I am at your orders, monseigneur.


Very good


The rules do not allow the governor to hear the prisoner’s confession.


What is it?


You desired a confessor?


Yes.


Because you were ill?


Very ill?


I thank you. I have seen you before. I am better.


And so?


Why, then--being better, I have no longer the same need of a confessor, I think.


Not even of the hair-cloth, which the note you found in your bread informed you of? Not even of the ecclesiastic from whom you were to hear an important revelation?


If it be so, it is different; I am listening.


Sit down, monsieur,


How does the Bastile agree with you? You do not suffer? You have nothing to regret? Not even your liberty? I call liberty, the flowers, the air, light, the stars, the happiness of going whithersoever the sinewy limbs of one-and-twenty chance to wish to carry you.


But the air! air is so necessary to life! Light I have! what is better than light?


As to the stars which are so delightful to view. So much, then, for the flowers, the air, the daylight, and the stars. Men! be it so; but it seems to me you are forgetting Heaven. Is not Heaven in everything? Say rather, at the end of everything, but let us return to our starting-point. I am your confessor. Well, then, you ought, as a penitent, to tell me the truth. Every prisoner has committed some crime for which he has been imprisoned. What crime, then, have you committed? And then, as now you evaded giving me an answer. Because this time I am your confessor. Then if you wish me to tell what crime I have committed, explain to me in what a crime consists. For as my conscience does not accuse me, I aver that I am not a criminal. We are often criminals in the sight of the great of the earth, not alone for having ourselves committed crimes, but because we know that crimes have been committed. Ah! then you know something. What do you say to yourself? Then--and then? You leave off? What? You are afraid of death? Oh, as you fear death, you know more about matters than you say. Are you ambitious? What do you mean by ambitious? Ambition, is the feeling which prompts a man to desire more--much more--than he possesses. An ambitious man, is one who covets that which is beyond his station. You lied the first time I saw you. I should say, you concealed from me what you knew of your infancy. True, ‘tis true; pardon me, but to-day do I still occupy the place of a chance-comer? I beseech you to reply, monseigneur. Oh, but if I dared, I would take your hand and kiss it! Why did you tell me, that you were happy here? Why, that you aspired to nothing? Why, in a word, by thus speaking, do you prevent me from being frank in my turn? You distrust me. And why say you so, monsieur? Oh, for a very simple reason; if you know what you ought to know, you ought to mistrust everybody. Oh, monseigneur! you drive me to despair. And, on my part, I do not comprehend you, monsieur. Well, then, try to understand me. Sometimes it seems to me, that I have before me the man whom I seek, and then-- Certainly. I have nothing further to say to a man who mistrusts me as you do. And I, monsieur, have nothing to say to a man who will not understand that a prisoner ought to be mistrustful of everybody. Even of his old friends. Oh, monseigneur, you are too prudent! Of my old friends?--you one of my old friends,--you? Do you no longer remember. Do you know the name of the village? Noisy-le-Sec, monseigneur. Go on. Stay, monseigneur,


I promise you, to hear you without impatience. Only it appears to me that I have a right to repeat the question I have already asked, ‘Who are you?’ Do you remember, fifteen or eighteen years ago, seeing at Noisy-le-Sec a cavalier, accompanied by a lady in black silk, with flame-colored ribbons in her hair? Well, that musketeer and abbe, afterwards bishop of Vannes, is your confessor now. I know it; I recognized you. Then, monseigneur, if you know that, I must further add a fact of which you are ignorant--that if the king were to know this evening of the presence of this musketeer, this abbe, this bishop, this confessor, here--he, who has risked everything to visit you, to-morrow would behold the steely glitter of the executioner’s axe in a dungeon more gloomy, more obscure than yours. Yes. I remember perfectly. The woman of whom you speak came once with you, and twice afterwards with another. With another, who came to see you every month--is it not so, monseigneur? Do you know who this lady was? I am aware that she was one of the ladies of the court. You remember that lady well, do you not? Oh, my recollection can hardly be very confused on this head. Then you were in prison? If I am a prisoner here, then I was comparatively free, although in a very narrow sense--a house I never quitted, a garden surrounded with walls I could not climb, these constituted my residence, but you know it, as you have been there. In a word, being accustomed to live within these bounds, I never cared to leave them. And so you will understand, monsieur, that having never seen anything of the world, I have nothing left to care for; and therefore, if you relate anything, you will be obliged to explain each item to me as you go along. And I will do so, for it is my duty, monseigneur. Well, then, begin by telling me who was my tutor. A worthy and, above all, an honorable gentleman, monseigneur; fit guide for both body and soul. Had you ever any reason to complain of him? Oh, no; quite the contrary. But this gentleman of yours often used to tell me that my father and mother were dead. Did he deceive me, or did he speak the truth? He was compelled to comply with the orders given him. Then he lied? In one respect. Your father is dead. She is dead for you. But then she lives for others, does she not? And I--and I, then am compelled to live in the obscurity of a prison? Alas! I fear so. And that because my presence in the world would lead to the revelation of a great secret? Certainly, a very great secret. My enemy must indeed be powerful, to be able to shut up in the Bastile a child such as I then was. He is. More powerful than my mother, then? And why do you ask that? Because my mother would have taken my part. Yes, monseigneur; more powerful than your mother. Seeing, then, that my nurse and preceptor were carried off, and that I, also, was separated from them--either they were, or I am, very dangerous to my enemy? Yes; but you are alluding to a peril from which he freed himself, by causing the nurse and preceptor to disappear. Disappear! how did they disappear? they are dead.


Poison?


Poison.


My enemy must indeed have been very cruel, or hard beset by necessity, to assassinate those two innocent people, my sole support; for the worthy gentleman and the poor nurse had never harmed a living being.


In your family, monseigneur, necessity is stern. And so it is necessity which compels me, to my great regret, to tell you that this gentleman and the unhappy lady have been assassinated.


Oh, you tell me nothing I am not aware of,


How?


I suspected it.


Why?


I will tell you.


Speak, monseigneur. I have already told you that by conversing with you I endanger my life. Little value as it has, I implore you to accept it as the ransom of your own.


Well,


Whom you used to call your father?


Yes; whom I called my father, but whose son I well knew I was not.


Who caused you to suppose so?


Just as you, monsieur, are too respectful for a friend, he was also too respectful for a father.


I, however,


have no intention to disguise myself.


Undoubtedly, I was not destined to perpetual seclusion,


This, then, is eight years ago?


Yes, nearly; but I have ceased to reckon time.


Excuse me; but what did your tutor tell you, to encourage you to work?


He used to say that a man was bound to make for himself, in the world, that fortune which Heaven had refused him at his birth. He added that, being a poor, obscure orphan, I had no one but myself to look to; and that nobody either did, or ever would, take any interest in me. I was, then, in the hall I have spoken of, asleep from fatigue with long fencing. My preceptor was in his room on the first floor, just over me. Suddenly I heard him exclaim, and then he called: ‘Perronnette! Perronnette!’ It was my nurse whom he called.


