Chapter 15 of THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK History will tell us, or rather history has told us, of the various events of the following day, of the splendid fets given by the Surin tenant to his sovereign. Nothing but amusement and delight was allowed to prevail throughout the whole of the following day. There was a promenade, a banquet, a comedy to be acted, and a comedy, too, in which, to his great amazement, porthos recognized Mr. Coquilland de Volière as one of the actors in the piece called Les Fachures. Full of preoccupation, however, from the scene of the previous evening, and hardly recovered from the effects of the poison which Colbert had then administered to him, the king, during the whole of the day, so brilliant in its effects, so full of unexpected and startling novelties, in which all the wonders of the Arabian night's entertainments seemed to be reproduced for his especial amusement. The king, we say, showed himself cold, reserved, and taciturn. Nothing could smooth the frowns upon his face. Everyone who observed him noticed that a deep feeling of resentment, of remote origin, increased by slow degrees as the source becomes a river, thanks to the thousand threads of water that increase its body, was keenly alive in the depths of the king's heart. Towards the middle of the day only did he begin to resume a little serenity of manner, and by that time he had, in all probability, made up his mind. Aramis, who followed him step by step in his thoughts, as in his walk, concluded that the event he was expecting would not be long before it was announced. This time Colbert seemed to walk in concert with the bishop of Van, and had he received for every annoyance which he inflicted on the king a word of direction from Aramis, he could not have done better. During the whole of the day the king, who, in all probability, wished to free himself from some of the thoughts which disturbed his mind, seemed to seek Lavalier's society as actively as he seemed to show his anxiety to flee that of Monsieur Colbert or Monsieur Fouquet. The evening came. The king had expressed a wish not to walk in the park until after cards in the evening. In the interval between supper and the promenade, cards and dice were introduced. The king won a thousand pistoles, and, having won them, put them in his pocket, and then rose, saying, And now, gentlemen, to the park. He found the ladies of the court were already there. The king, we have before observed, had won a thousand pistoles, and had put them in his pocket, but Monsieur Fouquet had somehow contrived to lose ten thousand, so that among the courtiers there was still left a hundred and ninety thousand francs profit to divide. A circumstance which made the countenances of the courtiers and the officers of the king's household the most joyous countenances in the world. It was not the same, however, were the king's face, for, notwithstanding his success at play, to which he was by no means insensible, there still remained a slight shade of dissatisfaction. Colbert was waiting for, or upon him, at the corner of one of the avenues. He was most probably waiting there in consequence of a rendezvous which had been given him by the king, as Louis XIV, who had avoided him, or who had seemed to avoid him, suddenly made him a sign, and they then struck into the depths of the park together. But La Valière, too, had observed the king's gloomy aspect in kindling glances. She had remarked this, and as nothing which lay hidden or smoldering in his heart was hidden from the gaze of her affection, she understood that this repressed wrath menace someone. She prepared to withstand the current of his vengeance, and intercede like an angel of mercy. Overcome by sadness, nervously agitated, deeply distressed at having been so long separated from her lover, disturbed at the sight of the emotion she had divined, she accordingly presented herself to the king with an embarrassed aspect, which in his then disposition of mind the king interpreted unfavorably. Then, as they were alone, nearly alone, in as much as Colbert, as soon as he perceived the young girl approaching, had stopped and drawn back a dozen paces, the king advanced towards La Valière and took her by the hand. "'Mademoiselle,' he said to her, "'should I be guilty of an indiscretion, if I were to inquire, if you were indisposed?  Your mistake, mademoiselle. No, it is not sadness I experience.' "'What is it, then, Sire?' "'Humiliation.' "'Humiliation?  I, the king of France, before the monarch of these wide domains.' "'Oh,' he continued, clenching his hands and teeth, "'when I think that this king—' "'Well, Sire,' said Louise, terrified, "'that this king is a faithless, unworthy servant, who grows proud and self-sufficient upon the strength of property, that belongs to me, and which he has stolen. And therefore I am about to change this impudent minister's fate into sorrow and mourning, of which the nymph of Vaux, as the poets say, shall not soon lose the remembrance.' "'Oh, your majesty!' "'Well, mademoiselle, are you about to take Monsieur Fouquet's part?' said Louis, impatiently. "'No, Sire. I will only ask whether you are well informed. Your majesty has more than once learned the value of accusations made at court.' Louis XIV made a sign for Colbert to approach. "'Speak, Monsieur Colbert,' said the young prince. "'For I almost believe that mademoiselle de la Valière has need of your assistance before she can put any faith in the king's word. Tell mademoiselle what Monsieur Fouquet has done. And you, mademoiselle, will perhaps have the kindness to listen. It will not be long.' "'Why did Louis XIV insist upon it in such a manner?' A very simple reason. His heart was not at rest. His mind was not thoroughly convinced. There lay some dark, hidden, tortuous intrigue behind these 13 millions of francs, and he wished that the pure heart of la Valière, which had revolted at the idea of theft or robbery, should approve, even word only by a single word, the resolution he had taken, and which nevertheless he hesitated before carrying into execution. "'Speak, Monsieur,' said la Valière to Colbert, who had advanced. Speak, since the king wishes me to listen to you. Tell me, what is the crime with which Monsieur Fouquet has charged?' "'Oh, not very heinous, mademoiselle,' he returned. A mere abuse of confidence. Speak, speak, Colbert, and when you have related it, leave us, and go and inform Monsieur d'Artagnan that I have certain orders to give him.' "'Monsieur d'Artagnan, Sire,' exclaimed la Valière. "'But why send for Monsieur d'Artagnan?  If he be guilty, he has his guilty in his own house as anywhere else?' "'Monsieur Fouquet, who at this moment is ruining himself for his sovereign.' "'In plain truth, mademoiselle, it seems as if you were defending this traitor.' Colbert began to chuckle silently. The king turned round at the sound of the suppressed mirth. "'Sire,' said la Valière, "'it is not Monsieur Fouquet I am defending. It is yourself.' "'Me, you are defending me.' "'Sire, you would dishonor yourself if you were to give such an order.' "'Dishonor myself,' murmured the king, turning pale with anger. "'In plain truth, mademoiselle, you show a strange persistence in what you say.' "'If I do, Sire, my only motive is that of serving your Majesty,' replied the noble hearted girl. "'For that I would risk. I would sacrifice my very life without the least reserve.' Colbert seemed inclined to grumble and complain. La Valière, that timid, gentle lamb, turned round upon him, and with a glance like lightning imposed silence upon him. "'Monsieur,' she said, when the king acts well, whether in doing so he does either myself or those who belong to me an injury, I have nothing to say. But whether came to confer a benefit either upon me or mine, and if he acting badly, I should tell him so.' "'But it appears to me, mademoiselle,' Colbert ventured to say, "'that I too love the king.' "'Yes, Monsignor, we both love him, but each in a different manner,' replied La Valière, was such an accent that the heart of the young king was powerfully affected by it. "'I love him so deeply that the whole world is aware of it, so purely that the king himself does not doubt my affection. He is my king and my master. I am the least of all his servants.  Therefore, I repeat, that they dishonour the king who advise him to arrest Monsieur Fouquet under his own roof.' Colbert hung down his head, for he felt that the king had abandoned him. However, as he bent his head, he murmured, "'Mademoiselle, I have only one word to say.' "'Do not say it then, monsieur, for I would not listen to it. Besides, what could you have to tell me? That Monsieur Fouquet has been guilty of certain crimes? I believe he has, because the king has said so. And from the moment the king said, I think so, I have no occasion for other lips to say, I affirm it. But were Monsieur Fouquet the vilest of men, I should say aloud, Monsieur Fouquet's person is sacred to the king, because he is the guest of Monsieur Fouquet. Were his house a den of thieves, were Voa a cave of coiners or robbers, his home is sacred, his palace is inviolable, since his wife is living in it, and that is an asylum which even executioners would not dare to violate.' Lavallier paused and was silent. In spite of himself, the king could not but admire her. He was overpowered by the passionate energy of her voice, by the nobleness of the cause she advocated. Colbert yielded, overcome by the inequality of the struggle.  "'Mademoiselle,' he said gently, why do you decide against me? Do you know what this wretched fellow will do, if I give him time to breathe again? Is he not a prey which will be always within your grasp?' "'Should he escape and take to flight?' exclaimed Colbert.' "'Well, Monsieur, it will always remain on record to the king's eternal honour that he allowed Monsieur Fouquet to flee, and the more guilty he may have been, the greater will the king's honour and glory appear, compared with such unnecessary misery and shame.' Louis kissed Lavallier's hand as he knelt before her. "'I am lost,' thought Colbert, then suddenly his face brightened up again. "'Oh, no, no, ah-ha, old fox, not yet,' he said to himself. And while the king, protected from observation by the thick covert of an enormous lime, pressed Lavallier to his breast with all the ardour of ineffable affection, Colbert tranquilly fumbled among the papers in his pocket-book, and drew out of it a paper folded in the form of a letter—somewhat yellow, perhaps, but one that must have been most precious, since the intended smiled as he looked at it. He then bent a look full of hatred upon the charming group which the young girl and the king formed together. A group revealed, but for a moment, as the light of the approaching torches shone upon it. Louis noticed the light reflected upon Lavallier's white dress. "'Leave me, Louis,' he said, for someone is coming.' "'Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, someone is coming,' cried Colbert to expedite the young girl's departure. Louis disappeared rapidly among the trees, and then as the king, who had been on his knees before the young girl, was rising from his humble posture, Colbert exclaimed, "'Ah, mademoiselle de Lavallier has let something fall.' "'What is it?' inquired the king. "'A paper, a letter, something white. Look there, Sire!' The king stooped down immediately and picked up the letter, crumpling it in his hand, as he did so, and at the same moment the torches arrived in endating the blackness of the scene with a flood of light as bright as day. End of chapter. Chapter 16 of The Man in the Iron Mask The torches we have just referred to, the eager attention everyone displayed, and the new ovation paid to the king by Fouquette, arrived in time to suspend the effect of a resolution which Lavallier had already considerably shaken in Louis XIV's heart. He looked at Fouquette with a feeling almost of gratitude for having given Lavallier an opportunity of showing herself so generously disposed, so powerful in the influence she exercised over his heart. The moment of the last and greatest display had arrived. Hardly had Fouquette conducted the king towards the chateau, when a mass of fire burst from the dome of Vaux with the prodigious uproar pouring a flood of dazzling cataracts of rays on every side and alluming the remotest corners of the gardens. The fireworks began. Colbert, at twenty paces from the king, who was surrounded and fettered by the owner of Vaux, seemed, by the obstinate persistence of his gloomy thoughts, to do his utmost to recall Louis's attention, which the magnificence of the spectacle was already, in his opinion, too easily diverting. Suddenly, just as Louis was on the point of holding it out to Fouquette, he perceived in his hand the paper which, as he believed, Lavallier had dropped at his feet as she hurried away. The still-stronger magnet of love drew the young prince's attention towards the souvenir of his idol, and by the brilliant light, which increased momentarily in beauty, and drew from the neighboring villages loud cheers of admiration, the king read the letter, which he supposed was a loving and tender epistle Lavallier had destined for him. But as he read it, a death-like pallor stole over his face, and an expression of deep-seated wrath, illumined by the many-colored fire which gleamed so brightly, soaringly around the scene, produced a terrible spectacle, which every one would have shuddered at, could they only have read into his heart, now torn by the most stormy and most bitter passions. There was no truce for him now, influenced as he was by jealousy and mad passion. From the very moment when the dark truth was revealed to him, every gentler feeling seemed to disappear. Pity, kindness of consideration, the religion of hospitality—all were forgotten. In the bitter pang which rung at his heart, he, still too weak to hide his sufferings, was almost on the point of uttering a cry of alarm, and calling his guards to gather round him. This letter, which Colbert had thrown down at the king's feet, doubtlessly guessed, was the same that had disappeared with the porter Toby at Fontainebleau, after the attempt which Fouquet had made upon Lavallier's heart. Fouquet saw the king's pallor, and was far from guessing the evil. Colbert saw the king's anger, and rejoiced inwardly at the approach of the storm. Fouquet's voice drew the young prince from his wrathful reverie. "'What is the matter, Sire?' inquired the superintendent, with an expression of graceful interest. Louis made a violent effort over himself, as he replied, "'Nothing.' "'I am afraid your majesty is suffering.' "'I am suffering, and have already told you so, monsieur, but it is nothing.' And the king, without waiting for the termination of the fireworks, turned towards the chateau. Fouquet accompanied him, and the whole court followed, leaving the remains of the fireworks consuming for their own amusement. The superintendent endeavored again to question Louis XIV, but did not succeed in obtaining a reply. He imagined there had been some misunderstanding between Louis and Lavallier in the park, which had resulted in a slight quarrel, and that the king, who was not ordinarily sulky by disposition, but completely absorbed by his passion for Lavallier, had taken a dislike to every one because his mistress had shown herself offended with him. This idea was sufficient to console him. He had even a friendly and kindly smile for the young king when the latter wished him good night. This, however, was not all the king had to submit to. He was obliged to undergo the usual ceremony, which on that evening was marked by close adherence to the strictest etiquette. The next day was the one fixed for the departure. It was but proper that the guests should thank their host, and show him a little attention in return for the expenditure of his twelve millions. The only remark, approaching to Amy Ability, which the king could find to say to M. Fouquette, as he took leave of him, were in these words, M. Fouquette, you shall hear from me. Be good enough to desire M. D'Artagnan to come here. But the blood of Louis XIV, who had so profoundly dissimulated his feelings, boiled in his veins, and he was perfectly willing to order M. Fouquette to be put an end to with the same readiness, indeed, as his predecessor had caused the assassination of Numer Rochelle Donker, and so he disguised the terrible resolution he had formed beneath one of those royal smiles which, like lightning flashes, indicated coup d'état. Fouquette took the king's hand and kissed it.  Five minutes afterwards D'Artagnan, to whom the royal order had been communicated, entered Louis XIV's apartment. Aramis and Philippe were in theirs, still eagerly attentive, and still listening with all their ears. The king did not even give the captain of the musketeers time to approach his arm-chair, but ran forward to meet him. Take care, he exclaimed, that no one enters here. Very good Sire, replied the captain, whose glance had for a long time passed analyzed the stormy indications on the royal countenance. He gave the necessary order at the door, but returning to the king, he said, Is there something fresh the matter, Your Majesty? How many men have you here? inquired the king, without making any other reply to the question addressed to him. But for, Sire, how many men have you, I say? repeated the king, stamping upon the ground with his foot. I have the musketeers. Well, and what others? Twenty guards, and thirteen Swiss. How many men will be required to— To do what, Sire? replied the musketeer, opening his large, calm eyes. To arrest Monsieur Fouquette. D'Artagnan fell back a step. To arrest Monsieur Fouquette, he burst forth. Are you going to tell me that it is impossible? exclaimed the king in tones of cold vindictive passion. I never say that anything is impossible, replied D'Artagnan, wounded to the quick. Very well, do it, then. D'Artagnan turned on his heel and made his way towards the door. It was but a short distance, and he cleared it in half a dozen paces. When he reached it he suddenly paused and said, Your Majesty will forgive me, but in order to affect this arrest I should like written directions. For what purpose, and since when has the king's word been insufficient for you? Because the word of a king, when it springs from a feeling of anger, may possibly change when the feeling changes. A truce to set phrases, Monsieur, you have another thought besides that? Oh, I at least have certain thoughts and ideas which, unfortunately, others have not. D'Artagnan replied impertinently. The king in the tempest of his wrath hesitated and drew back in the face of D'Artagnan's frank courage, just as a horse crouches on his haunches under the strong hand of a bold and experienced rider. What is your thought? He exclaimed. This sire replied D'Artagnan, You cause a man to be arrested when you are still under his roof, and passion is alone the cause of that. When your anger shall have passed, you will regret what you have done, and then I wish to be in a position to show you your signature. If that, however, should fail to be a reparation, it will at least show us that the king was wrong to lose his temper. Wrong to lose his temper, cried the king in a loud, passionate voice, did not my father, my grandfather's too before me, lose their temper at times in heaven's name. The king your father and the king your grandfather never lost their temper, except when under the protection of their own palace. The king is master wherever he may be. That is a flattering, complementary phrase which cannot proceed from any one but Mr. Colbert, but it happens not to be the truth. The king is at home in every man's house when he has driven its owner out of it. The king bit his lips, but said nothing. Can it be possible, said D'Artagnan, here is a man who is positively ruining himself in order to please you, and you wish to have him arrested. Or do you, Sire, if my name was Phuket, and people treated me in that manner, I would swallow at a single gulp all sorts of fireworks and other things, and I would set fire to them, and send myself and everybody else in blown-up atoms to the sky. But is all the same, it is your wish, and it shall be done. Go, said the king, have you many enough? Would you suppose I am going to take a whole host to help me? Arrest Mr. Phuket! Why that is so easy that a very child might do it. It is like drinking a glass of wormwood.  If he defends himself? He, it is not at all likely. Defend himself when such extreme harshness as you are going to practice makes the man a very martyr. Nay, I am sure that if he has a million of francs left, which I very much doubt, he would be willing enough to give it in order to have such a termination as this. But what does that matter? It shall be done at once. Stay, said the king. Do not make his arrest a public affair. That will be more difficult. Why so? Because nothing is easier than to go up to Mr. Phuket in the midst of a thousand enthusiastic guests who surround him and say, in the king's name I arrest you. But to go up to him, to turn him first one way and then another, to drive him up into one of the corners of the chess board in such a way that he cannot escape, to take him away from his guests and keep him prisoner for you without one of them, alas, having heard anything about it. That indeed is a genuine difficulty, the greatest of all in truth, and I hardly see how it is to be done. You had better say it is impossible, and you will have finished much sooner. Heaven helped me, but I seem to be surrounded by people who prevent me doing what I wish. I do not prevent your doing anything. Have you indeed decided? Take care of Mr. Phuket, until I shall have made up my mind by tomorrow morning. That shall be done, Sire. And return when I rise in the morning for further orders, and now leave me to myself.  