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

“You are consoled, then?” said Montalais, sharply.

“No, I shall never be consoled.”

“I don’t understand you, M. de Bragelonne.”

“I care but little for that. I do not quite understand myself.”

“You have not even tried to speak to Louise?”

“Who! I?” exclaimed the young man, with eyes flashing fire; “I!—Why do you not advise me to marry her? Perhaps the king would consent now.” And he rose from his chair full of anger.

“I see,” said Montalais, “that you are not cured, and that Louise has one enemy the more.”

“One enemy the more!”

“Yes; favorites are but little beloved at the court of France.”

“Oh! while she has her lover to protect her, is not that enough? She has chosen him of such a quality that her enemies cannot prevail against her.” But, stopping all at once, “And then she has you for a friend, mademoiselle,” added he, with a shade of irony which did not glide off the cuirass.

“Who! I?—Oh, no! I am no longer one of those whom Mademoiselle de la Valliere condescends to look upon; but—”

This but, so big with menace and with storm; this but, which made the heart of Raoul beat, such griefs did it presage for her whom lately he loved so dearly; this terrible but, so significant in a woman like Montalais, was interrupted by a moderately loud noise heard by the speakers proceeding from the alcove behind the wainscoting. Montalais turned to listen, and Raoul was already rising, when a lady entered the room quietly by the secret door, which she closed after her.

“Madame!” exclaimed Raoul, on recognizing the sister-in-law of the king.

“Stupid wretch!” murmured Montalais, throwing herself, but too late, before the princess, “I have been mistaken in an hour!” She had, however, time to warn the princess, who was walking towards Raoul.

“M. de Bragelonne, Madame,” and at these words the princess drew back, uttering a cry in her turn.

“Your royal highness,” said Montalais, with volubility, “is kind enough to think of this lottery, and—”

The princess began to lose countenance. Raoul hastened his departure, without divining all, but he felt that he was in the way. Madame was preparing a word of transition to recover herself, when a closet opened in front of the alcove, and M. de Guiche issued, all radiant, also from that closet. The palest of the four, we must admit, was still Raoul. The princess, however, was near fainting, and was obliged to lean upon the foot of the bed for support. No one ventured to support her. This scene occupied several minutes of terrible suspense. But Raoul broke it. He went up to the count, whose inexpressible emotion made his knees tremble, and taking his hand, “Dear count,” said he, “tell Madame I am too unhappy not to merit pardon; tell her also that I have loved in the course of my life, and that the horror of the treachery that has been practiced on me renders me inexorable towards all other treachery that may be committed around me. This is why, mademoiselle,” said he, smiling to Montalais, “I never would divulge the secret of the visits of my friend to your apartment. Obtain from Madame—from Madame, who is so clement and so generous,—obtain her pardon for you whom she has just surprised also. You are both free, love each other, be happy!”

The princess felt for a moment a despair that cannot be described; it was repugnant to her, notwithstanding the exquisite delicacy which Raoul had exhibited, to feel herself at the mercy of one who had discovered such an indiscretion. It was equally repugnant to her to accept the evasion offered by this delicate deception. Agitated, nervous, she struggled against the double stings of these two troubles. Raoul comprehended her position, and came once more to her aid. Bending his knee before her: “Madame!” said he, in a low voice, “in two days I shall be far from Paris; in a fortnight I shall be far from France, where I shall never be seen again.”

“Are you going away, then?” said she, with great delight.

“With M. de Beaufort.”

“Into Africa!” cried De Guiche, in his turn. “You, Raoul—oh! my friend—into Africa, where everybody dies!”

And forgetting everything, forgetting that that forgetfulness itself compromised the princess more eloquently than his presence, “Ingrate!” said he, “and you have not even consulted me!” And he embraced him; during which time Montalais had led away Madame, and disappeared herself.

Raoul passed his hand over his brow, and said, with a smile, “I have been dreaming!” Then warmly to Guiche, who by degrees absorbed him, “My friend,” said he, “I conceal nothing from you, who are the elected of my heart. I am going to seek death in yonder country; your secret will not remain in my breast more than a year.”

“Oh, Raoul! a man!”

“Do you know what is my thought, count? This is it—I shall live more vividly, being buried beneath the earth, than I have lived for this month past. We are Christians, my friend, and if such sufferings were to continue, I would not be answerable for the safety of my soul.”

De Guiche was anxious to raise objections.

“Not one word more on my account,” said Raoul; “but advice to you, dear friend; what I am going to say to you is of much greater importance.”

“What is that?”

“Without doubt you risk much more than I do, because you love.”

“Oh!”

“It is a joy so sweet to me to be able to speak to you thus! Well, then, De Guiche, beware of Montalais.”

“What! of that kind friend?”

“She was the friend of—her you know of. She ruined her by pride.”

“You are mistaken.”

“And now, when she has ruined her, she would ravish from her the only thing that renders that woman excusable in my eyes.”

“What is that?”

“Her love.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that there is a plot formed against her who is the mistress of the king—a plot formed in the very house of Madame.”

“Can you think so?”

“I am certain of it.”

“By Montalais?”

“Take her as the least dangerous of the enemies I dread for—the other!”

“Explain yourself clearly, my friend; and if I can understand you—”

“In two words. Madame has been long jealous of the king.”