Yes, I know it. Continue, monseigneur.


Very likely she was in the garden; for my preceptor came hastily downstairs. I rose, anxious at seeing him anxious. He opened the garden-door, still crying out, ‘Perronnette! Perronnette!’ The windows of the hall looked into the court; the shutters were closed; but through a chink in them I saw my tutor draw near a large well, which was almost directly under the windows of his study. He stooped over the brim, looked into the well, and again cried out, and made wild and affrighted gestures. Where I was, I could not only see, but hear--and see and hear I did.


Go on, I pray you,


Dame Perronnette came running up, hearing the governor’s cries. He went to meet her, took her by the arm, and drew her quickly towards the edge; after which, as they both bent over it together, ‘Look, look,’ cried he, ‘what a misfortune!


Calm yourself, calm yourself,


what is the matter?


The letter!


do you see that letter?


What letter?


The letter you see down there; the last letter from the queen.


The queen’s last letter!


but how came it there?


A chance, Dame Perronnette--a singular chance. I was entering my room, and on opening the door, the window, too, being open, a puff of air came suddenly and carried off this paper--this letter of her majesty’s; I darted after it, and gained the window just in time to see it flutter a moment in the breeze and disappear down the well.


Well,


and if the letter has fallen into the well, ‘tis all the same as if it was burnt; and as the queen burns all her letters every time she comes--


Doubtless, doubtless,


but this letter contained instructions--how can I follow them?


Write immediately to her; give her a plain account of the accident, and the queen will no doubt write you another letter in place of this.


Oh! the queen would never believe the story,


she will imagine that I want to keep this letter instead of giving it up like the rest, so as to have a hold over her. She is so distrustful, and M. de Mazarin so--Yon devil of an Italian is capable of having us poisoned at the first breath of suspicion.


You know, Dame Perronnette, they are both so suspicious in all that concerns Philippe.


Well, ‘tis no use hesitating,


somebody must go down the well.


Of course; so that the person who goes down may read the paper as he is coming up.


But let us choose some villager who cannot read, and then you will be at ease.


Granted; but will not any one who descends guess that a paper must be important for which we risk a man’s life? However, you have given me an idea, Dame Perronnette; somebody shall go down the well, but that somebody shall be myself.


And will you tell me what you read therein, monseigneur?


Quite enough, monsieur, to see that my tutor was a man of noble rank, and that Perronnette, without being a lady of quality, was far better than a servant; and also to perceived that I must myself be high-born, since the queen, Anne of Austria, and Mazarin, the prime minister, commended me so earnestly to their care.


What happened?


It happened, monsieur, that the workmen they had summoned found nothing in the well, after the closest search; that my governor perceived that the brink was all watery; that I was not so dried by the sun as to prevent Dame Perronnette spying that my garments were moist; and, lastly, that I was seized with a violent fever, owing to the chill and the excitement of my discovery, an attack of delirium supervening, during which I related the whole adventure; so that, guided by my avowal, my governor found the pieces of the queen’s letter inside the bolster where I had concealed them.


Ah! now I understand.


Beyond this, all is conjecture. Doubtless the unfortunate lady and gentleman, not daring to keep the occurrence secret, wrote of all this to the queen and sent back the torn letter.


After which,


you were arrested and removed to the Bastile.


As you see.


Your two attendants disappeared?


Alas!


Let us not take up our time with the dead, but see what can be done with the living. You told me you were resigned.


I repeat it.


Without any desire for freedom?


As I told you.


Without ambition, sorrow, or thought?


I think I have spoken enough,


and that now it is your turn. I am weary.


One question,


What is it? speak.


In the house you inhabited there were neither looking-glasses nor mirrors?


What are those two words, and what is their meaning?


I have no sort of knowledge of them.


They designate two pieces of furniture which reflect objects; so that, for instance, you may see in them your own lineaments, as you see mine now, with the naked eye.


No; there was neither a glass nor a mirror in the house,


Nor is there anything of the kind here, either, they have again taken the same precaution.


To what end?


You will know directly. Now, you have told me that you were instructed in mathematics, astronomy, fencing, and riding; but you have not said a word about history.


My tutor sometimes related to me the principal deeds of the king, St. Louis, King Francis I., and King Henry IV.


Is that all?


Very nearly.


This also was done by design, then; just as they deprived you of mirrors, which reflect the present, so they left you in ignorance of history, which reflects the past. Since your imprisonment, books have been forbidden you; so that you are unacquainted with a number of facts, by means of which you would be able to reconstruct the shattered mansion of your recollections and your hopes.


It is true,


Listen, then; I will in a few words tell you what has passed in France during the last twenty-three or twenty-four years; that is, from the probable date of your birth; in a word, from the time that interests you.


Say on.


Do you know who was the son of Henry IV.?


At least I know who his successor was.


How?


By means of a coin dated 1610, which bears the effigy of Henry IV.; and another of 1612, bearing that of Louis XIII. So I presumed that, there being only two years between the two dates, Louis was Henry’s successor.


Then,


you know that the last reigning monarch was Louis XIII.?


I do,


Well, he was a prince full of noble ideas and great projects, always, alas! deferred by the trouble of the times and the dread struggle that his minister Richelieu had to maintain against the great nobles of France. The king himself was of a feeble character, and died young and unhappy.


I know it.


He had been long anxious about having a heir; a care which weighs heavily on princes, who desire to leave behind them more than one pledge that their best thoughts and works will be continued.


Did the king, then, die childless?


No, but he was long without one, and for a long while thought he should be the last of his race. This idea had reduced him to the depths of despair, when suddenly, his wife, Anne of Austria-- Did you know,


that Louis XIII.’s wife was called Anne of Austria?


Continue,


When suddenly,


the queen announced an interesting event. There was great joy at the intelligence, and all prayed for her happy delivery. On the 5th of September, 1638, she gave birth to a son. You are about to hear,


an account which few indeed could now avouch; for it refers to a secret which they imagined buried with the dead, entombed in the abyss of the confessional.


And you will tell me this secret?


Oh! I do not know that I ought to risk this secret by intrusting it to one who has no desire to quit the Bastile.


I hear you, monsieur.


The queen, then, gave birth to a son. But while the court was rejoicing over the event, when the king had shown the new-born child to the nobility and people, and was sitting gayly down to table, to celebrate the event, the queen, who was alone in her room, was again taken ill and gave birth to a second son.


Oh!


I thought that Monsieur was only born in--


Permit me to continue,


Yes,


the queen had a second son, whom Dame Perronnette, the midwife, received in her arms.


Dame Perronnette!


They ran at once to the banqueting-room, and whispered to the king what had happened; he rose and quitted the table. But this time it was no longer happiness that his face expressed, but something akin to terror. The birth of twins changed into bitterness the joy to which that of an only son had given rise, seeing that in France (a fact you are assuredly ignorant of) it is the oldest of the king’s sons who succeeds his father.