The king started, with his whole mind fixed on the thought of revenge he had forgotten the cause and substance of the offence. No, no one, he said. No one here, leave me. D'Artagnan quitted the room. The king closed the door with his own hands, and began to walk up and down his apartment at a furious pace, like a wounded bull in an arena, trailing from his horn the coloured streamers and the iron darts. At last he began to take comfort in the expression of his violent feelings. Miserable wretch that he is! Not only does he squander my finances, but with his ill-gotten plunder he corrupts secretaries, friends, generals, artists, and all, and tries to rob me of the one to whom I am most attached. This is the reason that perfidious girl so boldly took his part. Gratitude! And who can tell whether it was not a stronger feeling? Love itself! He gave himself up for a moment to the bitterest reflections. A satyr, he thought, with that abhorrent hate with which young men regard those more advanced in life who still think of love. A man who has never found opposition or resistance in any one, who lavishes his golden jewels in every direction, and who retains his staff of painters in order to take the portraits of his mistresses in the costume of goddesses. The king trembled with passion as he continued. He pollutes and profanates everything that belongs to me. He destroys everything that is mine. He will be my death at last, I know. That man is too much for me. He is my mortal enemy, but he shall forthwith fall. I hate him. I hate him.  And as he pronounced these words, he struck the arm of the chair in which he was sitting violently, over and over again, and then rose like one in an epileptic fit. Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Oh, happy day! He murmured, When the sun rises, no other rival shall that brilliant king of space possess but me. That man shall fall so low, that when people look at the abject ruin my anger shall have wrought, they will be forced to confess at last and at least that I am indeed greater than he. The king, who was incapable of mastering his emotions any longer, knocked over with a blow of his fist a small table placed close to his bedside, and in the very bitterness of anger, almost weeping, and half suffocated, he threw himself on his bed, dressed as he was, and bit the sheets in his extremity of passion, trying to find repose of body at least there. The bed creaked beneath his weight, and with the exception of a few broken sounds emerging, or, one might say, exploding from his overburden chest, absolute silence soon reigned in the chamber of Morpheus. CHAPTER 17 OF THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, SC. THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK BY ALEXANDER DUMA CHAPTER 17 HIGH TREASON The ungovernable fury which took possession of the king at the site and the perusal of Fouquet's letter to Valière, by degrees subsided into a feeling of pain and extreme weariness. Youth, invigorated by health and lightness of spirits, requiring soon that what it loses should be immediately restored. Youth knows not those endless, sleepless nights which enable us to realize the fable of the vulture unceasingly feeding on Prometheus. In cases where the man of middle life, in his acquired strength of will and purpose, and the old, in their state of natural exhaustion, find incessant augmentation of their bitter sorrow. A young man, surprised by the sudden appearance of misfortune, weakens himself in sighs and groans and tears, directly struggling with his grief, and is thereby far sooner overthrown by the inflexible enemy with whom he is engaged. Once overthrown his struggles cease. Louis could not hold out more than a few minutes, at the end of which he had ceased to clench his hands and scorched in fancy with his looks the invisible objects of his hatred. He soon ceased to attack with his violent implications, not Monsieur Fouquet alone, but even Lavallier herself. From fury he subsided into despair, and from despair to prostration. After he had thrown himself for a few minutes to and fro convulsively on his bed, his nervous arms fell quietly down, his head lay languidly on his pillow, his limbs exhausted with excessive emotion, still trembled occasionally, agitated by muscular contractions, while from his breast faint and infrequent sighs still issued. Morpheus, the tutelary deity of the apartment, towards whom Louis raised his eyes, wearied by his anger and reconciled by his tears, showered down upon him the sleep-inducing poppies with which his hands are ever filled, so presently them on are closed his eyes and fell asleep. Then it seemed to him, as it often happens in that first sleep so light and gentle, which raises the body above the couch and the soul above the earth, it seemed to him, we say, as if the God Morpheus, painted on the ceiling, looked at him with eyes resembling human eyes, that something shone brightly and moved to and fro in the dome above the sleeper, that the crowd of terrible dreams which thronged together in his brain and which were interrupted for a moment, half revealed a human face, with a hand resting against the mouth, and in an attitude of deep and absorbed meditation. And strange enough, too, this man bore so wonderful a resemblance to the king himself, that Louis fancied he was looking at his own face reflected in a mirror. With the exception, however, that the face was saddened by a feeling of the profoundest pity. Then it seemed to him, as if the dome gradually retired, escaping from his gaze, and that the figures and attributes painted by Lebrun became darker and darker as the distance became more and more remote. A gentle, easy movement, as regular as that by which a vessel plunges beneath the waves, had succeeded to the immovableness of the bed. Outless the king was dreaming, and in this dream the crown of gold, which fastened the curtains together, seemed to recede from his vision, just as the dome, to which it remained suspended, had done, so that the wing-genius which, with both its hands, supported the crown, seemed, though vainly so, to call upon the king, who was fast disappearing from it. The bed still sunk. Louis, with his eyes open, could not resist the deception of this cruel hallucination. At last, as the light of the royal chamber faded away into darkness and gloom, something cold, gloomy, and inexplicable in its nature seemed to infect the air. No paintings, nor gold, nor velvet hangings were visible any longer. Nothing but walls of a dull gray color, which the increasing gloom made darker every moment. And yet the bed still continued to descend, and after a minute, which seemed in its duration almost an age to the king, it reached a stratum of air, black and chill as death, and then it stopped. The king could no longer see the light in his room, except as from the bottom of a well we can see the light of day. I am under the influence of some atrocious dream, he thought. It is time to awaken from it. Come, let me awake. Everyone has experienced the sensation the above remark conveys. There was hardly a person who, in the midst of a nightmare whose influence is suffocating, has not said to himself by the help of that light which still burns in the brain when every human light is extinguished. It is nothing but a dream, after all. This was precisely what Louis XIV said to himself, but when he said, Come, come, wake up, he perceived that not only was he already awake, but still more, that he had his eyes open also. And then he looked all round him. On his right hand and on his left two armed men stood in stolid silence, each wrapped in a huge cloak, and the face covered with a mask.  Louis could not help saying to himself that his dream still lasted, and that all he had to do to cause it to disappear was to move his arms or to say something aloud. He darted from his bed and found himself upon the damp, moist ground. Then, addressing himself to the man who held the lamp in his hand, he said, What is this, monsieur? And what is the meaning of this jest? It is no jest, replied in a deep voice the masked figure that held the lantern. Do you belong to monsieur Fouquet? inquired the king, greatly astonished at his situation. It matters very little to whom we belong, said the phantom. We are your masters now. That is sufficient. The king, more impatient than intimidated, turned to the other masked figure. If this is a comedy, he said, You will tell monsieur Fouquet that I find it unseemly and improper, and that I command it should cease. The second masked person to whom the king had addressed himself was a man of huge stature and vast circumference. He held himself erect and motionless as any block of marble. Well, added the king, stamping his foot, You do not answer. We do not answer you, my good monsieur, said the giant in a stentorian voice, Because there is nothing to say. At least tell me what you want, exclaimed Louis, folding his arms with a passionate gesture. You will know by and by, replied the man who held the lamp. In the meantime, tell me where I am. Look! Louis looked all round him, but by the light of the lamp which the masked figure raised for the purpose he could perceive nothing but the damp walls which glistened here and there with the slimy traces of the snail. Oh! oh! a dungeon! cried the king. No, a subterranean passage. Which leads? Would you be good enough to follow us? I shall not stir from hence! cried the king. If you are obstinate, my dear young friend, replied the taller of the two, I will lift you up in my arms and roll you up in your own cloak, and if you should happen to be stifled, why so much the worse for you? As he said this, he disengaged from beneath his cloak a hand of which Milo of Crotona would have envied him the possession on the day when he had that unhappy idea of rending his last oak. The king dreaded violence, for he could well believe that the two men into whose power he had fallen had not gone so far with any idea of drawing back, and that they would consequently be ready to proceed to extremities if necessary. He shook his head and said, It seems I have fallen into the hands of a couple of assassins. Move on, then. Neither of the men answered a word to this remark. The one who carried the lantern walked first. The king followed him, while the second masked figure closed the