The Man in the Iron Mask, Alexandre Dumas [the best motivational books TXT] 📗
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
- Performer: -
Book online «The Man in the Iron Mask, Alexandre Dumas [the best motivational books TXT] 📗». Author Alexandre Dumas
“Ah!” groaned Aramis.
“Vivat!” cried Porthos, “they are sending us reinforcements, don’t you think they are, Aramis?”
“Probably.”
“Unless it is the English coming.”
“By the Loire? That would have an evil look, Porthos; for they must have come through Paris!”
“You are right; they are reinforcements, decidedly, or provisions.”
Aramis leaned his head upon his hands, and made no reply. Then, all at once,—“Porthos,” said he, “have the alarm sounded.”
“The alarm! do you imagine such a thing?”
“Yes, and let the cannoniers mount their batteries, the artillerymen be at their pieces, and be particularly watchful of the coast batteries.”
Porthos opened his eyes to their widest extent. He looked attentively at his friend, to convince himself he was in his proper senses.
“I will do it, my dear Porthos,” continued Aramis, in his blandest tone; “I will go and have these orders executed myself, if you do not go, my friend.”
“Well! I will—instantly!” said Porthos, who went to execute the orders, casting all the while looks behind him, to see if the bishop of Vannes were not deceived; and if, on recovering more rational ideas, he would not recall him. The alarm was sounded, trumpets brayed, drums rolled; the great bronze bell swung in horror from its lofty belfry. The dikes and moles were quickly filled with the curious and soldiers; matches sparkled in the hands of the artillerymen, placed behind the large cannon bedded in their stone carriages. When every man was at his post, when all the preparations for defense were made: “Permit me, Aramis, to try to comprehend,” whispered Porthos, timidly, in Aramis’s ear.
“My dear friend, you will comprehend but too soon,” murmured M. d’Herblay, in reply to this question of his lieutenant.
“The fleet which is coming yonder, with sails unfurled, straight towards the port of Belle-Isle, is a royal fleet, is it not?”
“But as there are two kings in France, Porthos, to which of these two kings does this fleet belong?”
“Oh! you open my eyes,” replied the giant, stunned by the insinuation.
And Porthos, whose eyes this reply of his friend’s had at last opened, or rather thickened the bandage which covered his sight, went with his best speed to the batteries to overlook his people, and exhort every one to do his duty. In the meantime, Aramis, with his eye fixed on the horizon, saw the ships continually drawing nearer. The people and the soldiers, perched on the summits of the rocks, could distinguish the masts, then the lower sails, and at last the hulls of the lighters, bearing at the masthead the royal flag of France. It was night when one of these vessels, which had created such a sensation among the inhabitants of Belle-Isle, dropped anchor within cannon shot of the place. It was soon seen, notwithstanding the darkness, that some sort of agitation reigned on board the vessel, from the side of which a skiff was lowered, of which the three rowers, bending to their oars, took the direction of the port, and in a few instants struck land at the foot of the fort. The commander jumped ashore. He had a letter in his hand, which he waved in the air, and seemed to wish to communicate with somebody. This man was soon recognized by several soldiers as one of the pilots of the island. He was the captain of one of the two barks retained by Aramis, but which Porthos, in his anxiety with regard to the fate of the fishermen who had disappeared, had sent in search of the missing boats. He asked to be conducted to M. d’Herblay. Two soldiers, at a signal from a sergeant, marched him between them, and escorted him. Aramis was upon the quay. The envoy presented himself before the bishop of Vannes. The darkness was almost absolute, notwithstanding the flambeaux borne at a small distance by the soldiers who were following Aramis in his rounds.
“Well, Jonathan, from whom do you come?”
“Monseigneur, from those who captured me.”
“Who captured you?”
“You know, monseigneur, we set out in search of our comrades?”
“Yes; and afterwards?”
“Well! monseigneur, within a short league we were captured by a chasse maree belonging to the king.”
“Ah!” said Aramis.
“Of which king?” cried Porthos.
Jonathan started.
“Speak!” continued the bishop.
“We were captured, monseigneur, and joined to those who had been taken yesterday morning.”
“What was the cause of the mania for capturing you all?” said Porthos.
“Monsieur, to prevent us from telling you,” replied Jonathan.
Porthos was again at a loss to comprehend. “And they have released you to-day?” asked he.
“That I might tell you they have captured us, monsieur.”
“Trouble upon trouble,” thought honest Porthos.
During this time Aramis was reflecting.
“Humph!” said he, “then I suppose it is a royal fleet blockading the coasts?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Who commands it?”
“The captain of the king’s musketeers.”
“D’Artagnan?”
“D’Artagnan!” exclaimed Porthos.
“I believe that is the name.”
“And did he give you this letter?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Bring the torches nearer.”
“It is his writing,” said Porthos.
Aramis eagerly read the following lines:
“Order of the king to take Belle-Isle; or to put the garrison to the sword, if they resist; order to make prisoners of all the men of the garrison; signed, D’ARTAGNAN, who, the day before yesterday, arrested M. Fouquet, for the purpose of his being sent to the Bastile.”
Aramis turned pale, and crushed the paper in his hands.
“What is it?” asked Porthos.
“Nothing, my friend, nothing.”
“Tell me, Jonathan?”
“Monseigneur?”
“Did you speak to M. d’Artagnan?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“What did he say to you?”
“That for ampler information, he would speak with monseigneur.”
“Where?”
“On board his own vessel.”
“On board his vessel!” and Porthos repeated, “On board his vessel!”
“M. le mousquetaire,” continued Jonathan, “told me to take you both on board my canoe, and bring you to him.”
“Let us go at once,” exclaimed Porthos. “Dear D’Artagnan!”
But Aramis stopped him. “Are you mad?” cried he. “Who knows that it is not a snare?”
