried it back to the lines. The advantage was, however, pursued; the regiments took the reserve with them and the enemy’s palisades were destroyed. At three o‘clock the fire of the Arabs ceased; the hand to hand fight lasted two hours; that was a massacre. At five o’clock we were victorious on all the points; the enemy had abandoned his positions, and M. le Duc had ordered the white flag to be planted upon the culminating point of the little mountain. It was then we had time to think of M. le Bragelonne, who had eight large wounds through his body, by which almost all his blood had escaped. Still, however, he breathed, which afforded inexpressible joy to monseigneur, who insisted upon being present at the first dressing of the wounds and at the consultation of the surgeons. There were two among them who declared M. de Bragelonne would live. Monseigneur threw his arms round their necks, and promised them a thousand louis each if they could save him.

  “The Vicomte heard these transports of joy, and whether he was in despair, or whether he suffered much from his wounds, he expressed by his countenance a contradiction, which gave rise to reflection, particularly in one of the secretaries when he had heard what follows. The third surgeon was the brother of Sylvain de Saint-Cosme, the most learned of ours. He probed the wounds in his turn, and said nothing. M. de Bragelonne fixed his eyes steadily upon the surgeon, and seemed to interrogate his every movement. The latter, upon being questioned by monseigneur, replied that he saw plainly three mortal wounds out of eight, but so strong was the constitution of the wounded, so rich was he in youth, and so merciful was the goodness of God, that perhaps M. de Bragelonne might recover, particularly if he did not move in the slightest manner. Frère Sylvain added, turning towards his assistants, ‘Above everything, do not allow him to move even a finger, or you will kill him,’ and we all left the tent in very low spirits. That secretary I have mentioned, on leaving the tent, thought he perceived a faint and sad smile glide over the lips of M. de Bragelonne when the Duc said to him, in a cheerful, kind voice, ‘We shall save you, Vicomte, we shall save you!’

  “In the evening, when it was believed the wounded man had taken some repose, one of the assistants entered his tent, but rushed immediately out again uttering loud cries. We all ran up in disorder, M. le Duc with us, and the assistant pointed to the body of M. de Bragelonne
upon the ground, at the foot of his bed, bathed in the remainder of his blood. It appeared that he had had some convulsion, some febrile movement, and that he had fallen; that the fall had accelerated his end, according to the prognostic of Frère Sylvain. We raised the Vicomte: he was cold and dead. He held a lock of fair hair in his right hand, and that hand was pressed tightly upon his heart.”

  Then followed the details of the expedition, and of the victory obtained over the Arabs. D’Artagnan stopped at the account of the death of poor Raoul. “Oh!” murmured he, “unhappy boy! a suicide!”

  And turning his eyes towards the chamber of the chateau in which Athos slept in eternal sleep, “They have kept their words to each other,” said he, in a low voice; “now I believe them to be happy; they must be re-united.” And he returned through the parterre with slow and melancholy steps. All the village—all the neighbourhood—were filled with grieving neighbours relating to each other the double catastrophe, and making preparations for the funeral.

  88

  The Last Canto of the Poem

  ON THE MORROW, ALL the nobility of the provinces, of the environs, and wherever messengers had carried the news, were seen to arrive. D‘Artagnan had shut himself up, without being willing to speak to anybody. Two such heavy deaths falling upon the captain, so closely after the death of Porthos, for a long time oppressed that spirit which had hitherto been so indefatigable and invulnerable. Except Grimaud, who entered his chamber once, the musketeer saw neither servants nor guests. He supposed, from the noises in the house, and the continual coming and going, that preparations were being made for the funeral of the Comte. He wrote to the King to ask for an extension of his leave of absence. Grimaud, as we have said, had entered d’Artagnan’s apartment, had seated himself upon a joint-stool near the door, like a man who meditates profoundly; then, rising, he made a sign to d’Artagnan to follow him. The latter obeyed in silence. Grimaud descended to the Comte’s bed-chamber, showed the captain with his finger the place of the empty bed, and raised his eyes eloquently towards heaven.