procession. In this manner they passed along a winding gallery of some length, with as many staircases leading out of it as are to be found in the mysterious and gloomy palaces of Anne Radcliffe's creation. All these windings and turnings, during which the king heard the sound of running water over his head, ended at last in a long corridor closed by an iron door. The figure with the lamp opened the door with one of the keys he wore suspended at his girdle, where, during the whole of the brief journey, the king had heard them rattle. As soon as the door was opened and admitted the air, Louis recognized the balmy odors that trees exhale in hot summer nights. He paused, hesitatingly, for a moment or two, but the huge sentinel who followed him thrust him out of the subterranean passage. Another blow, said the king, turning towards the one who had just had the audacity to touch his sovereign. What do you intend to do with the king of France? Try to forget that word. Replied the man with the lamp, in a tone which as little admitted of a reply as one of the famous decrees of Minos. You deserve to be broken on the wheel for the words that you have just made use of, said the giant, as he extinguished the lamp his companion handed to him. But the king is too kind-hearted. Louis, at that threat, made so sudden a movement that it seemed as if he meditated flight, but the giant's hand was in a moment placed on his shoulder and fixed him motionless where he stood. But tell me at least where we are going, said the king. Come, replied the former of the two men, with a kind of respect in his manner, and leading his prisoner towards a carriage which seemed to be in waiting. The carriage was completely concealed amid the trees. Two horses, with their feet fettered, were fastened by a halter to the lower branches of a large oak. Get in, said the same man, opening the carriage door and letting down the step. The king obeyed, seated himself at the back of the carriage, the padded door of which was shut and locked immediately upon him and his guide. As for the giant, he cut the fastenings by which the horses were bound, harnessed them himself and mounted on the box of the carriage which was unoccupied. The carriage set off immediately at a quick trot, turned into the road to Paris, and in the forests of Sennar, found a relay of horses fastened to the trees in the same manner the first horses had been, and without a postillian. The man on the box changed the horses and continued to follow the road towards Paris with the same rapidity so that they entered the city about three o'clock in the morning. The carriage proceeded along the faux-bourg, Saint-Antoine, and after having called out to the sentinel, By the king's order! The driver conducted the horses into the circular enclosure of the Bastille, looking out upon the courtyard, called La Cour de Gouvernement. There the horses drew up, reeking with sweat, at the flight of steps, and a sergeant of the guard ran forward. Go and wake the governor! said the coachman in a voice of thunder. With the exception of this voice, which might have been heard at the entrance of the faux-bourg, Saint-Antoine, everything remained as calm in the carriage as in the prison. Ten minutes afterwards, Monsieur de Besmeau appeared in his dressing-gown on the threshold of the door. What is the matter now? he asked. And whom have you brought me there? The man with a lantern opened the carriage door and said two or three words to the one who acted as driver, who immediately got down from his seat, took up a short musket which he kept under his feet, and placed its muzzle on his prisoner's chest. And fire it once, if he speaks! added aloud the man who elighted from the carriage. Very good! replied his companion without another remark. Through this recommendation the person who had accompanied the king in the carriage, ascended the flight of steps at the top of which the governor was awaiting him. Monsieur de Blay! said the latter. Hush! said Hermes. Let us go into your room. Good heavens! what brings you here at this hour? A mistake, my dear Monsieur de Besmeau! Hermes replied quietly. It appears that you were quite right the other day. What about? inquired the governor. About the order of release, my dear friend. Tell me what you mean, Monsieur. No, monseigneur. So the governor almost suffocated by surprise and terror. It is a very simple affair. You remember, dear Monsieur de Besmeau, that an order of release was sent to you. Yes, for Marquis Alley. Very good! We both thought that it was for Marquis Alley. Certainly! You will recollect, however, that I would not credit it, but that you compelled me to believe it. Oh!  Strongly recommended! That was all. Strongly recommended, yes!  Well, my dear Monsieur de Besmeau, it was a mistake. It was discovered at the ministry, so that I now bring you an order from the king to set at Liberty Selden, that poor Selden fellow, you know. Selden? Are you sure this time? Well, read it yourself. Added Eremus handing him the order. Why, said Besmeau, this order is the very same that has already passed through my hands. Indeed! It is the very one I assured you I saw the other evening. Parbleur! I recognize it by the blot of ink. I do not know whether it is that, but all I know is that I bring it for you. But then what about the other? What other? Marquis Alley. I have got him here with me. But that is not enough for me. I require a new order to take him back again. Don't talk such nonsense, my dear Besmeau.  Where is the order you received respecting Marquis Alley? Besmeau ran to his iron chest and took it out. Eremus seized hold of it, coolly tore it in four pieces, held them to the lamp, and burnt them. Good heavens, what are you doing? exclaimed Besmeau in an extremity of terror. Look at your position quietly, my good governor. Sit Eremus with impetervable self-possession. And you will see how very simple the whole affair is. You no longer possess any order justifying Marquis Alley's release. I am a lost man. Far from it, my good fellow, since I have brought Marquis Alley back to you, and all accordingly is just the same as if he had never left. Ha! said the governor, completely overcome by terror.  I should think so, indeed. And you will hand over this seldom to me, whose liberation is authorized by this order.  I, I, you do understand, I see, said Eremus. Very good. Besmeau clapped his hands together. But why, at all events, after having taken Marquis Alley away from me, do you bring him back again? cried the unhappy governor in a paroxysm of terror and completely dumbfounded. For a friend such as you are, said Eremus, for so devoted a servant I have no secrets. I put his mouth close to Besmeau's ear, as he said in a low tone of voice. You know the resemblance between that unfortunate fellow and, and the king, yes, very good. The first use that Marquis Alley made of his liberty was to persist. Can you guess what? How it is likely, I should guess. To persist in saying that he was king of France, to dress himself up in clothes like those of the king, and then pretend to assume that he was the king himself. Gracious heavens! That is the reason why I have brought him back again, my dear friend. He is mad and lets everyone see how mad he is. What is to be done, then? That is very simple, that no one hold any communication with him. You understand that when his peculiar style of madness came to the king's ears, the king, who had pitted his terrible affliction, and saw that all his kindness had been repaid by black ingratitude, became perfectly furious, so that now, and remember this very distinctly, dear Monsieur de Besmeau, for it concerns you most closely. So that there is now, I repeat, sentence of death pronounced against all those who may allow him to communicate with anyone else but me or the king himself. You understand Besmeau. You do not ask me whether I understand. And now let us go down and conduct this poor devil back to his dungeon again, unless you prefer he should come up here. What would be the good of that? It would be better, perhaps, to enter his name in the prison book at once. Of course, certainly, not a doubt of it. In that case, have him up. Besmeau ordered the drums to be beaten and the bell to be rung, as a warning to everyone to retire, in order to avoid meeting a prisoner about whom it was desired to observe a certain mystery. Then, when the passages were free, he went to take the prisoner from the carriage, at whose breast, porthos, faithful to the directions which had been given him, still kept his musket leveled. Ah, is that you, miserable wretch! cried the governor as soon as he perceived the king. Very good, very good. And immediately, making the king get out of the carriage, he led him, still accompanied by porthos, who had not taken off his mask, and Eremus, who again resumed his, up the stairs to the second batardière, and opened the door of the room in which Philippe for six long years had bemoaned his existence. The king entered the cell without pronouncing a single word. He faltered in as limp and haggard as a rain-struck lily. Besmeau shut the door upon him, turned the key twice in the lock, and then returned to Eremus. It is quite true, he said in a low tone, that he bears a striking resemblance to the king, but less so than you said. So that, said Eremus, you would not have been deceived by the substitution of the one for the other? What a question!  