The Man in the Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas (ereader for android txt) 📖

At the extremity of the mole, against which the furious sea beats at the evening tide, two men, holding each other by the arm, were conversing in an animated and expansive tone, without the possibility of any other human being hearing their words, borne away, as they were, one by one, by the gusts of wind, with the white foam swept from the crests of the waves. The sun had just gone down in the vast sheet of the crimsoned ocean, like a gigantic crucible. From time to time, one of these men, turning towards the east, cast an anxious, inquiring look over the sea. The other, interrogating the features of his companion, seemed to seek for information in his looks. Then, both silent, busied with dismal thoughts, they resumed their walk. Every one has already perceived that these two men were our proscribed heroes, Porthos and Aramis, who had taken refuge in Belle-Isle, since the ruin of their hopes, since the discomfiture of the colossal schemes of M. d’Herblay.

“If is of no use your saying anything to the contrary, my dear Aramis,” repeated Porthos, inhaling vigorously the salt breeze with which he charged his massive chest, “It is of no use, Aramis. The disappearance of all the fishing-boats that went out two days ago is not an ordinary circumstance. There has been no storm at sea; the weather has been constantly calm, not even the lightest gale; and even if we had had a tempest, all our boats would not have foundered. I repeat, it is strange. This complete disappearance astonishes me, I tell you.”

“True,” murmured Aramis. “You are right, friend Porthos; it is true, there is something strange in it.”

“And further,” added Porthos, whose ideas the assent of the bishop of Vannes seemed to enlarge; “and, further, do you not observe that if the boats have perished, not a single plank has washed ashore?”

“I have remarked it as well as yourself.”

“And do you not think it strange that the two only boats we had left in the whole island, and which I sent in search of the others—”

Aramis here interrupted his companion by a cry, and by so sudden a movement, that Porthos stopped as if he were stupefied. “What do you say, Porthos? What!—You have sent the two boats—”

“In search of the others! Yes, to be sure I have,” replied Porthos, calmly.

“Unhappy man! What have you done? Then we are indeed lost,” cried the bishop.

“Lost!—what did you say?” exclaimed the terrified Porthos. “How lost, Aramis? How are we lost?”

Aramis bit his lips. “Nothing! nothing! Your pardon, I meant to say—”

“What?”

“That if we were inclined—if we took a fancy to make an excursion by sea, we could not.”

“Very good! and why should that vex you? A precious pleasure, ma foi! For my part, I don’t regret it at all. What I regret is certainly not the more or less amusement we can find at Belle-Isle: what I regret, Aramis, is Pierrefonds; Bracieux; le Vallon; beautiful France! Here, we are not in France, my dear friend; we are—I know not where. Oh! I tell you, in full sincerity of soul, and your affection will excuse my frankness, but I declare to you I am not happy at Belle-Isle. No; in good truth, I am not happy!”

Aramis breathed a long, but stifled sigh. “Dear friend,” replied he: “that is why it is so sad a thing you have sent the two boats we had left in search of the boats which disappeared two days ago. If you had not sent them away, we would have departed.”

“‘Departed!’ And the orders, Aramis?”

“What orders?”

“Parbleu! Why, the orders you have been constantly, in and out of season, repeating to me—that we were to hold Belle-Isle against the usurper. You know very well!”

“That is true!” murmured Aramis again.

“You see, then, plainly, my friend, that we could not depart; and that the sending away of the boats in search of the others cannot prove prejudicial to us in the very least.”

Aramis was silent; and his vague glances, luminous as that of an albatross, hovered for a long time over the sea, interrogating space, seeking to pierce the very horizon.

“With all that, Aramis,” continued Porthos, who adhered to his idea, and that the more closely from the bishop having apparently endorsed it,—“with all that, you give me no explanation about what can have happened to these unfortunate boats. I am assailed by cries and complaints whichever way I go. The children cry to see the desolation of the women, as if I could restore the absent husbands and fathers. What do you suppose, my friend, and how ought I to answer them?”

“Think all you like, my good Porthos, and say nothing.”

This reply did not satisfy Porthos at all. He turned away grumbling something in ill-humor. Aramis stopped the valiant musketeer. “Do you remember,” said he, in a melancholy tone, kneading the two hands of the giant between his own with affectionate cordiality, “do you remember, my friend, that in the glorious days of youth—do you remember, Porthos, when we were all strong and valiant—we, and the other two—if we had then had an inclination to return to France, do you think this sheet of salt water would have stopped us?”

“Oh!” said Porthos; “but six leagues.”

“If you had seen me get astride of a plank, would you have remained on land, Porthos?”

