The Man in the Iron Mask. Dumas Alexandre
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can you have possibly got hold of?”
“Do you believe in my instinctive feelings? Formerly you used to have faith in them. Well, then, an instinct tells me that you have some concealed project on foot.”
“I – a project?”
“I am convinced of it.”
“What nonsense!”
“I am not only sure of it, but I would even swear it.”
“Indeed, D’Artagnan, you cause me the greatest pain. Is it likely, if I have any project in hand that I ought to keep secret from you, I should tell you about it? If I had one that I could and ought to have revealed, should I not have long ago divulged it?”
“No, Aramis, no. There are certain projects which are never revealed until the favorable opportunity arrives.”
“In that case, my dear fellow,” returned the bishop, laughing, “the only thing now is, that the ‘opportunity’ has not yet arrived.”
D’Artagnan shook his head with a sorrowful expression. “Oh, friendship, friendship!” he said, “what an idle word you are! Here is a man who, if I were but to ask it, would suffer himself to be cut in pieces for my sake.”
“You are right,” said Aramis, nobly.
“And this man, who would shed every drop of blood in his veins for me, will not open up before me the least corner in his heart. Friendship, I repeat, is nothing but an unsubstantial shadow – a lure, like everything else in this bright, dazzling world.”
“It is not thus you should speak of our friendship,” replied the bishop, in a firm, assured voice; “for ours is not of the same nature as those of which you have been speaking.”
“Look at us, Aramis; three out of the old ‘four.’ You are deceiving me; I suspect you; and Porthos is fast asleep. An admirable trio of friends, don’t you think so? What an affecting relic of the former dear old times!”
“I can only tell you one thing, D’Artagnan, and I swear it on the Bible: I love you just as I used to do. If I ever suspect you, it is on account of others, and not on account of either of us. In everything I may do, and should happen to succeed in, you will find your fourth. Will you promise me the same favor?”
“If I am not mistaken, Aramis, your words – at the moment you pronounce them – are full of generous feeling.”
“Such a thing is very possible.”
“You are conspiring against M. Colbert. If that be all, mordioux, tell me so at once. I have the instrument in my own hand, and will pull out the tooth easily enough.”
Aramis could not conceal a smile of disdain that flitted over his haughty features. “And supposing that I were conspiring against Colbert, what harm would there be in that?”
“No, no; that would be too trifling a matter for you to take in hand, and it was not on that account you asked Percerin for those patterns of the king’s costumes. Oh! Aramis, we are not enemies, remember – we are brothers. Tell me what you wish to undertake, and, upon the word of a D’Artagnan, if I cannot help you, I will swear to remain neuter.”
“I am undertaking nothing,” said Aramis.
“Aramis, a voice within me speaks and seems to trickle forth a rill of light within my darkness: it is a voice that has never yet deceived me. It is the king you are conspiring against.”
“The king?” exclaimed the bishop, pretending to be annoyed.
“Your face will not convince me; the king, I repeat.”
“Will you help me?” said Aramis, smiling ironically.
“Aramis, I will do more than help you – I will do more than remain neuter – I will save you.”
“You are mad, D’Artagnan.”
“I am the wiser of the two, in this matter.”
“You to suspect me of wishing to assassinate the king!”
“Who spoke of such a thing?” smiled the musketeer.
“Well, let us understand one another. I do not see what any one can do to a legitimate king as ours is, if he does not assassinate him.” D’Artagnan did not say a word. “Besides, you have your guards and your musketeers here,” said the bishop.
“True.”
“You are not in M. Fouquet’s house, but in your own.”
“True; but in spite of that, Aramis, grant me, for pity’s sake, one single word of a true friend.”
“A true friend’s word is ever truth itself. If I think of touching, even with my finger, the son of Anne of Austria, the true king of this realm of France – if I have not the firm intention of prostrating myself before his throne – if in every idea I may entertain to-morrow, here at Vaux, will not be the most glorious day my king ever enjoyed – may Heaven’s lightning blast me where I stand!” Aramis had pronounced these words with his face turned towards the alcove of his own bedroom, where D’Artagnan, seated with his back towards the alcove, could not suspect that any one was lying concealed. The earnestness of his words, the studied slowness with which he pronounced them, the solemnity of his oath, gave the musketeer the most complete satisfaction. He took hold of both Aramis’s hands, and shook them cordially. Aramis had endured reproaches without turning pale, and had blushed as he listened to words of praise. D’Artagnan, deceived, did him honor; but D’Artagnan, trustful and reliant, made him feel ashamed. “Are you going away?” he said, as he embraced him, in order to conceal the flush on his face.
“Yes. Duty summons me. I have to get the watch-word. It seems I am to be lodged in the king’s ante-room. Where does Porthos sleep?”
“Take him away with you, if you like, for he rumbles through his sleepy nose like a park of artillery.”
“Ah! he does not stay with you, then?” said D’Artagnan.
“Not the least in the world. He has a chamber to himself, but I don’t know where.”
“Very good!” said the musketeer; from whom this separation of the two associates removed his last suspicion, and he touched Porthos lightly on the shoulder; the latter replied by a loud yawn. “Come,” said D’Artagnan.
“What, D’Artagnan, my dear fellow, is that you? What a lucky chance! Oh, yes – true; I have forgotten; I am at the fete at Vaux.”
“Yes; and your beautiful dress, too.”
“Yes, it was very attentive on the part of Monsieur Coquelin de Voliere, was it not?”
“Hush!” said Aramis. “You are walking so heavily you will make the flooring give way.”
“True,” said the musketeer; “this room is above the dome, I think.”
“And I did not choose it for a fencing-room, I assure you,” added the bishop. “The ceiling of the king’s room has all the lightness and calm of wholesome sleep. Do not forget, therefore, that my flooring is merely the covering of his ceiling. Good night, my friends, and in ten minutes I shall be asleep myself.” And Aramis accompanied them to the door, laughing quietly all the while. As soon as they were outside, he bolted the door, hurriedly; closed up the chinks of the windows, and then called out, “Monseigneur! – monseigneur!” Philippe made his appearance from the alcove, as he pushed aside a sliding panel placed behind the bed.
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