Oh, yes, I was going to forget that. I will go and give orders at once. Bah, to-morrow we'll be time enough. To-morrow? Oh, no, this very minute. Well, go off to your fares, I will go away to mine. But it is quite understood, is it not? What is quite understood? That no one is to enter the prisoner's cell except with an order from the king on order which I will myself bring. Quite so. Adieu, Monsignor. Eremus returned to his companion. Now, Porthos, my good fellow, back again de Vaux and as fast as possible. A man is light and easy enough when he faithfully served his king and in serving him saved his country, said Porthos. The horses will be light as if our tissues were constructed of the wind of heaven, so let us be off. And the carriage, lightened of a prisoner, who might well be, as he in fact was, very heavy in the sight of Eremus, passed across the drawbridge of the Bastille, which was raised again immediately behind it. CHAPTER XVIII. THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK by Alexander Dumas. CHAPTER XVIII. A NIGHT AT THE BASTILLE. PAIN, anguish and suffering in human life are always in proportion to the strength with which a man is endowed. We will not pretend to say that heaven always apportions to a man's capability of endurance the anguish with which he afflicts him. For that, indeed, would not be true, since heaven permits the existence of death, which is sometimes the only refuge open to those who are too closely pressed, too bitterly afflicted as far as the body is concerned. Suffering is in proportion to the strength which has been accorded. In other words, the weak suffer more where the trial is the same than the strong. And what are the elementary principles, you may ask, that compose human strength? Is it not more than anything else, exercise, habit, experience? We shall not even take the trouble to demonstrate this, for it is an axiom in morals, as in physics. When the young king, stupefied and crushed in every sense and feeling, found himself led to a cell in the Bastille, he fancied death itself his but asleep, that it, too, has its dreams as well, that the bed had broken through the flooring of his room at Vaux, that death had resulted from the occurrence, and that, still carrying out his dream, the king Louis XIV, now no longer living, was dreaming one of those horrors impossible to realize in life, which is termed dethronement, imprisonment, and insult towards a sovereign who formerly wielded unlimited power. To be present at, an actual witness, too, of this bitterness of death, to float indecisively in an incomprehensible mystery between resemblance and reality, to hear everything, to see everything, without interfering in a single detail of agonizing suffering, was, so the king thought within himself, a torture far more terrible, since it might last for ever. Is this what is termed eternity? Hell! He murmured, at the moment the door was closed upon him, which we remember Besmo had shut with his own hands. He did not even look round him, and in the room, leaning with his back against the wall, he allowed himself to be carried away by the terrible supposition that he was already dead, as he closed his eyes, in order to avoid looking upon something even worse still. How can I have died? he said to himself, sick with terror. The bed might have been let down by some artificial means. But no! I do not remember to have felt a bruise nor any shock, either. Would they not rather have poisoned me at my meals, or with the fumes of wax, as they did my ancestors, Jean d'Albray? Suddenly the chill of the dungeons seemed to fall like a wet cloak upon Louis's shoulders.  That pale face, so calm and worn, those hands, once so skillful, lying nervous by his side, those limbs stiffened by the icy grasp of death, nothing there betoken to sleep that was disturbed by dreams. And yet how numerous were the dreams which heaven might have sent that royal corpse, him whom so many others had preceded, hurried away by him, into eternal death. No! That king was still the king. He was enthroned still upon that funeral couch, as upon a velvet armchair. He had not abdicated one title of his majesty. God who had not punished him, cannot, will not punish me, who have done nothing. A strange sound attracted the young man's attention. He looked round him, and saw on the mantle-shelf, just below an enormous crucifix, coarsely painted in fresco on the wall, a rat of enormous size engaged in nibbling a piece of dry bread, but fixing all the time an intelligent and inquiring look upon the new occupant of the cell. The king could not resist a sudden impulse of fear and disgust. He moved back towards the door, uttering a loud cry, and as if he but needed this cry, which escaped from his breast almost unconsciously, to recognize himself, Louis knew that he was alive and in full possession of his natural senses. A prisoner! he cried. Aye! Aye! A prisoner! He looked round him for a bell to summon someone to him. There are no bells in the Bastille, he said. And it is in the Bastille I am imprisoned. In what way can I have been made a prisoner? It must have been owing to a conspiracy of Monsieur Fouquette. I have been drawn devout as to a snare. Monsieur Fouquette cannot be acting alone in this affair. His agent. That voice that I but just now heard was Monsieur de Blaise. I recognized it. Colbert was right then. But what is Fouquette's object? To reign in my place and stead? Impossible. Yet who knows? Thought the king, relapsing into gloom again. Perhaps my brother, the duke d'Ollion, is doing that which my uncle wished to do during the whole of his life against my father. But the queen? My mother, too? I'd love Valière. Oh! Love Valière, she will have been abandoned to Madame. Dear, dear girl! Yes. It is. It must be so.  We are separated for ever. And at this idea of separation the poor lover burst into a flood of tears and sobs and groans. There is a governor in this place. The king continued, in a fury of passion, I will speak to him. I will summon him to me. He called. No voice replied to his. He seized hold of his chair and hurled it against the massive oaken door. The wood resounded against the door, and awakened many a mournful echo in the profound depths of the staircase, but from a human creature none. This was a fresh proof for the king of the slight regard in which he was held at the Bastille. Therefore when his first fit of anger had passed away, having remarked a barred window through which there passed a stream of light, lost in shape, there must be he knew the bright orb of approaching day, Louis began to call out. At first gently enough, then louder, and louder still, but no one replied. Twenty other attempts which he made, one after another, obtained no other or better success. His blood began to boil within him, and melt to his head. His nature was such that, accustomed to command, he trembled at the idea of disobedience. The prisoner broke the chair, which was too heavy for him to lift, and made use of it as a battering-ram to strike against the door. He struck so loudly, and so repeatedly, that the perspiration sue began to pour down his face. The sound became tremendous and continuous. Certain stifled, smothered cries replied in different directions. This sound produced a strange effect upon the king. He paused to listen. It was the voice of the prisoners, formerly his victims, now his companions. The voices ascended like vapours, through the thick ceilings and the massive walls, and rose in accusations against the author of this noise, as doubtless their size and tears accused, in whispered tones, the author of their captivity. After having deprived so many people of their liberty, the king came among them to rob them of their rest. This idea almost drove him mad. It redoubled his strength, or rather his will, bent upon obtaining some information, or a conclusion to the affair. With a portion of the broken chair he recommended the noise. At the end of an hour, Louis heard something in the corridor behind the door of his cell, and a violent blow, which was returned upon the door itself, made him cease his own.  What is the matter with you this morning? This morning, thought the king, but he said aloud politely, Monsieur, are you the governor of the Bastille?  But that is no reason why you should make such a terrible disturbance. Be quiet, Maudiot. Are you the governor? The king inquired again. He heard a door on the corridor close. The jailer had just left, not condescending to reply a single word. When the king had assured himself of his departure, his fury no longer knew any bounds. As agile as a tiger he leaped from the table to the window and struck the iron bars with all his might. He broke a pane of glass, the pieces of which fell clanking into the courtyard below. He shouted with increasing hoarseness, The governor! The governor! This excess lasted fully an hour, during which time he was in a burning fever. With his hair and disorder and matted on his forehead, his dress torn and covered with dust and plaster, his linen and shreds, the king never rested until his strength was utterly exhausted, and it was not until then that he clearly understood the pitiless thickness of the walls, the impenetrable nature of the cement, invincible to every influence but that of time, and that he possessed no other weapon but despair. He leaned his forehead against the door and let the feverish throbbing of his heart calm by degrees. It had seemed as if one single additional pulsation would have made it burst. A moment will come when the food which is given to the prisoners will be brought to me. I shall then see some one, I shall speak to him, and get an answer. And the king tried to remember it what hour the first repast of the prisoners was served at the Bastille.  The feeling of remorse at this remembrance smote him like the thrust of a dagger, that he should have lived for five and twenty years a king, and in the enjoyment of every happiness, without having bestowed a moment's thought on the misery of those who had been unjustly deprived of their liberty. The king blushed for very shame. He felt that heaven, in permitting this fearful humiliation, did no more than render to the man the same torture as had been inflicted by that man upon so many others. Nothing could be more efficacious for reawakening his mind to religious influences than the prostration of his heart and mind and soul beneath the feeling of such acute wretchedness. But Louis dared not even kneel in prayer to God to entreat him to terminate his bitter trial. Heaven is right, he said. Heaven acts wisely. It would be cowardly to pray to heaven for that which I have so often refused my own fellow creatures. He had reached this stage of his reflections, that is, of his agony of mind, when a similar noise was again heard behind his door, followed this time by the sound of the key in the lock, and of the bolts being withdrawn from their staples. The king bounded forward to be nearer to the person who was about to enter, but suddenly reflecting that it was a movement unworthy of a sovereign, he paused, assumed a noble and calm expression which for him was easy enough, and waited with his back turned towards the window, in order, to some extent, to conceal his agitation from the eyes of the person who was about to enter. It was only a jailer with a basket of provisions. The king looked at the man with restless anxiety, and waited until he spoke. "'Ah!' said the latter. "'You have broken your chair. I said you had done so. Why? You have gone quite mad.' "'Monsieur,' said the king, "'be careful what you say. It will be a very serious affair for you.' The jailer placed the basket on the table, and looked at his prisoner steadily. "'What do you say?' he said. "'Desire the governor to come to me,' added the king, in accents full of calm and dignity. "'Come, my boy,' said the turnkey. "'You have always been very quiet and reasonable. But you are getting vicious, it seems, and I wish you to know it in time. You have broken your chair, and made a great disturbance. That is an offence punishable by