I know it.


And that the doctors and jurists assert that there is ground for doubting whether the son that first makes his appearance is the elder by the law of heaven and of nature.


Oh, I understand!--I understand!


Well, this is what they relate, what they declare; this is why one of the queen’s two sons, shamefully parted from his brother, shamefully sequestered, is buried in profound obscurity; this is why that second son has disappeared, and so completely, that not a soul in France, save his mother, is aware of his existence.


Yes! his mother, who has cast him off,


Except, also, the lady in the black dress; and, finally, excepting--


Excepting yourself--is it not? You who come and relate all this; you, who rouse in my soul curiosity, hatred, ambition, and, perhaps, even the thirst of vengeance; except you, monsieur, who, if you are the man to whom I expect, whom the note I have received applies to, whom, in short, Heaven ought to send me, must possess about you--


What?


A portrait of the king, Louis XIV., who at this moment reigns upon the throne of France.


Here is the portrait. And now, monseigneur, here is a mirror.


So high!--so high!


What do you think of it?


I think that I am lost, the king will never set me free.


And I--I demand to know. I demand to know which of these two is king; the one this miniature portrays, or whom the glass reflects?


The king, monsieur, is he who is on the throne, who is not in prison; and who, on the other hand, can cause others to be entombed there. Royalty means power; and you behold how powerless I am.


Monseigneur, the king, mark me, will, if you desire it, be the one that, quitting his dungeon, shall maintain himself upon the throne, on which his friends will place him.


Tempt me not, monsieur,


Be not weak, monseigneur. I have brought you all the proofs of your birth; consult them; satisfy yourself that you are a king’s son; it is for us to act.


No, no; it is impossible.


Unless, indeed, it be the destiny of your race, that the brothers excluded from the throne should be always princes void of courage and honesty, as was your uncle, M. Gaston d’Orleans, who ten times conspired against his brother Louis XIII.


What! my uncle Gaston ‘conspired against his brother’; conspired to dethrone him?


Exactly, monseigneur; for no other reason. I tell you the truth.


And he had friends--devoted friends?


As much so as I am to you.


And, after all, what did he do?--Failed!


He failed, I admit; but always through his own fault; and, for the sake of purchasing--not his life--for the life of the king’s brother is sacred and inviolable--but his liberty, he sacrificed the lives of all his friends, one after another. And so, at this day, he is a very blot on history, the detestation of a hundred noble families in this kingdom.


I understand, monsieur; either by weakness or treachery, my uncle slew his friends.


By weakness; which, in princes, is always treachery.


And cannot a man fail, then, from incapacity and ignorance? Do you really believe it possible that a poor captive such as I, brought up, not only at a distance from the court, but even from the world--do you believe it possible that such a one could assist those of his friends who should attempt to serve him?


We are speaking of friends; but how can I have any friends--I, whom no one knows; and have neither liberty, money, nor influence, to gain any?


I fancy I had the honor to offer myself to your royal highness.


Oh, do not style me so, monsieur; ‘tis either treachery or cruelty. Bid me not think of aught beyond these prison-walls, which so grimly confine me; let me again love, or, at least, submit to my slavery and my obscurity.


Monseigneur, monseigneur; if you again utter these desperate words--if, after having received proof of your high birth, you still remain poor-spirited in body and soul, I will comply with your desire, I will depart, and renounce forever the service of a master, to whom so eagerly I came to devote my assistance and my life!


Monsieur, would it not have been better for you to have reflected, before telling me all that you have done, that you have broken my heart forever?


And so I desire to do, monseigneur.


To talk to me about power, grandeur, eye, and to prate of thrones! Is a prison the fit place? You wish to make me believe in splendor, and we are lying lost in night; you boast of glory, and we are smothering our words in the curtains of this miserable bed; you give me glimpses of power absolute whilst I hear the footsteps of the every-watchful jailer in the corridor--that step which, after all, makes you tremble more than it does me. To render me somewhat less incredulous, free me from the Bastile; let me breathe the fresh air; give me my spurs and trusty sword, then we shall begin to understand each other.


It is precisely my intention to give you all this, monseigneur, and more; only, do you desire it?


A word more. I know there are guards in every gallery, bolts to every door, cannon and soldiery at every barrier. How will you overcome the sentries--spike the guns? How will you break through the bolts and bars?


Monseigneur,--how did you get the note which announced my arrival to you?


You can bribe a jailer for such a thing as a note.


If we can corrupt one turnkey, we can corrupt ten.


Well; I admit that it may be possible to release a poor captive from the Bastile; possible so to conceal him that the king’s people shall not again ensnare him; possible, in some unknown retreat, to sustain the unhappy wretch in some suitable manner.


Monseigneur!


I admit that, whoever would do this much for me, would seem more than mortal in my eyes; but as you tell me I am a prince, brother of the king, how can you restore me the rank and power which my mother and my brother have deprived me of? And as, to effect this, I must pass a life of war and hatred, how can you cause me to prevail in those combats--render me invulnerable by my enemies? Ah! monsieur, reflect on all this; place me, to-morrow, in some dark cavern at a mountain’s base; yield me the delight of hearing in freedom sounds of the river, plain and valley, of beholding in freedom the sun of the blue heavens, or the stormy sky, and it is enough. Promise me no more than this, for, indeed, more you cannot give, and it would be a crime to deceive me, since you call yourself my friend.


Monseigneur. I admire the firm, sound sense which dictates your words; I am happy to have discovered my monarch’s mind.


Again, again! oh, God! for mercy’s sake, do not play with me! I have no need to be a king to be the happiest of men.


But I, monseigneur, wish you to be a king for the good of humanity.


Ah! ah! with what, then, has humanity to reproach my brother?


I forgot to say, monseigneur, that if you would allow me to guide you, and if you consent to become the most powerful monarch in Christendom, you will have promoted the interests of all the friends whom I devote to the success of your cause, and these friends are numerous.


Numerous?


Less numerous than powerful, monseigneur.


Explain yourself.


It is impossible; I will explain, I swear before Heaven, on that day that I see you sitting on the throne of France.


But my brother?


You shall decree his fate. Do you pity him?


Him, who leaves me to perish in a dungeon? No, no. For him I have no pity!


So much the better.


He might have himself come to this prison, have taken me by the hand, and have said, ‘My brother, Heaven created us to love, not to contend with one another. I come to you. A barbarous prejudice has condemned you to pass your days in obscurity, far from mankind, deprived of every joy. I will make you sit down beside me; I will buckle round your waist our father’s sword. Will you take advantage of this reconciliation to put down or restrain me? Will you employ that sword to spill my blood?’


Oh! never,


I would have replied to him, ‘I look on you as my preserver, I will respect you as my master. You give me far more than Heaven bestowed; for through you I possess liberty and the privilege of loving and being loved in this world.’


