The Man in the Iron Mask, Alexandre Dumas [the best motivational books TXT] 📗
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
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“He had supped heartily, perhaps,” said Aramis, “and that was why he staggered.”
“Bah! A friend of M. de Bassompierre, nonsense! No, no, he was astonished at this lassitude, and said to my mother, who laughed at him, ‘Would not one believe I was going to meet with a wild boar, as the late M. du Vallon, my father did?’”
“Well?” said Aramis.
“Well, having this weakness, my father insisted upon going down into the garden, instead of going to bed; his foot slipped on the first stair, the staircase was steep; my father fell against a stone in which an iron hinge was fixed. The hinge gashed his temple; and he was stretched out dead upon the spot.”
Aramis raised his eyes to his friend: “These are two extraordinary circumstances,” said he; “let us not infer that there may succeed a third. It is not becoming in a man of your strength to be superstitious, my brave Porthos. Besides, when were your legs known to fail? Never have you stood so firm, so haughtily; why, you could carry a house on your shoulders.”
“At this moment,” said Porthos, “I feel myself pretty active; but at times I vacillate; I sink; and lately this phenomenon, as you say, has occurred four times. I will not say this frightens me, but it annoys me. Life is an agreeable thing. I have money; I have fine estates; I have horses that I love; I have also friends that I love: D’Artagnan, Athos, Raoul, and you.”
The admirable Porthos did not even take the trouble to dissimulate in the very presence of Aramis the rank he gave him in his friendship. Aramis pressed his hand: “We will still live many years,” said he, “to preserve to the world such specimens of its rarest men. Trust yourself to me, my friend; we have no reply from D’Artagnan, that is a good sign. He must have given orders to get the vessels together and clear the seas. On my part I have just issued directions that a bark should be rolled on rollers to the mouth of the great cavern of Locmaria, which you know, where we have so often lain in wait for the foxes.”
“Yes, and which terminates at the little creek by a trench where we discovered the day that splendid fox escaped that way.”
“Precisely. In case of misfortunes, a bark is to be concealed for us in that cavern; indeed, it must be there by this time. We will wait for a favorable moment, and during the night we will go to sea!”
“That is a grand idea. What shall we gain by it?”
“We shall gain this—nobody knows that grotto, or rather its issue, except ourselves and two or three hunters of the island; we shall gain this—that if the island is occupied, the scouts, seeing no bark upon the shore, will never imagine we can escape, and will cease to watch.”
“I understand.”
“Well! that weakness in the legs?”
“Oh! better, much, just now.”
“You see, then, plainly, that everything conspires to give us quietude and hope. D’Artagnan will sweep the sea and leave us free. No royal fleet or descent to be dreaded. Vive Dieu! Porthos, we have still half a century of magnificent adventure before us, and if I once touch Spanish ground, I swear to you,” added the bishop with terrible energy, “that your brevet of duke is not such a chance as it is said to be.”
“We live by hope,” said Porthos, enlivened by the warmth of his companion.
All at once a cry resounded in their ears: “To arms! to arms!”
This cry, repeated by a hundred throats, piercing the chamber where the two friends were conversing, carried surprise to one, and uneasiness to the other. Aramis opened the window; he saw a crowd of people running with flambeaux. Women were seeking places of safety, the armed population were hastening to their posts.
“The fleet! the fleet!” cried a soldier, who recognized Aramis.
“The fleet?” repeated the latter.
“Within half cannon-shot,” continued the soldier.
“To arms!” cried Aramis.
“To arms!” repeated Porthos, formidably. And both rushed forth towards the mole to place themselves within the shelter of the batteries. Boats, laden with soldiers, were seen approaching; and in three directions, for the purpose of landing at three points at once.
“What must be done?” said an officer of the guard.
“Stop them; and if they persist, fire!” said Aramis.
Five minutes later, the cannonade commenced. These were the shots that D’Artagnan had heard as he landed in France. But the boats were too near the mole to allow the cannon to aim correctly. They landed, and the combat commenced hand to hand.
“What’s the matter, Porthos?” said Aramis to his friend.
“Nothing! nothing!—only my legs; it is really incomprehensible!—they will be better when we charge.” In fact, Porthos and Aramis did charge with such vigor, and so thoroughly animated their men, that the royalists re-embarked precipitately, without gaining anything but the wounds they carried away.
“Eh! but Porthos,” cried Aramis, “we must have a prisoner, quick! quick!” Porthos bent over the stair of the mole, and seized by the nape of the neck one of the officers of the royal army who was waiting to embark till all his people should be in the boat. The arm of the giant lifted up his prey, which served him as a buckler, and he recovered himself without a shot being fired at him.
“Here is a prisoner for you,” said Porthos coolly to Aramis.
“Well!” cried the latter, laughing, “did you not calumniate your legs?”
“It was not with my legs I captured him,” said Porthos, “it was with my arms!”
Chapter XLVI. The Son of Biscarrat.
The Bretons of the Isle were very proud of this victory; Aramis did not encourage them in the feeling.
“What will happen,” said he to Porthos, when everybody was gone home, “will be that the anger of the king will be roused by the account of the resistance; and that these brave people will be decimated or shot when they are taken, which cannot fail to take place.”
“From which it results, then,” said Porthos, “that what we have done is of not the slightest use.”
“For the moment it may be,” replied the bishop, “for we have a prisoner from whom we shall learn what our enemies are preparing to do.”
