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

d’Artagnan,” said the falconer; “but you need not be alarmed; the king is not much of a sportsman; he does not take the field on his own account, he only wishes to amuse the ladies.”

The words “to amuse the ladies” were so strongly accented they set D’Artagnan thinking.

“Ah!” said he, looking keenly at the falconer.

The keeper of the harriers smiled, no doubt with a view of making it up with the musketeer.

“Oh! you may safely laugh,” said D’Artagnan; “I know nothing of current news; I only arrived yesterday, after a month’s absence. I left the court mourning the death of the queen-mother. The king was not willing to take any amusement after receiving the last sigh of Anne of Austria; but everything comes to an end in this world. Well! then he is no longer sad? So much the better.” 8

“And everything begins as well as ends,” said the keeper with a coarse laugh.

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan, a second time,—he burned to know, but dignity would not allow him to interrogate people below him,—“there is something beginning, then, it seems?”

The keeper gave him a significant wink; but D’Artagnan was unwilling to learn anything from this man.

“Shall we see the king early?” asked he of the falconer.

“At seven o’clock, monsieur, I shall fly the birds.”

“Who comes with the king? How is Madame? How is the queen?”

“Better, monsieur.”

“Has she been ill, then?”

“Monsieur, since the last chagrin she suffered, her majesty has been unwell.”

“What chagrin? You need not fancy your news is old. I have but just returned.”

“It appears that the queen, a little neglected since the death of her mother-in-law, complained to the king, who answered her,—‘Do I not sleep at home every night, madame? What more do you expect?’”

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan,—“poor woman! She must heartily hate Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”

“Oh, no! not Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” replied the falconer.

“Who then—” The blast of a hunting-horn interrupted this conversation. It summoned the dogs and the hawks. The falconer and his companions set off immediately, leaving D’Artagnan alone in the midst of the suspended sentence. The king appeared at a distance, surrounded by ladies and horsemen. All the troop advanced in beautiful order, at a foot’s pace, the horns of various sorts animating the dogs and horses. There was an animation in the scene, a mirage of light, of which nothing now can give an idea, unless it be the fictitious splendor of a theatric spectacle. D’Artagnan, with an eye a little, just a little, dimmed by age, distinguished behind the group three carriages. The first was intended for the queen; it was empty. D’Artagnan, who did not see Mademoiselle de la Valliere by the king’s side, on looking about for her, saw her in the second carriage. She was alone with two of her women, who seemed as dull as their mistress. On the left hand of the king, upon a high-spirited horse, restrained by a bold and skillful hand, shone a lady of most dazzling beauty. The king smiled upon her, and she smiled upon the king. Loud laughter followed every word she uttered.

“I must know that woman,” thought the musketeer; “who can she be?” And he stooped towards his friend, the falconer, to whom he addressed the question he had put to himself.

The falconer was about to reply, when the king, perceiving D’Artagnan, “Ah, comte!” said he, “you are amongst us once more then! Why have I not seen you?”

“Sire,” replied the captain, “because your majesty was asleep when I arrived, and not awake when I resumed my duties this morning.”

“Still the same,” said Louis, in a loud voice, denoting satisfaction. “Take some rest, comte; I command you to do so. You will dine with me to-day.”

A murmur of admiration surrounded D’Artagnan like a caress. Every one was eager to salute him. Dining with the king was an honor his majesty was not so prodigal of as Henry IV. had been. The king passed a few steps in advance, and D’Artagnan found himself in the midst of a fresh group, among whom shone Colbert.

“Good-day, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the minister, with marked affability, “have you had a pleasant journey?”

“Yes, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, bowing to the neck of his horse.

“I heard the king invite you to his table for this evening,” continued the minister; “you will meet an old friend there.”

“An old friend of mine?” asked D’Artagnan, plunging painfully into the dark waves of the past, which had swallowed up for him so many friendships and so many hatreds.

“M. le Duc d’Almeda, who is arrived this morning from Spain.”

“The Duc d’Almeda?” said D’Artagnan, reflecting in vain.

“Here!” cried an old man, white as snow, sitting bent in his carriage, which he caused to be thrown open to make room for the musketeer.

“Aramis!” cried D’Artagnan, struck with profound amazement. And he felt, inert as it was, the thin arm of the old nobleman hanging round his neck.

Colbert, after having observed them in silence for a few moments, urged his horse forward, and left the two old friends together.

“And so,” said the musketeer, taking Aramis’s arm, “you, the exile, the rebel, are again in France?”

“Ah! and I shall dine with you at the king’s table,” said Aramis, smiling. “Yes, will you not ask yourself what is the use of fidelity in this world? Stop! let us allow poor La Valliere’s carriage to pass. Look, how uneasy she is! How her eyes, dim with tears, follow the king, who is riding on horseback yonder!”

“With whom?”

“With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, now Madame de Montespan,” replied Aramis.

“She is jealous. Is she then deserted?”