And you would have kept your word, monseigneur?


On my life! While now--now that I have guilty ones to punish--


In what manner, monseigneur?


What do you say as to the resemblance that Heaven has given me to my brother?


I say that there was in that likeness a providential instruction which the king ought to have heeded; I say that your mother committed a crime in rendering those different in happiness and fortune whom nature created so startlingly alike, of her own flesh, and I conclude that the object of punishment should be only to restore the equilibrium.


By which you mean--


That if I restore you to your place on your brother’s throne, he shall take yours in prison.


Alas! there’s such infinity of suffering in prison, especially it would be so for one who has drunk so deeply of the cup of enjoyment.


Your royal highness will always be free to act as you may desire; and if it seems good to you, after punishment, you will have it in your power to pardon.


Good. And now, are you aware of one thing, monsieur?


Tell me, my prince.


It is that I will hear nothing further from you till I am clear of the Bastile.


I was going to say to your highness that I should only have the pleasure of seeing you once again.


And when?


The day when my prince leaves these gloomy walls.


Heavens! how will you give me notice of it?


By myself coming to fetch you.


Yourself?


My prince, do not leave this chamber save with me, or if in my absence you are compelled to do so, remember that I am not concerned in it.


And so I am not to speak a word of this to any one whatever, save to you?


Save only to me.


Monsieur, one word more, my last. If you have sought me for my destruction; if you are only a tool in the hands of my enemies; if from our conference, in which you have sounded the depths of my mind, anything worse than captivity result, that is to say, if death befall me, still receive my blessing, for you will have ended my troubles and given me repose from the tormenting fever that has preyed on me for eight long, weary years.


Monseigneur, wait the results ere you judge me,


I say that, in such a case, I bless and forgive you. If, on the other hand, you are come to restore me to that position in the sunshine of fortune and glory to which I was destined by Heaven; if by your means I am enabled to live in the memory of man, and confer luster on my race by deeds of valor, or by solid benefits bestowed upon my people; if, from my present depths of sorrow, aided by your generous hand, I raise myself to the very height of honor, then to you, whom I thank with blessings, to you will I offer half my power and my glory: though you would still be but partly recompensed, and your share must always remain incomplete, since I could not divide with you the happiness received at your hands.


Monseigneur, the nobleness of your heart fills me with joy and admiration. It is not you who will have to thank me, but rather the nation whom you will render happy, the posterity whose name you will make glorious. Yes; I shall indeed have bestowed upon you more than life, I shall have given you immortality. It is the first act of homage paid to our future king. When I see you again, I shall say, ‘Good day, sire.’


Till then, 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, since you infer it is I who brought all this.


What a confessor! 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?


Let us proceed to business, my dear governor,


Alas!


You have to ask me for my receipt for one hundred and fifty thousand livres,


And to pay over the first third of the sum,


Here is the receipt,


And here is the money,


The order instructed me only to give a receipt; it said nothing about receiving the money. Adieu, monsieur le governeur!


Ah! ah! ah! Here is D’Artagnan. I shall then get hold of an idea! Ah! you are always welcome, dear friend; but just now you are more welcome than ever.


But you seem to have the megrims here!


Well, then, tell me all about it, Porthos, my friend, unless it is a secret. In the first place, 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, 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. Come, my friend, 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,


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!


Eh! good heavens, are you ill?


I am as firm as the Pont-Neuf! It isn’t that.


But what is it, then?


‘Tis that I have no clothes!


No clothes! Porthos, no clothes! when I see at least fifty suits on the floor.


Fifty, truly; but not one which fits me!


What? not one that fits you? But are you not measured, then, when you give an order?


To be sure he is, but unfortunately I have gotten stouter!


What! you stouter!


So much so that I am now bigger than the baron. Would you believe it, monsieur?


Parbleu! it seems to me that is quite evident.


that is quite evident!


Be still, my dear Porthos, I don’t understand why your clothes should not fit you, because Mouston has grown stouter.


I am going to explain it. You remember having related to me the story of the Roman general Antony, who had always seven wild boars kept roasting, each cooked up to a different point; so that he might be able to have his dinner at any time of the day he chose to ask for it. Well, then, I resolved, as at any time I might be invited to court to spend a week, I resolved to have always seven suits ready for the occasion.


Capitally reasoned, Porthos--only a man must have a fortune like yours to gratify such whims. Without counting the time lost in being measured, the fashions are always changing.


That is exactly the point,


Tell me what it is; for I don’t doubt your genius.


You remember what Mouston once was, then?


Yes; when he used to call himself Mousqueton.


And you remember, too, the period when he began to grow fatter?


No, not exactly. I beg your pardon, my good Mouston.


Oh! you are not in fault, monsieur. You were in Paris, and as for us, we were at Pierrefonds.


Well, well, my dear Porthos; there was a time when Mouston began to grow fat. Is that what you wished to say?


Yes, my friend; and I greatly rejoice over the period.


Indeed, I believe you do,


You understand, what a world of trouble it spared for me.


No, I don’t--by any means.


Look here, my friend. In the first place, as you have said, to be measured is a loss of time, even though it occur only once a fortnight. And then, one may be travelling; and then you wish to have seven suits always with you. In short, I have a horror of letting any one take my measure. Confound it! either one is a nobleman or not. To be scrutinized and scanned by a fellow who completely analyzes you, by inch and line--‘tis degrading! Here, they find you too hollow; there, too prominent. They recognize your strong and weak points. See, now, when we leave the measurer’s hands, we are like those strongholds whose angles and different thicknesses have been ascertained by a spy.


In truth, my dear Porthos, you possess ideas entirely original.


Ah! you see when a man is an engineer--


And has fortified Belle-Isle--‘tis natural, my friend.


Well, I had an idea, which would doubtless have proved a good one, but for Mouston’s carelessness. I congratulated myself, then, at seeing Mouston get fat; and I did all I could, by means of substantial feeding, to make him stout--always in the hope that he would come to equal myself in girth, and could then be measured in my stead.


Ah!


Consider my joy when, after a year and a half’s judicious feeding--for I used to feed him up myself--the fellow--


Oh! I lent a good hand myself, monsieur,


That’s true. Consider my joy when, one morning, I perceived Mouston was obliged to squeeze in, as I once did myself, to get through the little secret door that those fools of architects had made in the chamber of the late Madame du Vallon, in the chateau of Pierrefonds. And, by the way, about that door, my friend, I should like to ask you, who know everything, why these wretches of architects, who ought to have the compasses run into them, just to remind them, came to make doorways through which nobody but thin people can pass?


Oh, those doors, were meant for gallants, and they have generally slight and slender figures.


Madame du Vallon had no gallant!


Perfectly true, my friend, but the architects were probably making their calculations on a basis of the probability of your marrying again.