“Yes, let us interrogate the prisoner,” said Porthos, “and the means of making him speak are very simple. We are going to supper; we will invite him to join us; as he drinks he will talk.”
This was done. The officer was at first rather uneasy, but became reassured on seeing what sort of men he had to deal with. He gave, without having any fear of compromising himself, all the details imaginable of the resignation and departure of D’Artagnan. He explained how, after that departure, the new leader of the expedition had ordered a surprise upon Belle-Isle. There his explanations stopped. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance that evinced their despair. No more dependence to be placed now on D’Artagnan’s fertile imagination—no further resource in the event of defeat. Aramis, continuing his interrogations, asked the prisoner what the leaders of the expedition contemplated doing with the leaders of Belle-Isle.
“The orders are,” replied he, “to kill during combat, or hang afterwards.”
Porthos and Aramis looked at each other again, and the color mounted to their faces.
“I am too light for the gallows,” replied Aramis; “people like me are not hung.”
“And I am too heavy,” said Porthos; “people like me break the cord.”
“I am sure,” said the prisoner, gallantly, “that we could have guaranteed you the exact kind of death you preferred.”
“A thousand thanks!” said Aramis, seriously. Porthos bowed.
“One more cup of wine to your health,” said he, drinking himself. From one subject to another the chat with the officer was prolonged. He was an intelligent gentleman, and suffered himself to be led on by the charm of Aramis’s wit and Porthos’s cordial bonhomie.
“Pardon me,” said he, “if I address a question to you; but men who are in their sixth bottle have a clear right to forget themselves a little.”
“Address it!” cried Porthos; “address it!”
“Speak,” said Aramis.
“Were you not, gentlemen, both in the musketeers of the late king?”
“Yes, monsieur, and amongst the best of them, if you please,” said Porthos.
“That is true; I should say even the best of all soldiers, messieurs, if I did not fear to offend the memory of my father.”
“Of your father?” cried Aramis.
“Do you know what my name is?”
“Ma foi! no, monsieur; but you can tell us, and—”
“I am called Georges de Biscarrat.”
“Oh!” cried Porthos, in his turn. “Biscarrat! Do you remember that name, Aramis?”
“Biscarrat!” reflected the bishop. “It seems to me—”
“Try to recollect, monsieur,” said the officer.
“Pardieu! that won’t take me long,” said Porthos. “Biscarrat—called Cardinal—one of the four who interrupted us on the day on which we formed our friendship with D’Artagnan, sword in hand.”
“Precisely, gentlemen.”
“The only one,” cried Aramis, eagerly, “we could not scratch.”
“Consequently, a capital blade?” said the prisoner.
“That’s true! most true!” exclaimed both friends together. “Ma foi! Monsieur Biscarrat, we are delighted to make the acquaintance of such a brave man’s son.”
Biscarrat pressed the hands held out by the two musketeers. Aramis looked at Porthos as much as to say, “Here is a man who will help us,” and without delay,—“Confess, monsieur,” said he, “that it is good to have once been a good man.”
“My father always said so, monsieur.”
“Confess, likewise, that it is a sad circumstance in which you find yourself, of falling in with men destined to be shot or hung, and to learn that these men are old acquaintances, in fact, hereditary friends.”
“Oh! you are not reserved for such a frightful fate as that, messieurs and friends!” said the young man, warmly.
“Bah! you said so yourself.”
“I said so just now, when I did not know you; but now that I know you, I say—you will evade this dismal fate, if you wish!”
“How—if we wish?” echoed Aramis, whose eyes beamed with intelligence as he looked alternately at the prisoner and Porthos.
“Provided,” continued Porthos, looking, in his turn, with noble intrepidity, at M. Biscarrat and the bishop—“provided nothing disgraceful be required of us.”
“Nothing at all will be required of you, gentlemen,” replied the officer—“what should they ask of you? If they find you they will kill you, that is a predetermined thing; try, then, gentlemen, to prevent their finding you.”
“I don’t think I am mistaken,” said Porthos, with dignity; “but it appears evident to me that if they want to find us, they must come and seek us here.”
“In that you are perfectly right, my worthy friend,” replied Aramis, constantly consulting with his looks the countenance of Biscarrat, who had grown silent and constrained. “You wish, Monsieur de Biscarrat, to say something to us, to make us some overture, and you dare not—is that true?”
“Ah! gentlemen and friends! it is because by speaking I betray the watchword. But, hark! I hear a voice that frees mine by dominating it.”
“Cannon!” said Porthos.
“Cannon and musketry, too!” cried the bishop.
On hearing at a distance, among the rocks, these sinister reports of a combat which they thought had ceased:
“What can that be?” asked Porthos.
“Eh! Pardieu!” cried Aramis; “that is just what I expected.”
“What is that?”
“That the attack made by you was nothing but a feint; is not that true, monsieur? And whilst your companions allowed themselves to be repulsed, you were certain of effecting a landing on the other side of the island.”
“Oh! several, monsieur.”
“We are lost, then,” said the bishop of Vannes, quietly.
“Lost! that is possible,” replied the Seigneur de Pierrefonds, “but we are not taken or hung.” And so saying, he rose from the table, went to the wall, and coolly took down his sword and pistols, which he examined with the care of an old soldier who is preparing for battle, and who feels that life, in a great measure, depends upon the excellence and right conditions of his arms.
At the report of the cannon, at the news of the surprise which might
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