“No, pardieu! No, Aramis. But, nowadays, what sort of a plank should we want, my friend! I, in particular.” And the Seigneur de Bracieux cast a profound glance over his colossal rotundity with a loud laugh. “And do you mean seriously to say you are not tired of Belle-Isle a little, and that you would not prefer the comforts of your dwelling—of your episcopal palace, at Vannes? Come, confess.”

“No,” replied Aramis, without daring to look at Porthos.

“Let us stay where we are, then,” said his friend, with a sigh, which, in spite of the efforts he made to restrain it, escaped his echoing breast. “Let us remain!—let us remain! And yet,” added he, “and yet, if we seriously wished, but that decidedly—if we had a fixed idea, one firmly taken, to return to France, and there were not boats—”

“Have you remarked another thing, my friend—that is, since the disappearance of our barks, during the last two days’ absence of fishermen, not a single small boat has landed on the shores of the isle?”

“Yes, certainly! you are right. I, too, have remarked it, and the observation was the more naturally made, for, before the last two fatal days, barks and shallops were as plentiful as shrimps.”

“I must inquire,” said Aramis, suddenly, and with great agitation. “And then, if we had a raft constructed—”

“But there are some canoes, my friend; shall I board one?”

“A canoe!—a canoe! Can you think of such a thing, Porthos? A canoe to be upset in. No, no,” said the bishop of Vannes; “it is not our trade to ride upon the waves. We will wait, we will wait.”

And Aramis continued walking about with increased agitation. Porthos, who grew tired of following all the feverish movements of his friend—Porthos, who in his faith and calmness understood nothing of the sort of exasperation which was betrayed by his companion’s continual convulsive starts—Porthos stopped him. “Let us sit down upon this rock,” said he. “Place yourself there, close to me, Aramis, and I conjure you, for the last time, to explain to me in a manner I can comprehend—explain to me what we are doing here.”

“Porthos,” said Aramis, much embarrassed.

“I know that the false king wished to dethrone the true king. That is a fact, that I understand. Well—”

“Yes?” said Aramis.

“I know that the false king formed the project of selling Belle-Isle to the English. I understand that, too.”

“Yes?”

“I know that we engineers and captains came and threw ourselves into Belle-Isle to take direction of the works, and the command of ten companies levied and paid by M. Fouquet, or rather the ten companies of his son-in-law. All that is plain.”

Aramis rose in a state of great impatience. He might be said to be a lion importuned by a gnat. Porthos held him by the arm. “But what I cannot understand, what, in spite of all the efforts of my mind, and all my reflections, I cannot comprehend, and never shall comprehend, is, that instead of sending us troops, instead of sending us reinforcements of men, munitions, provisions, they leave us without boats, they leave Belle-Isle without arrivals, without help; it is that instead of establishing with us a correspondence, whether by signals, or written or verbal communications, all relations with the shore are intercepted. Tell me, Aramis, answer me, or rather, before answering me, will you allow me to tell you what I have thought? Will you hear what my idea is, the plan I have conceived?”

The bishop raised his head. “Well! Aramis,” continued Porthos, “I have dreamed, I have imagined that an event has taken place in France. I dreamt of M. Fouquet all the night, of lifeless fish, of broken eggs, of chambers badly furnished, meanly kept. Villainous dreams, my dear D’Herblay; very unlucky, such dreams!”

“Porthos, what is that yonder?” interrupted Aramis, rising suddenly, and pointing out to his friend a black spot upon the empurpled line of the water.

“A bark!” said Porthos; “yes, it is a bark! Ah! we shall have some news at last.”

“There are two!” cried the bishop, on discovering another mast; “two! three! four!”

“Five!” said Porthos, in his turn. “Six! seven! Ah! mon Dieu! mon Dieu! it is a fleet!”

“Our boats returning, probably,” said Aramis, very uneasily, in spite of the assurance he affected.

“They are very large for fishing-boats,” observed Porthos, “and do you not remark, my friend, that they come from the Loire?”

“They come from the Loire—yes—”

“And look! everybody here sees them as well as ourselves; look, women and children are beginning to crowd the jetty.”

An old fisherman passed. “Are those our barks, yonder?” asked Aramis.

The old man looked steadily into the eye of the horizon.

“No, monseigneur,” replied he, “they are lighter boars, boats in the king’s service.”

“Boats in the royal service?” replied Aramis, starting. “How do you know that?” said he.

“By the flag.”

“But,” said Porthos, “the boat is scarcely visible; how the devil, my friend, can you distinguish the flag?”

“I see there is one,” replied the old man; “our boats, trade lighters, do not carry