Ah! that is possible. And now I have received an explanation of how it is that doorways are made too narrow, let us return to the subject of Mouston’s fatness. But see how the two things apply to each other. I have always noticed that people’s ideas run parallel. And so, observe this phenomenon, D’Artagnan. I was talking to you of Mouston, who is fat, and it led us on to Madame du Vallon--


Who was thin?


Hum! Is it not marvelous?


My dear friend, a savant of my acquaintance, M. Costar, has made the same observation as you have, and he calls the process by some Greek name which I forget.


What! my remark is not then original?


My friend, the fact was known before Aristotle’s days--that is to say, nearly two thousand years ago.


Well, well, ‘tis no less true,


Wonderfully--but suppose we return to Mouston. It seems to me, we have left him fattening under our very eyes.


Yes, monsieur. Well. Mouston fattened so well, that he gratified all my hopes, by reaching my standard; a fact of which I was well able to convince myself, by seeing the rascal, one day, in a waistcoat of mine, which he had turned into a coat--a waistcoat, the mere embroidery of which was worth a hundred pistoles.


‘Twas only to try it on, monsieur,


From that moment I determined to put Mouston in communication with my tailors, and to have him measured instead of myself.


A capital idea, Porthos; but Mouston is a foot and a half shorter than you.


Exactly! They measured him down to the ground, and the end of the skirt came just below my knee.


What a marvelous man you are, Porthos! Such a thing could happen only to you.


Ah! yes; pay your compliments; you have ample grounds to go upon. It was exactly at that time--that is to say, nearly two years and a half ago--that I set out for Belle-Isle, instructing Mouston (so as always to have, in every event, a pattern of every fashion) to have a coat made for himself every month.


And did Mouston neglect complying with your instructions? Ah! that was anything but right, Mouston.


No, monsieur, quite the contrary; quite the contrary!


No, he never forgot to have his coats made; but he forgot to inform me that he had got stouter!


But it was not my fault, monsieur! your tailor never told me.


And this to such an extent, monsieur, that the fellow in two years has gained eighteen inches in girth, and so my last dozen coats are all too large, from a foot to a foot and a half. They are no longer the fashion, my dear friend. Were I to put them on, I should look like a fresh arrival from Siam; and as though I had been two years away from court.


I understand your difficulty. You have how many new suits? nine? thirty-six? and yet not one to wear. Well, you must have a thirty-seventh made, and give the thirty-six to Mouston.


Ah! monsieur! The truth is, that monsieur has always been very generous to me.


Do you mean to insinuate that I hadn’t that idea, or that I was deterred by the expense? But it wants only two days to the fete; I received the invitation yesterday; made Mouston post hither with my wardrobe, and only this morning discovered my misfortune; and from now till the day after to-morrow, there isn’t a single fashionable tailor who will undertake to make me a suit.


That is to say, one covered all over with gold, isn’t it?


I wish it so! undoubtedly, all over. Oh, we shall manage it. You won’t leave for three days. The invitations are for Wednesday, and this is only Sunday morning.


‘Tis true; but Aramis has strongly advised me to be at Vaux twenty-four hours beforehand.


How, Aramis?


Yes, it was Aramis who brought me the invitation.


Ah! to be sure, I see. You are invited on the part of M. Fouquet?


By no means! by the king, dear friend. The letter bears the following as large as life: ‘M. le Baron du Vallon is informed that the king has condescended to place him on the invitation list--’


Very good; but you leave with M. Fouquet?


And when I think, when I think I shall have no clothes, I am ready to burst with rage! I should like to strangle somebody or smash something!


Neither strangle anybody nor smash anything, Porthos; I will manage it all; put on one of your thirty-six suits, and come with me to a tailor.


Pooh! my agent has seen them all this morning.


Even M. Percerin?


Who is M. Percerin?


Oh! only the king’s tailor!


Oh, ah, yes, to M. Percerin’s, by Jove! I was afraid he would be too busy.


Doubtless he will be; but be at ease, Porthos; he will do for me what he wouldn’t do for another. Only you must allow yourself to be measured!


Ah! ‘tis vexatious, but what would you have me do?


Do? As others do; as the king does.


What! do they measure the king, too? does he put up with it?


The king is a beau, my good friend, and so are you, too, whatever you may say about it.


Let us go to the king’s tailor, and since he measures the king, I think, by my faith, I may do worse than allow him to measure me!


Take care, my good D’Artagnan, not to compromise the dignity of a man such as I am with the arrogance of this Percerin, who will, I expect, be very impertinent; for I give you notice, my friend, that if he is wanting in respect I will infallibly chastise him.


Presented by me, you have nothing to fear, even though you were what you are not.


Ah! ‘tis because--


What? Have you anything against Percerin, Porthos?


I think that I once sent Mouston to a fellow of that name.


And then?


The fellow refused to supply me.


Oh, a misunderstanding, no doubt, which it will be now exceedingly easy to set right. Mouston must have made a mistake.


Perhaps.


He has confused the names.


Possibly. That rascal Mouston never can remember names.


I will take it all upon myself.


Very good.


Stop the carriage, Porthos; here we are.


Here! how here? We are at the Halles; and you told me the house was at the corner of the Rue de l’Arbre Sec.


‘Tis true, but look.


Well, I do look, and I see--


What?


Pardieu! that we are at the Halles!


You do not, I suppose, want our horses to clamber up on the roof of the carriage in front of us?


No.


Nor the carriage in front of us to mount on top of the one in front of it. Nor that the second should be driven over the roofs of the thirty or forty others which have arrived before us.


No, you are right, indeed. What a number of people! And what are they all about?


‘Tis very simple. They are waiting their turn.


Bah! Have the comedians of the Hotel de Bourgogne shifted their quarters?


No; their turn to obtain an entrance to M. Percerin’s house.


And we are going to wait too?


Oh, we shall show ourselves prompter and not so proud.


What are we to do, then?


Get down, pass through the footmen and lackeys, and enter the tailor’s house, which I will answer for our doing, if you go first.


Come along, then,


The king’s order,


Eh! and so you have become a tailor’s boy, Monsieur Moliere!


Hush, M. d’Artagnan! you will make them recognize me.


Well, and what harm?


The fact is, there is no harm, but--


You were going to say there is no good in doing it either, is it not so?


Alas! no; for I was occupied in examining some excellent figures.


Go on--go on, Monsieur Moliere. I quite understand the interest you take in the plates--I will not disturb your studies.


Thank you.


But on one condition; that you tell me where M. Percerin really is.


Oh! willingly; in his own room. Only--


Only that one can’t enter it?


Unapproachable.


For everybody?


Everybody. He brought me here so that I might be at my ease to make my observations, and then he went away.


Well, my dear Monsieur Moliere, but you will go and tell him I am here.


I! I disturb myself! Ah! Monsieur d’Artagnan, how hard you are upon me!


If you don’t go directly and tell M. Percerin that I am here, my dear Moliere. I warn you of one thing: that I won’t exhibit to you the friend I have brought with me.


This gentleman, is it not?


Yes.