“Of the other king’s?” said Porthos, mysteriously.
“A snare, in fact! That’s what it is, my friend.”
“Very possibly; what is to be done, then? If D’Artagnan sends for us—”
“Who assures you that D’Artagnan sends for us?”
“Well, but—but his writing—”
“Writing is easily counterfeited. This looks counterfeited—unsteady—”
“You are always right; but, in the meantime, we know nothing.”
Aramis was silent.
“It is true,” said the good Porthos, “we do not want to know anything.”
“What shall I do?” asked Jonathan.
“You will return on board this captain’s vessel.”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“And will tell him that we beg he will himself come into the island.”
“Ah! I comprehend!” said Porthos.
“Yes, monseigneur,” replied Jonathan; “but if the captain should refuse to come to Belle-Isle?”
“If he refuses, as we have cannon, we will make use of them.”
“What! against D’Artagnan?”
“If it is D’Artagnan, Porthos, he will come. Go, Jonathan, go!”
“Ma foi! I no longer comprehend anything,” murmured Porthos.
“I will make you comprehend it all, my dear friend; the time for it has come; sit down upon this gun-carriage, open your ears, and listen well to me.”
“Oh! pardieu! I will listen, no fear of that.”
“May I depart, monseigneur?” cried Jonathan.
“Yes, begone, and bring back an answer. Allow the canoe to pass, you men there!” And the canoe pushed off to regain the fleet.
Aramis took Porthos by the hand, and commenced his explanations.
Chapter XLIII. Explanations by Aramis.
“What I have to say to you, friend Porthos, will probably surprise you, but it may prove instructive.”
“I like to be surprised,” said Porthos, in a kindly tone; “do not spare me, therefore, I beg. I am hardened against emotions; don’t fear, speak out.”
“It is difficult, Porthos—difficult; for, in truth, I warn you a second time, I have very strange things, very extraordinary things, to tell you.”
“Oh! you speak so well, my friend, that I could listen to you for days together. Speak, then, I beg—and—stop, I have an idea: I will, to make your task more easy, I will, to assist you in telling me such things, question you.”
“I shall be pleased at your doing so.”
“What are we going to fight for, Aramis?”
“If you ask me many such questions as that—if you would render my task the easier by interrupting my revelations thus, Porthos, you will not help me at all. So far, on the contrary, that is the very Gordian knot. But, my friend, with a man like you, good, generous, and devoted, the confession must be bravely made. I have deceived you, my worthy friend.”
“You have deceived me!”
“Good Heavens! yes.”
“Was it for my good, Aramis?”
“I thought so, Porthos; I thought so sincerely, my friend.”
“Then,” said the honest seigneur of Bracieux, “you have rendered me a service, and I thank you for it; for if you had not deceived me, I might have deceived myself. In what, then, have you deceived me, tell me?”
“In that I was serving the usurper against whom Louis XIV., at this moment, is directing his efforts.”
“The usurper!” said Porthos, scratching his head. “That is—well, I do not quite clearly comprehend!”
“He is one of the two kings who are contending for the crown of France.”
“Very well! Then you were serving him who is not Louis XIV.?”
“You have hit the matter in one word.”
“It follows that—”
“It follows that we are rebels, my poor friend.”
“The devil! the devil!” cried Porthos, much disappointed.
“Oh! but, dear Porthos, be calm, we shall still find means of getting out of the affair, trust me.”
“It is not that which makes me uneasy,” replied Porthos; “that which alone touches me is that ugly word rebels.”
“Ah! but—”
“And so, according to this, the duchy that was promised me—”
“It was the usurper that was to give it to you.”
“And that is not the same thing, Aramis,” said Porthos, majestically.
“My friend, if it had only depended upon me, you should have become a prince.”
Porthos began to bite his nails in a melancholy way.
“That is where you have been wrong,” continued he, “in deceiving me; for that promised duchy I reckoned upon. Oh! I reckoned upon it seriously, knowing you to be a man of your word, Aramis.”
“Poor Porthos! pardon me, I implore you!”
“So, then,” continued Porthos, without replying to the bishop’s prayer, “so then, it seems, I have quite fallen out with Louis XIV.?”
“Oh! I will settle all that, my good friend, I will settle all that. I will take it on myself alone!”
“Aramis!”
“No, no, Porthos, I conjure you, let me act. No false generosity! No inopportune devotedness! You knew nothing of my projects. You have done nothing of yourself. With me it is different. I alone am the author of this plot. I stood in need of my inseparable companion; I called upon you, and you came to me in remembrance of our ancient device, ‘All for one, one for all.’ My crime is that I was an egotist.”
“Now, that is a word I like,” said Porthos; “and seeing that you have acted entirely for yourself, it is impossible for me to blame you. It is natural.”
And upon this sublime reflection, Porthos pressed his friend’s hand cordially.
In presence of this ingenuous greatness of soul, Aramis felt his own littleness. It was the second time he had been compelled to bend before real superiority of heart, which is more imposing than brilliancy of mind. He replied by a mute and energetic pressure to the endearment of his friend.
“Now,” said Porthos, “that we have come to an explanation, now that I am perfectly aware of our situation with respect to Louis XIV., I think, my friend, it is time to make me comprehend the political intrigue of which we are the victims—for I plainly see there is a political intrigue at the bottom of all this.”
“D’Artagnan, my good Porthos, D’Artagnan is coming, and will detail it to you in all its circumstances; but, excuse me, I am deeply grieved, I am bowed down with mental anguish, and I have need of all my presence of mind, all my powers of reflection, to extricate you from the false position in which I have so imprudently involved you; but nothing can be more clear, nothing more plain, than your position, henceforth. The king Louis XIV. has no longer now but one enemy: that enemy is myself, myself alone. I have made
Comments (0)