imprisonment in one of the lower dungeons. Trust me, not to begin over again, and I will not say a word about it to the governor.' "'I wish to see the governor,' replied the king, still governing his passions. "'He will send you off to one of the dungeons. I tell you, so take care.' "'I insist upon it, do you hear?' "'Ah! Ah! Your eyes are becoming wild again. Very good. Take away your knife.' And the jailer did what he said, quitted the prisoner and closed the door, leaving the king more astounded, more wretched, more isolated than ever. It was useless, though he tried it, to make the same noise again on his door, and equally useless that he threw the plates and dishes out of the window. Not a single sound was heard in recognition. Two hours afterwards he could not be recognized as a king, a gentleman, a man, a human being. He might rather be called a madman, tearing the door with his nails, trying to tear up the flooring of his cell, and uttering such wild and fearful cries that the old bestia seemed to tremble to its very foundations for having revolted against its master. As for the governor, the jailer did not even think of disturbing him. The turnkeys and the sentinels had reported the occurrence to him, but what was the good of it? Were not these madmen common enough in such a prison? And were not the walls still stronger? Monsieur de Besmeau, thoroughly impressed with what Aramis had told him, an imperfect conformity with the king's order, hoped only that one thing might happen—namely, that the madman Marchiali might be mad enough to hang himself to the canopy of his bed, or to one of the bars of the window. In fact, the prisoner was anything but a profitable investment for Monsieur de Besmeau, and became more annoying than agreeable to him. These complications of Seldon and Marchiali, the complications first of setting it liberty, and then imprisoning again, the complications arising from the strong likeness in question, had at last found a very proper de Numeau. Besmeau even thought. He had remarked that Derbley himself was not altogether dissatisfied with the result. And then, really, said Besmeau to his next-in-command, an ordinary prisoner is already unhappy enough in being a prisoner. He suffers quite enough, indeed, to induce one to hope, charitably enough, that his death may not be far distant, with still greater reason accordingly, when the prisoner has gone mad, and might bite and make a terrible disturbance in the Bastille. Why, in such a case, it is not simply an act of mere charity to wish him dead, it would be almost a good and even commendable action, quietly to have him put out of his ministry. And the good-natured governor thereupon sat down to his late breakfast. CHAPTER XIX D'Artagnan, still confused and oppressed by the conversation he had just had with the king, could not resist asking himself if he were really in possession of his senses, if he were really and truly at vaux. If he, D'Artagnan, were really the captain of the musketeers, and Messier Fouquet, the owner of the chateau in which Louis XIV, was at that moment partaking of his hospitality. These reflections were not those of a drunken man, although everything was in prodigal profusion at vaux, and the sir-intendant's wines had met with a distinguished reception at the Fête. The Gaskin, however, was a man of calm self-possession, and no sooner did he touch his bright steel blade than he knew how to adopt morally the cold keen weapon as his guide of action. Well, he said, as he quitted the royal apartment, I seem now to be mixed up historically with the destinies of the king and of the minister. It will be written that Messier D'Artagnan, a younger son of a Gaskin family, placed his hand on the shoulder of Messier Nicolas Fouquet, the sir-intended of the finances of France. My descendants, if I have any, will flatter themselves with the distinction which this arrest will confer, just as the members of the Deloyne family have done with regard to the estates of the poor Maréchal d'Ancre. But the thing is, how best to execute the king's directions in a proper manner. Any man would know how to say to Messier Fouquet, your sword, Messier, but is not everyone who would be able to take care of Messier Fouquet without others knowing anything about it. How am I to manage, then, so that Messier Lusser-intended, pass from the height of favour to the direst disgrace, that Vogue be turned into a dungeon for him, that after having been steeped to his lips, as it were, in all the perfumes and incense of Ahasuerus, he is transferred to the gallows of Haman, in other words, of Engaran de Marigny. And at this reflection D'Artagnan's brow became clouded with perplexity. The musketeer had certain scruples on the matter, it must be admitted. To deliver up to death, for not a doubt existed that Louis hated Fouquet mortally, the man who had just shown himself so delightful and charming a host in every way, was a real insult to one's conscience. It almost seems, said D'Artagnan to himself, that if I am not a poor, mean, miserable fellow, I should let Messier Fouquet know the opinion the king has about him. Yet if I betray my master's secret, I shall be a false-hearted, treacherous knave, a traitor, too, a crime provided for and punishable by military laws, so much so indeed that twenty times, in former days when wars were rife, I have seen many a miserable fellow strung up to a tree for doing, in but a small degree, what my scruples counsel me to undertake upon a great scale now. No? I think that a man of true readiness of wit ought to get out of this difficulty with more skill than that.  It is not at all certain, though, for after having for forty years absorbed so large a quantity, I shall be lucky if there were to be a bestowley's worth left. D'Artagnan buried his head in his hands, tore at his moustache in sheer vexation, and added, What can be the reason of Messier Fouquet's disgrace? There seem to be three good ones. The first, because Messier Colbert doesn't like him. The second, because he wished to fall in love with Mme. Moussel de la Valière. And lastly, because the king likes Messier Colbert and loves Mme. Moussel de la Valière. Oh, he is lost! But shall I put my foot on his neck? I of all men, when he is falling a prey to the intrigues of a pack of women in clerks? For shame! If he be dangerous, I will lay him low enough. If, however, he be only persecuted, I will look on. I have come to such a decisive determination that neither king nor living man shall change my mind. If Athos were here he would do as I have done. Therefore, instead of going, in cold blood, up to Messier Fouquet, and arresting him offhand and shutting him up altogether, I will try and conduct myself like a man who understands what good menors are. People will talk about it, of course, but they shall talk well of it, I am determined. And D'Artagnan, drawing by a gesture peculiar to himself his shoulder belt over his shoulder, went straight off to Messier Fouquet, who, after he had taken leave of his guests, was preparing to retire for the night and to sleep tranquilly after the triumphs of the day. The air was still perfumed, or infected, whichever way it may be considered, were the odours of the torches and the fireworks. The wax lights were dying away in their sockets. The flowers fell unfastened from the garlands. The groups of dancers and courtiers were separating in the salons. Surrounded by his friends, who complimented him and received his flattering remarks in return, the Surin tenant half closed his weary eyes. He longed for rest and quiet. He sank upon the bed of laurels which had been heaped up for him for so many days past. It might almost have been said that he seemed bowed beneath the weight of the new debts which he had incurred for the purpose of giving the greatest possible honour to this vet. Fouquet had just retired to his room, still smiling, but more than half asleep. He could listen to nothing more. He could hardly keep his eyes open. His bed seemed to possess a fascinating and irresistible attraction for him. The God Morpheus, the presiding deity of the dome painted by Lebrun, had extended his influence over the adjoining-rooms, and showered down his most sleep-inducing poppies upon the master of the house. Fouquet, almost entirely alone, was being assisted by his valet de chambre to Andres, when Monsieur d'Artagnan appeared at the entrance of the room. d'Artagnan had never been able to succeed in making himself common at the court, and notwithstanding he was seen everywhere and on all occasions he never failed to produce an effect wherever and whenever he made his appearance. Such is the happy privilege of certain natures, which in that respect resemble either thunder or lightning. Everyone recognises them, but their appearance never fails to arouse surprise and astonishment, and whenever they occur the impression is always left that the last was the most conspicuous or most important. What! Monsieur d'Artagnan! said Fouquet, who had already taken his right arm out of the sleeve of his doublet. At your service! replied the musketeer. Come in, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan. Thank you.  You are ingenious enough in your criticisms, I know. By no means. Are not your men looked after properly? In every way. You are not comfortably lodged, perhaps? Nothing could be better. In that case I have to thank you for being so amably disposed, and I must not fail to express my obligations to you for all your flattering kindness. These words were as much as to say, my dear d'Artagnan, pray go to bed since you have a bed to lie down on, and let me do the same. d'Artagnan did not seem to understand it. Are you going to bed already? he said to the superintendent. Yes. Have you anything to say to me? Nothing, Monsieur, nothing at all. You sleep in this room, then? Yes, as you see. You have given a most charming FET to the king. Do you think so? Oh, beautiful! Is the king pleased? Enchanted. Did he desire you to say as much to me? You would not choose so unworthy a messenger, Maudsignor. You do not do yourself justice, Monsieur d'Artagnan. Is that your bed there? Yes, but why do you ask? Are you not satisfied with your own? May I speak frankly to you? Most assuredly. Well, then, I am not. It started, and then replied, Will you take my room, Monsieur d'Artagnan? What deprive you of it, Maudsignor? Never! What am I to do, then? Allow me to share yours with you. Fouquette looked at the musketeer fixedly. Ah! Ah! he said. You have just left the king. I have, Maudsignor. And the king wishes you to pass the night in my room? Maudsignor, very well, Monsieur d'Artagnan, very well.  