The captain of the king’s musketeers will excuse me, I am sure, for I am engaged.


Eh! yes, on the king’s costumes; I know that, my dear Monsieur Percerin. You are making three, they tell me.


Five, my dear sir, five.


Three or five, ‘tis all the same to me, my dear monsieur; and I know that you will make them most exquisitely.


Yes, I know. Once made they will be the most beautiful in the world, I do not deny it; but that they may be the most beautiful in the word, they must first be made; and to do this, captain, I am pressed for time.


Oh, bah! there are two days yet; ‘tis much more than you require, Monsieur Percerin,


Monsieur, if you will come with me, I will make them take your measure without touching you.


Oh! how do you make that out, my friend?


I say that they shall apply neither line nor rule to the seams of your dress. It is a new method we have invented for measuring people of quality, who are too sensitive to allow low-born fellows to touch them. We know some susceptible persons who will not put up with being measured, a process which, as I think, wounds the natural dignity of a man; and if perchance monsieur should be one of these--


Corboeuf! I believe I am too!


Well, that is a capital and most consolatory coincidence, and you shall have the benefit of our invention.


But how in the world can it be done?


Monsieur, if you will deign to follow me, you will see.


A dress for you, also, is it not, my friend?


No. I shall go, but without a new dress. You forget, dear D’Artagnan, that a poor bishop of Vannes is not rich enough to have new dresses for every fete.


Bah! and do we write no more poems now, either?


Oh! D’Artagnan, I have long ago given up all such tomfoolery. Don’t you perceive


Ah! ah! Well, then, let us leave; I have no further business here, and if you are as disengaged as I, Aramis--


No, not I--I wished--


Ah! you had something particular to say to M. Percerin? Why did you not tell me so at once?


Something particular, certainly, but not for you, D’Artagnan. But, at the same time, I hope you will believe that I can never have anything so particular to say that a friend like you may not hear it.


Oh, no, no! I am going,


Stay, by all means, this is what it is. My dear Percerin. I am even very happy that you are here, D’Artagnan.


Ah, very good,


but why Lebrun?


And you wish that I should make him a dress, similar to those of the Epicureans?


it is written that our dear D’Artagnan shall know all our secrets this evening. Yes, friend, you have surely heard speak of M. Fouquet’s Epicureans, have you not?


Undoubtedly. Is it not a kind of poetical society, of which La Fontaine, Loret, Pelisson, and Moliere are members, and which holds its sittings at Saint-Mande?


Exactly so. Well, we are going to put our poets in uniform, and enroll them in a regiment for the king.


Oh, very well, I understand; a surprise M. Fouquet is getting up for the king. Be at ease; if that is the secret about M. Lebrun, I will not mention it.


Always agreeable, my friend. No, Monsieur Lebrun has nothing to do with this part of it; the secret which concerns him is far more important than the other.


Then, if it is so important as all that, I prefer not to know it,


Come in, M. Lebrun, come in,


I’faith, I too, am quite in the dark,


My dear M. de Percerin, you are making five dresses for the king, are you not? One in brocade; one in hunting-cloth; one in velvet; one in satin; and one in Florentine stuffs.


Yes; but how--do you know all that, monseigneur?


It is all very simple, my dear monsieur; there will be a hunt, a banquet, concert, promenade and reception; these five kinds of dress are required by etiquette.


You know everything, monseigneur!


And a thing or two in addition,


But, what you do not know, monseigneur--prince of the church though you are--what nobody will know--what only the king, Mademoiselle de la Vallière, and myself do know, is the color of the materials and nature of the ornaments, and the cut, the ensemble, the finish of it all!


Well,


Ah, bah!


At the outset, I appear to be hazarding an absurd question, do I not?


Let us see,


Why, now, does M. Fouquet give the king a fete?--Is it not to please him?


Assuredly. By delicate attentions? by some happy device? by a succession of surprises, like that of which we were talking?--the enrolment of our Epicureans. Admirable.


Well, then; this is the surprise we intend. M. Lebrun here is a man who draws most excellently.


Yes. I have seen his pictures, and observed that his dresses were highly elaborated. That is why I at once agreed to make him a costume--whether to agree with those of the Epicureans, or an original one.


My dear monsieur, we accept your offer, and shall presently avail ourselves of it; but just now, M. Lebrun is not in want of the dresses you will make for himself, but of those you are making for the king.


The king’s dresses! Give the king’s dresses to any mortal whatever! Oh! for once, monseigneur, your grace is mad!


Help me now, D’Artagnan. Help me now to persuade monsieur, for you understand; do you not?


Eh! eh!--not exactly, I declare.


What! you do not understand that M. Fouquet wishes to afford the king the surprise of finding his portrait on his arrival at Vaux; and that the portrait, which be a striking resemblance, ought to be dressed exactly as the king will be on the day it is shown?


Oh! yes, yes. Yes, my dear Aramis, you are right; it is a happy idea. I will wager it is one of your own, Aramis.


Well, I don’t know, either mine or M. Fouquet’s. Well, Monsieur Percerin, what do you say to this?


I say, that--


That you are, doubtless, free to refuse. I know well--and I by no means count upon compelling you, my dear monsieur. I will say more, I even understand all the delicacy you feel in taking up with M. Fouquet’s idea; you dread appearing to flatter the king. A noble spirit, M. Percerin, a noble spirit! It would, indeed, be a very pretty compliment to pay the young prince, if Percerin refuse, tell him that it will not at all lower him in my opinion, and I shall always esteem him, only--


Only?


Only. I shall be compelled to say to the king, you understand, my dear Monsieur Percerin, that these are M. Fouquet’s words,-- I shall be constrained to say to the king, “Sire, I had intended to present your majesty with your portrait, but owing to a feeling of delicacy, slightly exaggerated perhaps, although creditable, M. Percerin opposed the project.”


Opposed! I to oppose the desire, the will of M. Fouquet when he is seeking to please the king! Oh, what a hateful word you have uttered, monseigneur. Oppose! Oh, ‘tis not I who said it, Heaven have mercy on me. I call the captain of the musketeers to witness it! Is it not true, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that I have opposed nothing?


I think you have not quite got it, my dear Lebrun, your colors will deceive you, and on canvas we shall lack that exact resemblance which is absolutely requisite. Time is necessary for attentively observing the finer shades.


Quite true, but time is wanting, and on that head, you will agree with me, monseigneur, I can do nothing.


Then the affair will fail, and that because of a want of precision in the colors.


What in the world, now, is the meaning of this imbroglio?


That will never do. M. Lebrun, close your box, and roll up your canvas.


But, monsieur, the light is abominable here.


An idea, M. Lebrun, an idea! If we had a pattern of the materials, for example, and with time, and a better light--


Oh, then. I would answer for the effect.


Good! this ought to be the knotty point of the whole thing; they want a pattern of each of the materials. Mordioux! Will this Percerin give in now?


I like this better. That is your opinion, is it not?