“Not quite yet, but it will not be long before she is.” 9

They chatted together, while following the sport, and Aramis’s coachman drove them so cleverly that they arrived at the instant when the falcon, attacking the bird, beat him down, and fell upon him. The king alighted; Madame de Montespan followed his example. They were in front of an isolated chapel, concealed by huge trees, already despoiled of their leaves by the first cutting winds of autumn. Behind this chapel was an inclosure, closed by a latticed gate. The falcon had beaten down his prey in the inclosure belonging to this little chapel, and the king was desirous of going in to take the first feather, according to custom. The cortege formed a circle round the building and the hedges, too small to receive so many. D’Artagnan held back Aramis by the arm, as he was about, like the rest, to alight from his carriage, and in a hoarse, broken voice, “Do you know, Aramis,” said he, “whither chance has conducted us?”

“No,” replied the duke.

“Here repose men that we knew well,” said D’Artagnan, greatly agitated.

Aramis, without divining anything, and with a trembling step, penetrated into the chapel by a little door which D’Artagnan opened for him. “Where are they buried?” said he.

“There, in the inclosure. There is a cross, you see, beneath yon little cypress. The tree of grief is planted over their tomb; don’t go to it; the king is going that way; the heron has fallen just there.”

Aramis stopped, and concealed himself in the shade. They then saw, without being seen, the pale face of La Valliere, who, neglected in her carriage, at first looked on, with a melancholy heart, from the door, and then, carried away by jealousy, advanced into the chapel, whence, leaning against a pillar, she contemplated the king smiling and making signs to Madame de Montespan to approach, as there was nothing to be afraid of. Madame de Montespan complied; she took the hand the king held out to her, and he, plucking out the first feather from the heron, which the falconer had strangled, placed it in his beautiful companion’s hat. She, smiling in her turn, kissed the hand tenderly which made her this present. The king grew scarlet with vanity and pleasure; he looked at Madame de Montespan with all the fire of new love.

“What will you give me in exchange?” said he.

She broke off a little branch of cypress and offered it to the king, who looked intoxicated with hope.

“Humph!” said Aramis to D’Artagnan; “the present is but a sad one, for that cypress shades a tomb.”

“Yes, and the tomb is that of Raoul de Bragelonne,” said D’Artagnan aloud; “of Raoul, who sleeps under that cross with his father.”

A groan resounded—they saw a woman fall fainting to the ground. Mademoiselle de la Valliere had seen all, heard all.

“Poor woman!” muttered D’Artagnan, as he helped the attendants to carry back to her carriage the lonely lady whose lot henceforth in life was suffering.

That evening D’Artagnan was seated at the king’s table, near M. Colbert and M. le Duc d’Almeda. The king was very gay. He paid a thousand little attentions to the queen, a thousand kindnesses to Madame, seated at his left hand, and very sad. It might have been supposed that time of calm when the king was wont to watch his mother’s eyes for the approval or disapproval of what he had just done.

Of mistresses there was no question at this dinner. The king addressed Aramis two or three times, calling him M. l’ambassadeur, which increased the surprise already felt by D’Artagnan at seeing his friend the rebel so marvelously well received at court.

The king, on rising from table, gave his hand to the queen, and made a sign to Colbert, whose eye was on his master’s face. Colbert took D’Artagnan and Aramis on one side. The king began to chat with his sister, whilst Monsieur, very uneasy, entertained the queen with a preoccupied air, without ceasing to watch his wife and brother from the corner of his eye. The conversation between Aramis, D’Artagnan, and Colbert turned upon indifferent subjects. They spoke of preceding ministers; Colbert related the successful tricks of Mazarin, and desired those of Richelieu to be related to him. D’Artagnan could not overcome his surprise at finding this man, with his heavy eyebrows and low forehead, display so much sound knowledge and cheerful spirits. Aramis was astonished at that lightness of character which permitted this serious man to retard with advantage the moment for more important conversation, to which nobody made any allusion, although all three interlocutors felt its imminence. It was very plain, from the embarrassed appearance of Monsieur, how much the conversation of the king and Madame annoyed him. Madame’s eyes were almost red: was she going to complain? Was she going to expose a little scandal in open court? The king took her on one side, and in a tone so tender that it must have reminded the princess of the time when she was loved for herself:

“Sister,” said he, “why do I see tears in those lovely eyes?”

“Why—sire—” said she.

“Monsieur is jealous, is he not, sister?”

She looked towards Monsieur, an infallible sign that they were talking about him.

“Yes,” said she.

“Listen to me,” said the king; “if your friends compromise you, it is not Monsieur’s fault.”

He spoke these words with so much kindness that Madame, encouraged, having borne so many solitary griefs so long, was nearly bursting into tears, so full was her heart.

“Come, come, dear little sister,” said the king, “tell me your griefs; on the word of a brother, I pity them; on the word of a king, I will put an end to them.”

She raised her glorious eyes and, in a melancholy tone:

“It is not my friends who compromise me,” said she; “they are either absent or concealed; they have been brought into disgrace with your majesty; they, so devoted, so good, so loyal!”

“You say this on account of De Guiche, whom I have exiled, at Monsieur’s desire?”

“And who, since that unjust exile, has endeavored to get himself killed once every day.”

“Unjust, say you, sister?”

“So unjust, that if I had not had the respect mixed with friendship that I have always entertained for your majesty—”

“Well!”

“Well! I would have asked my brother Charles, upon whom I can always—”

The king started. “What, then?”

“I would have asked him to have had it represented