I assure you, Maudsignor, that I do not wish to abuse. Fouquette turned to his valet and said, Leave us. When the man had left, he said to d'Artagnan, You have something to say to me? I? A man of your superior intelligence cannot have come to talk with a man like myself at such an hour as the present without grave motives. Do not interrogate me. On the contrary, what do you want with me? Nothing more than the pleasure of your society. Come into the garden, then, said the superintendent suddenly, or into the park. No, replied the musketeer hastily. No. Why? The fresh air. Come, admit it once that you arrest me, said the superintendent to the captain. Never, said the latter. You intend to look after me, then? Yes, Maudsignor, I do, upon my honour. Upon your honour? Ah, that is quite another thing, so I am to be arrested in my own house. Do not say such a thing. On the contrary, I will proclaim it aloud. If you do so, I shall be compelled to request you to be silent. Very good. Violence towards me, and in my own house, too. We do not seem to understand one another at all. Stay a moment. There is a chessboard there. We will have a game, if you have no objections. Mr. D'Artagnan, I am in disgrace, then? Not at all, but I am prohibited, I suppose, from withdrawing from your sight. I do not understand a word you are saying, Maudsignor, and if you wish me to withdraw, tell me so. My dear Mr. D'Artagnan, your mode of action is enough to drive me mad. I was almost sinking for want of sleep, but you have completely awakened me. I shall never forgive myself, I am sure, and if you wish to reconcile me with myself, why go to sleep in your bed in my presence, and I shall be delighted. I am under surveillance, I see. I will leave the room if you say any such thing. You are beyond my comprehension. Good night, Maudsignor," said D'Artagnan, as he pretended to withdraw. Phuket ran after him. I will not lie down," he said. Seriously, and since you refuse to treat me as a man, and since you finesse with me, I will try and set you at bay, as a hunter does a wild boar. Pah! cried D'Artagnan, pretending to smile. I shall order my horses and set off for Paris, said Phuket, sounding the captain of the musketeers. If that be the case, Maudsignor, it is very difficult. You will arrest me then? No, but I shall go along with you. That is quite sufficient, M. D'Artagnan, returned Phuket coldly. It was not for nothing you acquired your reputation as a man of intelligence and resource, but with me all this is quite superfluous. Let us come to the point. Do me a service. Why do you arrest me? What have I done? Oh! I know nothing about what you may have done, but I do not arrest you. This evening, at least. This evening, said Phuket, turning pale. But to-morrow? It is not to-morrow just yet, Maudsignor. Who can ever answer for the morrow? Quick, quick, Captain! Let me speak to M. D'Arblay. Alas! That is quite impossible, Maudsignor. I have strict orders to see that you hold no communication with any one. With M. D'Arblay, Captain! With your friend! Maudsignor, is M. D'Arblay the only person with whom you ought to be prevented holding any communication? Maudsignor, you are right, Maudsignor. You have taught me a lesson I ought not to have evoked. A fallen man cannot assert his right to anything, even from those whose fortunes he may have made, for a still stronger reason, he cannot claim anything from those to whom he may never have had the happiness of doing a service. Maudsignor! It is perfectly true, M. D'Arblay. You have always acted in the most admirable manner towards me, in such a manner indeed, as most becomes the man who is destined to arrest me. You at least have never asked me anything. Maudsignor replied the Gaskin, touched by his eloquent and noble tone of grief. Will you, I ask it as a favour, pledge me your word as a man of honour that you will not leave this room? What is the use of it, my dear M. D'Artaigne, since you keep watch and ward over me? Do you suppose I should contend against the most valiant sword in the kingdom? It is not that at all, Maudsignor, but that I am going to look for M. D'Arblay and consequently to leave you alone. Fouquette uttered a cry of delight and surprise. To look for M. D'Arblay! To leave me alone! He exclaimed, clapping his hands together. Which is M. D'Arblay's room? The blue room, is it not? Yes, my friend, yes. Your friend, thank you for that word, Maudsignor, you conferred upon me today, at least, if you have never done so before. Ah, you have saved me! It will take a good ten minutes to go from hence to the blue room and to return, said D'Artaigne, nearly so. And then to wake Eremus, who sleeps very soundly when he is asleep, I put that down at another five minutes, making a total of fifteen minutes absence, and now, Maudsignor, give me your word that you will not in any way attempt to make your escape, and that when I return I shall find you here again. I give it, M. D'Arblay! replied Fouquette, with an expression of the warmest and deepest gratitude. D'Artaigne disappeared. Fouquette looked at him as he quitted the room, waited with a feverish impatience until the door was closed behind him, and as soon as it was shut, flew to his keys, opened two or three secret doors concealed in various articles of furniture in the room, looked vainly for certain papers, which doubtless he had left at Saint-Mond, and which he seemed to regret not having found in them. Then hurriedly seizing hold of letters, contracts, papers, writings, he heaped them up into a pile which he burned in the extremest haste upon the marble hearth of the fireplace, not even taking time to draw from the interior of it the vases and pots of flowers with which it was filled. As soon as he had finished, like a man who had just escaped an imminent danger, and whose strength abandons him as soon as the danger is passed, he sank down completely overcome on a couch. When D'Artaigne returned he found Fouquette in the same position. The worthy musketeer had not the slightest doubt that Fouquette, having given his word, would not even think of failing to keep it, but he had thought it most likely that Fouquette would turn his, D'Artaigne's, absence to the best advantage in getting rid of all the papers, memorandums, and contracts which might possibly render his position, which was even now serious enough, more dangerous than ever.  As D'Artaigne entered, Fouquette, on his side, raised his head, and not one of D'Artaigne's movements escaped him. And then the looks of the two men met, and they both saw that they had understood each other without exchanging a syllable. Well asked Fouquette the first to speak, And M. Dublé? Upon my word, M. D'Artaigne, M. Dublé must be desperately fond of walking out at night, and composing verses by moonlight in the park of Vaux, with some of your poets in all probability, for he is not in his own room. What? Not in his own room? cried Fouquette, whose last hope thus escaped him, for unless he could ascertain in what way the Bishop of Vann could assist him, he perfectly well knew that he could expect assistance from no other quarter. Or indeed, continued D'Artaigne, if he is in his own room he has a very good reason for not answering. But surely you did not call him in such a manner that he could have heard you. You can hardly suppose, M. that having already exceeded my orders, which forbade me leaving you a single moment. You can hardly suppose, I say, that I should have been mad enough to rouse the whole house, and allow myself to be seen in the corridor of the Bishop of Vann, in order that M. Colbert might state with positive certainty that I gave you time to burn your papers. My papers? Of course. At least that is what I should have done in your place. When anyone opens the door for me I always avail myself of it. Yes, yes, and I thank you, for I have availed myself of it. And you have done perfectly right. Every man has his own peculiar secrets with which others have nothing to do. But let us return to Aramis, M. Well then I tell you you could not have called loud enough, or Aramis would have heard you. However softly any one may call Aramis, M. Aramis always hears when he has an interest in hearing. I repeat what I said before. Aramis was not in his own room, or Aramis had certain reasons for not recognizing my voice, of which I am ignorant, and of which you may be even ignorant yourself. Notwithstanding your liegeman is his greatness the Lord Bishop of Vann, Phuket drew a deep sigh, rose from his seat, took three or four turns in his room, and finished by seating himself, with an expression of extreme dejection upon his magnificent bed with velvet hangings and costliest lace. He looked at Phuket with feelings of the deepest and sincerest pity. I have seen a good many men arrested in my life, said the musketeer, sadly. I have seen both M. de Sainte-Mar and M. de Chalet arrested, though I was very young then. I have seen M. de Cond arrested with the princes. I have seen M. de Retz arrested. I have seen M. Brucell arrested. May a moment, Monsignor. It is disagreeable to have to say, but the very one of all those whom you most resemble at this moment was that poor fellow Brucell.  Morteo!  Because your friends saw you. M. de D'Artagnan replied the serentenate with a smile full of gentleness. You do not understand me. It is precisely because my friends are not looking on that I am as you see me now. I do not live, exist even, isolated from others. I am nothing when left to myself. And that throughout my whole life I have passed every moment of my time in making friends, whom I hoped to render my stay and support. In times of prosperity all these cheerful happy voices, rendered so through and by my means, formed in my honor a concert of praise and kindly actions. In the least disfavor, these umbler voices accompanied in harmonious accents the murmur of my own heart. Isolation I have never yet known. Poverty! A phantom I have sometimes beheld, clad in rags, awaiting me at the end of my journey through life. Poverty has been the specter with which many of my own friends have trifled for years past, which they poetize and caress, and which has attracted me towards them. Poverty! I accept it, acknowledge it, receive it as a disinherited sister. For poverty is neither solitude nor exile nor imprisonment. Is it likely I shall ever be poor with such friends as Pellissant, as La Fontaine, as Molière? And such a mister says, Oh, if you knew how utterly lonely and dazzlet I feel at this moment, and how you, who separate me from all I love, seem to resemble the image of solitude, of annihilation, death itself. But I have already told you, Monsieur Fouquette, replied D'Artagnan, move to the depths of his soul, that you are woefully exaggerating what the king likes you. No, no, said Fouquette, shaking his head.  