My dear Aramis, my opinion is that you are always the same.


And, consequently, always your friend,


Yes, yes. If I am your dupe, double Jesuit that you are, I will not be your accomplice; and to prevent it, ‘tis time I left this place.--Adieu, Aramis, adieu; I am going to rejoin Porthos.


Then wait for me, for I have done, and shall be glad to say a parting word to our dear old friend.


Well, monsieur, will you come with me to Saint-Mande?


I will go anywhere you like, monseigneur,


To Saint-Mande! What, Aramis, are you going to take this gentleman to Saint-Mande?


Yes, our work is pressing.


And besides, my dear Porthos. M. Moliere is not altogether what he seems.


In what way?


Why, this gentleman is one of M. Percerin’s chief clerks, and is expected at Saint-Mande to try on the dresses which M. Fouquet has ordered for the Epicureans.


‘Tis precisely so. Yes, monsieur.


Come, then, my dear M. Moliere, that is, if you have done with M. du Vallon.


We have finished,


And you are satisfied?


Completely so. Pray, monsieur, above all, be exact.


You will have your dress the day after to-morrow, monsieur le baron,


What has this tailor done for you, my dear Porthos, that you are so pleased with him?


What has he done for me, my friend! done for me!


Yes, I ask you, what has he done for you?


My friend, he has done that which no tailor ever yet accomplished: he has taken my measure without touching me!


Ah, bah! tell me how he did it.


First, then, they went, I don’t know where, for a number of lay figures, of all heights and sizes, hoping there would be one to suit mine, but the largest--that of the drum-major of the Swiss guard--was two inches too short, and a half foot too narrow in the chest.


Indeed!


It is exactly as I tell you, D’Artagnan; but he is a great man, or at the very least a great tailor, is this M. Moliere. He was not at all put at fault by the circumstance.


What did he do, then?


Oh! it is a very simple matter. I’faith, ‘tis an unheard-of thing that people should have been so stupid as not to have discovered this method from the first. What annoyance and humiliation they would have spared me!


Not to mention of the costumes, my dear Porthos.


Yes, thirty dresses.


Well, my dear Porthos, come, tell me M. Moliere’s plan.


Moliere? You call him so, do you? I shall make a point of recollecting his name.


Yes; or Poquelin, if you prefer that.


No; I like Moliere best. When I wish to recollect his name, I shall think of voliere ; and as I have one at Pierrefonds--


Capital! And M. Moliere’s plan?


‘Tis this: instead of pulling me to pieces, as all these rascals do--of making me bend my back, and double my joints--all of them low and dishonorable practices-- ‘Monsieur,’ he said to me, a gentleman ought to measure himself. Do me the pleasure to draw near this glass; I must own I did not exactly understand what this good M. Voliere wanted with me.


Moliere!


Ah! yes, Moliere--Moliere. And as the fear of being measured still possessed me, ‘Take care,’ said I to him, ‘what you are going to do with me; I am very ticklish, I warn you.’ Monsieur,’ said he, ‘that your dress may fit you well, it must be made according to your figure. Your figure is exactly reflected in this mirror. We shall take the measure of this reflection.


In fact, you saw yourself in the glass; but where did they find one in which you could see your whole figure?


My good friend, it is the very glass in which the king is used to look to see himself.


Yes; but the king is a foot and a half shorter than you are.


Ah! well, I know not how that may be; it is, no doubt, a cunning way of flattering the king; but the looking-glass was too large for me. ‘Tis true that its height was made up of three Venetian plates of glass, placed one above another, and its breadth of three similar parallelograms in juxtaposition.


Oh, Porthos! what excellent words you have command of. Where in the word did you acquire such a voluminous vocabulary?


At Belle-Isle. Aramis and I had to use such words in our strategic studies and castramentative experiments.


Ah! very good. Let us return to the looking-glass, my friend.


Then, this good M. Voliere--


Moliere.


Yes--Moliere--you are right. You will see now, my dear friend, that I shall recollect his name quite well. This excellent M. Moliere set to work tracing out lines on the mirror, with a piece of Spanish chalk, following in all the make of my arms and my shoulders, all the while expounding this maxim, which I thought admirable: ‘It is advisable that a dress should not incommode its wearer.’


In reality, that is an excellent maxim, which is, unfortunately, seldom carried out in practice.


That is why I found it all the more astonishing, when he expatiated upon it.


Ah! he expatiated?


Parbleu!


Let me hear his theory.


Seeing that,’ he continued, ‘one may, in awkward circumstances, or in a troublesome position, have one’s doublet on one’s shoulder, and not desire to take one’s doublet off--


True,


‘And so,’ continued M. Voliere--


Moliere, yes. ‘And so,’ went on M. Moliere, ‘you want to draw your sword, monsieur, and you have your doublet on your back. What do you do?’ ‘I take it off,’ I answered. ‘Well, no,’ he replied. How no? I say that the dress should be so well made, that it will in no way encumber you, even in drawing your sword. Ah, ah! ‘Throw yourself on guard,’ pursued he. I did it with such wondrous firmness, that two panes of glass burst out of the window. ’Tis nothing, nothing. Keep your position. I raised my left arm in the air, the forearm gracefully bent, the ruffle drooping, and my wrist curved, while my right arm, half extended, securely covered my wrist with the elbow, and my breast with the wrist.


Yes, ‘tis the true guard--the academic guard.


You have said the very word, dear friend. In the meanwhile, Voliere--


Hold! I should certainly, after all, prefer to call him--what did you say his other name was?


Poquelin.


I prefer to call him Poquelin.


And how will you remember this name better than the other?


You understand, he calls himself Poquelin, does he not?


Yes.


If I were to call to mind Madame Coquenard.


Good.


And change Coc into Poc, nard into lin; and instead of Coquenard I shall have Poquelin.


‘Tis wonderful. Go on, my friend, I am listening to you with admiration.


This Coquelin sketched my arm on the glass.


I beg your pardon--Poquelin.


What did I say, then?


You said Coquelin.


Ah! true. This Poquelin, then, sketched my arm on the glass; but he took his time over it; he kept looking at me a good deal. The fact is, that I must have been looking particularly handsome. ‘Does it weary you?’ he asked. A little,’ I replied, bending a little in my hands, ‘but I could hold out for an hour or so longer. No, no, I will not allow it; the willing fellows will make it a duty to support your arms, as of old, men supported those of the prophet. ‘Very good,’ I answered. That will not be humiliating to you? My friend,’ said I, ‘there is, I think, a great difference between being supported and being measured.


The distinction is full of the soundest sense,


Then, he made a sign: two lads approached; one supported my left arm, while the other, with infinite address, supported my right. Another, my man. Support monsieur by the waist,


So that you were at rest?


Perfectly; and Pocquenard drew me on the glass.


Poquelin, my friend.


Poquelin--you are right. Stay, decidedly I prefer calling him Voliere.


