The Man in the Iron Mask. Александр ДюмаЧитать онлайн книгу.
is the first act of homage paid to our future king,” said he. “When I see you again, I shall say, ‘Good day, sire.’”
“Till then,” said the young man, pressing his wan and wasted fingers over his heart,—“till then, no more dreams, no more strain on my life—my heart would break! Oh, monsieur, how small is my prison—how low the window—how narrow are the doors! To think that so much pride, splendor, and happiness, should be able to enter in and to remain here!”
“Your royal highness makes me proud,” said Aramis, “since you infer it is I who brought all this.” And he rapped immediately on the door. The jailer came to open it with Baisemeaux, who, devoured by fear and uneasiness, was beginning, in spite of himself, to listen at the door. Happily, neither of the speakers had forgotten to smother his voice, even in the most passionate outbreaks.
“What a confessor!” said the governor, forcing a laugh; “who would believe that a compulsory recluse, a man as though in the very jaws of death, could have committed crimes so numerous, and so long to tell of?”
Aramis made no reply. He was eager to leave the Bastille, where the secret which overwhelmed him seemed to double the weight of the walls. As soon as they reached Baisemeaux’s quarters, “Let us proceed to business, my dear governor,” said Aramis.
“Alas!” replied Baisemeaux.
“You have to ask me for my receipt for one hundred and fifty thousand livres,” said the bishop.
“And to pay over the first third of the sum,” added the poor governor, with a sigh, taking three steps towards his iron strong-box.
“Here is the receipt,” said Aramis.
“And here is the money,” returned Baisemeaux, with a threefold sigh.
“The order instructed me only to give a receipt; it said nothing about receiving the money,” rejoined Aramis. “Adieu, monsieur le governeur!”
And he departed, leaving Baisemeaux almost more than stifled with joy and surprise at this regal present so liberally bestowed by the confessor extraordinary to the Bastille.
Since the departure of Athos for Blois, Porthos and D’Artagnan were seldom together. One was occupied with harassing duties for the king, the other had been making many purchases of furniture which he intended to forward to his estate, and by aid of which he hoped to establish in his various residences something of the courtly luxury he had witnessed in all its dazzling brightness in his majesty’s society. D’Artagnan, ever faithful, one morning during an interval of service thought about Porthos, and being uneasy at not having heard anything of him for a fortnight, directed his steps towards his hotel, and pounced upon him just as he was getting up. The worthy baron had a pensive—nay, more than pensive—melancholy air. He was sitting on his bed, only half-dressed, and with legs dangling over the edge, contemplating a host of garments, which with their fringes, lace, embroidery, and slashes of ill-assorted hues, were strewed all over the floor. Porthos, sad and reflective as La Fontaine’s hare, did not observe D’Artagnan’s entrance, which was, moreover, screened at this moment by M. Mouston, whose personal corpulency, quite enough at any time to hide one man from another, was effectually doubled by a scarlet coat which the intendant was holding up for his master’s inspection, by the sleeves, that he might the better see it all over. D’Artagnan stopped at the threshold and looked in at the pensive Porthos and then, as the sight of the innumerable garments strewing the floor caused mighty sighs to heave the bosom of that excellent gentleman, D’Artagnan thought it time to put an end to these dismal reflections, and coughed by way of announcing himself.
“Ah!” exclaimed Porthos, whose countenance brightened with joy; “ah! ah! Here is D’Artagnan. I shall then get hold of an idea!”
At these words Mouston, doubting what was going on behind him, got out of the way, smiling kindly at the friend of his master, who thus found himself freed from the material obstacle which had prevented his reaching D’Artagnan. Porthos made his sturdy knees crack again in rising, and crossing the room in two strides, found himself face to face with his friend, whom he folded to his breast with a force of affection that seemed to increase with every day. “Ah!” he repeated, “you are always welcome, dear friend; but just now you are more welcome than ever.”
“But you seem to have the megrims here!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.
Porthos replied by a look expressive of dejection. “Well, then, tell me all about it, Porthos, my friend, unless it is a secret.”
“In the first place,” returned Porthos, “you know I have no secrets from you. This, then, is what saddens me.”
“Wait a minute, Porthos; let me first get rid of all this litter of satin and velvet!”
“Oh, never mind,” said Porthos, contemptuously; “it is all trash.”
“Trash, Porthos! Cloth at twenty-five livres an ell! gorgeous satin! regal velvet!”
“Then you think these clothes are—”
“Splendid, Porthos, splendid! I’ll wager that you alone in France have so many; and suppose you never had any more made, and were to live to be a hundred years of age, which wouldn’t astonish me in the very least, you could still wear a new dress the day of your death, without being obliged to see the nose of a single tailor from now till then.”
Porthos shook his head.
“Come, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “this unnatural melancholy in you frightens me. My dear Porthos, pray get it out, then. And the sooner the better.”
“Yes, my friend, so I will: if, indeed, it is possible.”
“Perhaps you have received bad news from Bracieux?”
“No: they have felled the wood, and it has yielded a third more than the estimate.”
“Then there has been a falling-off in the pools of Pierrefonds?”
“No, my friend: they have been fished, and there is enough left to stock all the pools in the neighborhood.”
“Perhaps your estate at Vallon has been destroyed by an earthquake?”
“No, my friend; on the contrary, the ground was struck with lightning a hundred paces from the chateau, and a fountain sprung up in a place entirely destitute of water.”
“What in the world is the matter, then?”
“The fact is, I have received an invitation for the fete at Vaux,” said Porthos, with a lugubrious expression.
“Well! do you complain of that? The king has caused a hundred mortal heart-burnings among the courtiers by refusing invitations. And so, my dear friend, you are really going to Vaux?”
“Indeed I am!”
“You will see a magnificent sight.”
“Alas! I doubt it, though.”
“Everything that is grand in France will be brought together there!”
“Ah!” cried Porthos, tearing out a lock of hair in his despair.
“Eh! good heavens, are you ill?” cried D’Artagnan.
“I am as firm as the Pont-Neuf! It isn’t that.”
“But what is it, then?”
“’Tis that I have no clothes!”
D’Artagnan stood petrified. “No clothes! Porthos, no clothes!” he cried, “when I see at least fifty suits on the floor.”
“Fifty, truly; but not one which fits me!”
“What?