The Man in the Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas (web based ebook reader .TXT) 📖

arrows? And then, you know me of old, I fancy, and you know that when I once make up my mind to a thing, I perform it in grim earnest.”

“Yes, you made up your mind to escape from Vincennes.”

“Ay, but you aided me in that, my master; and, a propos, I turn this way and that, without seeing my old friend, M. Vaugrimaud. How is he?”

“M. Vaugrimaud is still your highness’s most respectful servant,” said Athos, smiling.

“I have a hundred pistoles here for him, which I bring as a legacy. My will is made, count.”

“Ah! monseigneur! monseigneur!”

“And you may understand that if Grimaud’s name were to appear in my will—” The duke began to laugh; then addressing Raoul, who, from the commencement of this conversation, had sunk into a profound reverie, “Young man,” said he, “I know there is to be found here a certain De Vouvray wine, and I believe—” Raoul left the room precipitately to order the wine. In the meantime M. de Beaufort took the hand of Athos.

“What do you mean to do with him?” asked he.

“Nothing at present, monseigneur.”

“Ah! yes, I know; since the passion of the king for La Valliere.”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“That is all true, then, is it? I think I know her, that little La Valliere. She is not particularly handsome, if I remember right?”

“No, monseigneur,” said Athos.

“Do you know whom she reminds me of?”

“Does she remind your highness of any one?”

“She reminds me of a very agreeable girl, whose mother lived in the Halles.”

“Ah! ah!” said Athos, smiling.

“Oh! the good old times,” added M. de Beaufort. “Yes, La Valliere reminds me of that girl.”

“Who had a son, had she not?” 3

“I believe she had,” replied the duke, with careless naivete and a complaisant forgetfulness, of which no words could translate the tone and the vocal expression. “Now, here is poor Raoul, who is your son, I believe.”

“Yes, he is my son, monseigneur.”

“And the poor lad has been cut out by the king, and he frets.”

“Still better, monseigneur, he abstains.”

“You are going to let the boy rust in idleness; it is a mistake. Come, give him to me.”

“My wish is to keep him at home, monseigneur. I have no longer anything in the world but him, and as long as he likes to remain—”

“Well, well,” replied the duke. “I could, nevertheless, have soon put matters to rights again. I assure you, I think he has in him the stuff of which marechals of France are made; I have seen more than one produced from less likely rough material.”

“That is very possible, monseigneur; but it is the king who makes marechals of France, and Raoul will never accept anything of the king.”

Raoul interrupted this conversation by his return. He preceded Grimaud, whose still steady hands carried the plateau with one glass and a bottle of the duke’s favorite wine. On seeing his old protege, the duke uttered an exclamation of pleasure.

“Grimaud! Good evening, Grimaud!” said he; “how goes it?”

The servant bowed profoundly, as much gratified as his noble interlocutor.

“Two old friends!” said the duke, shaking honest Grimaud’s shoulder after a vigorous fashion; which was followed by another still more profound and delighted bow from Grimaud.

“But what is this, count, only one glass?”

“I should not think of drinking with your highness, unless your highness permitted me,” replied Athos, with noble humility.

“Cordieu! you were right to bring only one glass, we will both drink out of it, like two brothers in arms. Begin, count.”

“Do me the honor,” said Athos, gently putting back the glass.

“You are a charming friend,” replied the Duc de Beaufort, who drank, and passed the goblet to his companion. “But that is not all,” continued he, “I am still thirsty, and I wish to do honor to this handsome young man who stands here. I carry good luck with me, vicomte,” said he to Raoul; “wish for something while drinking out of my glass, and may the black plague grab me if what you wish does not come to pass!” He held the goblet to Raoul, who hastily moistened his lips, and replied with the same promptitude:

“I have wished for something, monseigneur.” His eyes sparkled with a gloomy fire, and the blood mounted to his cheeks; he terrified Athos, if only with his smile.

“And what have you wished for?” replied the duke, sinking back into his fauteuil, whilst with one hand he returned the bottle to Grimaud, and with the other gave him a purse.

“Will you promise me, monseigneur, to grant me what I wish for?”

“Pardieu! That is agreed upon.”

“I wished, monsieur le duc, to go with you to Gigelli.”

Athos became pale, and was unable to conceal his agitation. The duke looked at his friend, as if desirous to assist him to parry this unexpected blow.

“That is difficult, my dear vicomte, very difficult,” added he, in a lower tone of voice.

“Pardon me, monseigneur, I have been indiscreet,” replied Raoul, in a firm voice; “but as you yourself invited me to wish—”

“To wish to leave me?” said Athos.

“Oh! monsieur—can you imagine—”

“Well, mordieu!” cried the duke, “the young vicomte is right! What can he do here? He will go moldy with grief.”

Raoul blushed, and the excitable prince continued: “War is a distraction: we gain everything by it; we can only lose one thing by it—life—then so much the worse!”

“That is to say, memory,” said Raoul, eagerly; “and that is to say, so much the better!”

He repented of having spoken so warmly when he saw Athos rise and open the window; which was, doubtless, to conceal his emotion. Raoul sprang towards the comte, but the latter had already overcome his emotion, and turned to the lights with a serene and impassible countenance. “Well, come,” said the duke, “let us see! Shall he go, or shall he not? If he goes, comte, he shall be my aide-de-camp, my son.”

“Monseigneur!” cried Raoul, bending his knee.