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- Author: Alexandre Dumas
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“The same as this one, then,” said Aramis, who had continued turning over the leaves, and who had stopped at one of the names which followed Martinier.
“Yes, the same as that one.”
“Is that Marchiali an Italian?” said Aramis, pointing with his finger to the name which had attracted his attention.
“Hush!” said Baisemeaux.
“Why hush?” said Aramis, involuntarily clenching his white hand.
“I thought I had already spoken to you about that Marchiali.”
“No, it is the first time I ever heard his name pronounced.”
“That may be, but perhaps I have spoken to you about him without naming him.”
“Is he an old offender?” asked Aramis, attempting to smile.
“On the contrary, he is quite young.”
“Is his crime, then, very heinous?”
“Unpardonable.”
“Has he assassinated any one?”
“Bah!”
“An incendiary, then?”
“Bah!”
“Has he slandered any one?”
“No, no! It is he who—” and Baisemeaux approached Aramis’s ear, making a sort of ear-trumpet of his hands, and whispered: “It is he who presumes to resemble the—”
“Yes, yes,” said Aramis; “I now remember you already spoke about it last year to me; but the crime appeared to me so slight.”
“Slight, do you say?”
“Or rather, so involuntary.”
“My lord, it is not involuntarily that such a resemblance is detected.”
“Well, the fact is, I had forgotten it. But, my dear host,” said Aramis, closing the register, “if I am not mistaken, we are summoned.”
Baisemeaux took the register, hastily restored it to its place in the closet, which he locked, and put the key in his pocket. “Will it be agreeable to your lordship to breakfast now?” said he; “for you are right in supposing that breakfast was announced.”
“Assuredly, my dear governor,” and they passed into the dining-room.
Chapter XXIV. The Breakfast at Monsieur de Baisemeaux’s.
Aramis was generally temperate; but on this occasion, while taking every care of his constitution, he did ample justice to Baisemeaux’s breakfast, which, in all respects, was most excellent. The latter on his side, was animated with the wildest gayety; the sight of the five thousand pistoles, which he glanced at from time to time, seemed to open his heart. Every now and then he looked at Aramis with an expression of the deepest gratitude; while the latter, leaning back in his chair, took a few sips of wine from his glass, with the air of a connoisseur. “Let me never hear any ill words against the fare of the Bastile,” said he, half closing his eyes; “happy are the prisoners who can get only half a bottle of such Burgundy every day.”
“All those at fifteen francs drink it,” said Baisemeaux. “It is very old Volnay.”
“Does that poor student, Seldon, drink such good wine?”
“Oh, no!”
“I thought I heard you say he was boarded at fifteen francs.”
“He! no, indeed; a man who makes districts—distichs I mean—at fifteen francs! No, no! it is his neighbor who is at fifteen francs.”
“Which neighbor?”
“The other, second Bertaudiere.”
“Excuse me, my dear governor; but you speak a language which requires quite an apprenticeship to understand.”
“Very true,” said the governor. “Allow me to explain: second Bertaudiere is the person who occupies the second floor of the tower of the Bertaudiere.”
“So that Bertaudiere is the name of one of the towers of the Bastile? The fact is, I think I recollect hearing that each tower has a name of its own. Whereabouts is the one you are speaking of?”
“Look,” said Baisemeaux, going to the window. “It is that tower to the left—the second one.”
“Is the prisoner at fifteen francs there?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Seven or eight years, nearly.”
“What do you mean by nearly? Do you not know the dates more precisely?”
“It was not in my time, M. d’Herblay.”
“But I should have thought that Louviere or Tremblay would have told you.”
“The secrets of the Bastile are never handed over with the keys of the governorship.”
“Indeed! Then the cause of his imprisonment is a mystery—a state secret.”
“Oh, no! I do not suppose it is a state secret, but a secret—like everything that happens at the Bastile.”
“But,” said Aramis, “why do you speak more freely of Seldon than of second Bertaudiere?”
“Because, in my opinion, the crime of the man who writes a distich is not so great as that of the man who resembles—”
“Yes, yes; I understand you. Still, do not the turnkeys talk with your prisoners?”
“Of course.”
“The prisoners, I suppose, tell them they are not guilty?”
“They are always telling them that; it is a matter of course; the same song over and over again.”
“But does not the resemblance you were speaking about just now strike the turnkeys?”
“My dear M. d’Herblay, it is only for men attached to the court, as you are, to take trouble about such matters.”
“You’re right, you’re right, my dear M. Baisemeaux. Let me give you another taste of this Volnay.”
“Not a taste merely, a full glass; fill yours too.”
“Nay, nay! You are a musketeer still, to the very tips of your fingers, while I have become a bishop. A taste for me; a glass for yourself.”
“As you please.” And Aramis and the governor nodded to each other, as they drank their wine. “But,” said
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