Monsieur Colbert, what does that matter to me? He will ruin you. Ah, I defy him to do that, for I am ruined already. At this singular confession of the superintendent, D'Artagnan cast his glance all around the room, and although he did not open his lips, Fouquette understood him so thoroughly that he added. What can be done with such wealth of substance as surrounds us when a man can no longer cultivate his taste for the magnificent? Do you know what good the greater part of the wealth and the possessions which we rich enjoy confer upon us? Only to disgust us, by their very splendour even, with everything which does not equal it. Woe, you will say, and the wonders of woe. What of it? What boot these wonders? If I am ruined, how shall I fill with water the urns which my niads bear in their arms, or force the air into the lungs of my tritons? To be rich enough, Monsieur D'Artagnan, a man must be too rich. D'Artagnan shook his head. Oh, I know very well what you think, replied Fouquette quickly. If though were yours, you would sell it, and would purchase an estate in the country, an estate which should have woods, orchards, and land attached, so that the estate should be made to support its master. With forty millions, you might. Ten millions, interrupted D'Artagnan. Not a million, my dear captain. No one in France is rich enough to give two millions for woe, and to continue to maintain it as I have done. No one could do it. No one would know how. Well, said D'Artagnan, in any case, a million is not abject misery. It is not far from it, my dear Monsieur. But you do not understand me. No, I will not sell my residence at woe. I will give it to you, if you like. And Fouquette accompanied these words with a movement of the shoulders to which it would be impossible to do justice. Give it to the king. You will make a better bargain. The king does not require me to give it to him, said Fouquette. He will take it away from me with the most absolute ease and grace if he pleases him to do so. And that is the very reason I should prefer to see it perish. Do you know, Monsieur D'Artagnan, that if the king did not happen to be under my roof, I would take this candle, go straight to the dome, and set fire to a couple of huge chests of fuses and fireworks which are in reserve there, and would reduce my palace to ashes? Bah! said the musketeer negligently. At all events you would not be able to burn the gardens, and that is the finest feature of the place. And yet, resume Fouquette thoughtfully, what was I saying?  But Fou is not mine. These wonderful creations are, it is true, the property, as far as sense of enjoyment goes, of the man who is paid for them, but as far as duration is concerned, they belong to those who created them. Vos belongs to Le Brune, to Le Norte, to Pellissons, to Livots, to La Fontaine, to Molière. Vos belongs to posterity, in fact. You see, Monsieur D'Artagnan, that my very house has ceased to be my own. That is all well and good, said D'Artagnan. The idea is agreeable enough, and I recognize Monsieur Fouquette himself in it. That idea, indeed, makes me forget that poor fellow Bruxelles altogether. And I now fail to recognize in you the whining complaints of that old frondeur. If you are ruined, Monsieur, look at the affair manfully. For you, too, Morteo, belong to posterity, and have no right to lessen yourself in any way. Stay a moment. Look at me. I, who seem to exercise in some degree, a kind of superiority over you, because I am arresting you. Fate, which distributes their different parts to the comedians of this world, accorded me a less agreeable and less advantageous part to fill than yours has been. I am one of those who think that the parts which kings and powerful nobles are called upon to act are infinitely of more worth than the parts of beggars or lackeys. It is far better on the stage. On the stage, I mean, of another theatre than the theatre of this world. It is far better to wear a fine coat and to talk a fine language than to walk the boards shod with a pair of old shoes or to get one's backbone gently polished by a hearty dressing with a stick. In one word, you have been a prodigal with money. You have ordered and been obeyed, have been steeped to the lips in enjoyment, while I have dragged my tether after me, have been commanded and have obeyed, and have drudged my life away. Well, although I may seem of such trifling importance beside you, Monsignor, I do declare to you that the recollection of what I have done serves me as a spur and prevents me from bowing my old head too soon. I shall remain unto the very end a trooper, and when my turn comes I shall fall perfectly straight, all in a heap, still alive, after having selected my place beforehand. Do as I do, Monsieur Fouquet, you will not find yourself the worse for it. A fall happens only once in a lifetime to men like yourself, and the chief thing is to take it gracefully when the chance presents itself. There is a Latin proverb, the words have escaped me, but I remember the sense of it very well, for I have thought over it more than once, which says, the end crowns the work. Fouquet rose from his seat, passed his arm around D'Artagnan's neck, and clasped him in a close embrace, whilst with the other hand he pressed his hand. An excellent homily, he said, after a moment's pause. A soldier's monsignor. You have a regard for me in telling me all that. Perhaps. Fouquet resumed his pensive attitude once more, and then, a moment after, he said, Where can Monsieur de Blébi? I dare not ask you to send for him. You would not ask me, because I would not do it, Monsieur Fouquet. People would learn it, and Aramis, who is not mixed up with the affair, might possibly be compromised and included in your disgrace. I will wait here till daylight, said Fouquet. Yes, that is best. What shall we do when daylight comes? I know nothing at all about it, Monsignor. Monsieur D'Artagnan, will you do me a favour? Most willingly. You guard me? I remain. You are acting in the full discharge of your duty, I suppose? Certainly. Very good, then. Remain as close to me as my shadow, if you like, and I infinitely prefer such a shadow to anyone else. D'Artagnan bowed to the compliment. But forget that you are Monsieur D'Artagnan, Captain of the Musketeers. Forget that I am Monsieur Fouquet, Sir Intendant of the Finances, and let us talk about my affairs. That is rather a delicate subject. Indeed. Yes, but for your sake, Monsieur Fouquet, I will do what may almost be regarded as an impossibility. Thank you. What did the King say to you? Nothing. Ah, is that the way you talk? The deuce. What do you think of my situation? I do not know. However, unless you have some ill-feeling against me, your position is a difficult one. In what respect? Because you are under your own roof. However difficult it may be, I understand it very well. Do you suppose that, with anyone else but yourself, I should have shown so much frankness? What? So much frankness, do you say?  At all events, then, so much ceremony and consideration. Ah, I have nothing to say in that respect. One moment, Monsignor. Let me tell you how I should have behaved towards anyone but yourself. It might be that I happened to arrive at your door just as your guests or your friends had left you, or if they had not gone yet, I should wait until they were leaving and should then catch them one after the other, like rabbits. I should lock them up quietly enough. I should steal softly along the carpet of your corridor, and with one hand upon you, before you suspected the slightest thing amiss, I should keep you safely until my master's breakfast in the morning. In this way I should just the same have avoided all publicity, all disturbance, all opposition. But there would also have been no warning for Monsieur Fouquette, no consideration for his feelings, none of those delicate concessions which are shown by persons who are essentially courteous in their natures, whenever the decisive moment may arrive. Are you satisfied with the plan? It makes me shudder. I thought you would not like it. It would have been very disagreeable to have made my appearance to-morrow without any preparation and to have asked you to deliver up your sword. Oh, Monsieur, I should have died of shame and anger. Your gratitude is too eloquently expressed. I have not done enough to deserve it, I assure you. Most certainly, Monsieur, you will never get me to believe that. Well then, Monsignor, if you are satisfied with what I have done, and have somewhat recovered from the shock which I prepared you for as much as I possibly could, let us allow the few hours that remain to pass away undisturbed. You are harassed and should arrange your thoughts. I beg you, therefore, go to sleep, or pretend to go to sleep, either on your bed or in your bed. I will sleep in this arm-chair, and when I fall asleep, my rest is so sound that a cannon would not wake me. Phuket smiled. I expect, however, continued the musketeer, the case of a door being opened, whether a secret door or any other, or the case of anyone going out of or coming into the room. For anything like that my ear is as quick and sensitive as the ear of a mouse. Creaking noises make me start. It arises, I suppose, from a natural antipathy to anything of the kind. Move about as much as you like. Walk up and down in any part of the room. Right? If face? Destroy? Burn? Nothing like that will prevent me from going to sleep, or even prevent me from snoring. But do not touch either the key or the handle of the door, for I should start up in a moment, and that would shake my nerves and make me ill. Miss you, D'Artagnan, said Phuket, you are certainly the most witty and the most courteous man I ever met with, and you will leave me only one regret, that of having made your acquaintance so late. D'Artagnan drew a deep sigh, which seemed to say, Alas, you have perhaps made it too soon. He then settled himself in his arm-chair, while Phuket, half lying on his bed and leaning on his arm, was meditating on his misadventures. In this way, both of them, leaving the candles burning, awaited the first dawn of the day. And when Phuket happened to sigh too loudly, D'Artagnan only snored the louder. Not a single visit, not even from Aramis. Disturbed their quietude, not a sound even was heard throughout the whole vast palace. Outside, however, the guards of honour on duty and the patrol of musketeers paced up and down, and the sound of their feet could be heard on the gravel walks. It seemed to act as an additional so horrific for the sleepers, while the murmuring of the wind through the trees, and the unceasing music of the fountains whose waters tumbled in the basin, still went on uninterruptedly, without being disturbed at the slight noises and items of little moment that constituted