Yes; and then it was over, wasn’t it?


During that time Voliere drew me as I appeared in the mirror.


‘Twas delicate in him.


I much like the plan; it is respectful, and keeps every one in his place.


And there it ended?


Without a soul having touched me, my friend.


Except the three garcons who supported you.


Doubtless; but I have, I think, already explained to you the difference there is between supporting and measuring.


‘Tis true. I’faith, I greatly deceive myself, or I have been the means of a good windfall to that rascal Moliere, and we shall assuredly see the scene hit off to the life in some comedy or other. What are you laughing at?


Must I confess? Well, I was laughing over my good fortune.


Oh, that is true; I don’t know a happier man than you. But what is this last piece of luck that has befallen you?’


Well, my dear fellow, congratulate me.


I desire nothing better.


It seems that I am the first who has had his measure taken in that manner.


Are you so sure of it?’


Nearly so. Certain signs of intelligence which passed between Voliere and the other garcons showed me the fact.


Well, my friend, that does not surprise me from Moliere,


Voliere, my friend.


Oh, no, no, indeed! I am very willing to leave you to go on saying Voliere; but, as for me, I shall continued to say Moliere. Well, this, I was saying, does not surprise me, coming from Moliere, who is a very ingenious fellow, and inspired you with this grand idea.


It will be of great use to him by and by, I am sure.


Won’t it be of use to him, indeed? I believe you, it will, and that in the highest degree;--for you see my friend Moliere is of all known tailors the man who best clothes our barons, comtes, and marquises--according to their measure.


At least, La Fontaine, supply me with a rhyme, since you have the run of the gardens at Parnassus.


What rhyme do you want?


I want a rhyme to lumiere.


Orniere,


Ah, but, my good friend, one cannot talk of wheel-ruts when celebrating the delights of Vaux,


Besides, it doesn’t rhyme,


What! doesn’t rhyme!


Yes; you have an abominable habit, my friend,--a habit which will ever prevent your becoming a poet of the first order. You rhyme in a slovenly manner.


Oh, oh, you think so, do you, Pelisson?


Yes, I do, indeed. Remember that a rhyme is never good so long as one can find a better.


Then I will never write anything again save in prose. Ah! I often suspected I was nothing but a rascally poet! Yes, ‘tis the very truth.


Do not say so; your remark is too sweeping, and there is much that is good in your ‘Fables.’


And to begin. I will go and burn a hundred verses I have just made.


Where are your verses?


In my head.


Well, if they are in your head you cannot burn them.


True,


Well, what will happen if you do not burn them?


They will remain in my mind, and I shall never forget them!


The deuce! what a dangerous thing! One would go mad with it!


The deuce! the deuce! what can I do?


I have discovered the way. Write them first and burn them afterwards.


How simple! Well, I should never have discovered that. What a mind that devil of a Moliere has! Oh, thou wilt never be aught but an ass, Jean La Fontaine!


What are you saying there, my friend?


I say I shall never be aught but an ass. Yes, my friend, it seems that I rhyme in a slovenly manner.


Oh, ‘tis wrong to say so.


Nay, I am a poor creature!


Who said so?


Parbleu! ‘twas Pelisson; did you not, Pelisson?


Pelisson has seriously offended you.


Do you think so?


Ah! I advise you, as you are a gentleman, not to leave an insult like that unpunished.


What!


Did you ever fight?


Once only, with a lieutenant in the light horse.


What wrong had he done you?


It seems he ran away with my wife.


And what was the result of the duel?


The result was, that on the ground my opponent disarmed me, and then made an apology, promising never again to set foot in my house.


Not at all! on the contrary, I picked up my sword. ‘I beg your pardon, monsieur,’ I said, ‘I have not fought you because you were my wife’s friend, but because I was told I ought to fight. So, as I have never known any peace save since you made her acquaintance, do me the pleasure to continue your visits as heretofore, or morbleu! let us set to again.’ And so,


he was compelled to resume his friendship with madame, and I continue to be the happiest of husbands.


‘Tis all one. Pelisson has insulted you.


Ah, truly! I had already forgotten it.


And I am going to challenge him on your behalf.


Well, you can do so, if you think it indispensable.


I do think it indispensable, and I am going to--


Stay. I want your advice.


Upon what? this insult?


No; tell me really now whether lumiere does not rhyme with orniere.


I should make them rhyme.


Ah! I knew you would.


And I have made a hundred thousand such rhymes in my time.


A hundred thousand! Four times as many as ‘La Pucelle,’ which M. Chaplain is meditating. Is it also on this subject, too, that you have composed a hundred thousand verses?


Listen to me, you eternally absent-minded creature,


It is certain, legume, for instance, rhymes with posthume.


In the plural, above all.


Yes, above all in the plural, seeing that then it rhymes not with three letters, but with four; as orniere does with lumiere. But give me ornieres and lumieres in the plural, my dear Pelisson, and they will rhyme.


Hem!


Moliere says so, and Moliere is a judge of such things; he declares he has himself made a hundred thousand verses.


Come, he is off now.


It is like rivage, which rhymes admirably with herbage. I would take my oath of it.


But--


I tell you all this, because you are preparing a divertissement for Vaux, are you not?


Yes, the ‘Facheux.’


Ah, yes, the ‘Facheux;’ yes, I recollect. Well, I was thinking a prologue would admirably suit your divertissement.


Doubtless it would suit capitally.


Ah! you are of my opinion?


So much so, that I have asked you to write this very prologue.


You asked me to write it?


Yes, you, and on your refusal begged you to ask Pelisson, who is engaged upon it at this moment.


Ah! that is what Pelisson is doing, then? I’faith, my dear Moliere, you are indeed often right.


When?


When you call me absent-minded. It is a monstrous defect; I will cure myself of it, and do your prologue for you. Ah, true, miserable rascal that I am! Loret was indeed right in saying I was a poor creature.


It was not Loret who said so, my friend.


Well, then, whoever said so, ‘tis the same to me! And so your divertissement is called the ‘Facheux?’ Well, can you make heureux rhyme with facheux?


If obliged, yes.


And even with capriceux.


Oh, no, no.


It would be hazardous, and yet why so?


There is too great a difference in the cadences.


I was fancying,


What were you fancying? Make haste.


You are writing the prologue to the ‘Facheux,’ are you not?


No! mordieu! it is Pelisson.


Ah, Pelisson. I was fancying,


The nymph of Vaux! thank you, La Fontaine; you have just given me the two concluding verses of my paper.


Well, if you can rhyme so well, La Fontaine, tell me now in what way you would begin my prologue?


I should say, for instance, ‘Oh! nymph, who--’ After ‘who’ I should place a verb in the second person singular of the present indicative; and should go on thus: ‘this grot profound.’


But the verb, the verb?


To admire the greatest king of all kings round,


But the verb, the verb. This second person singular of the present indicative?


Well, then; quittest: Oh, nymph, who quittest now this grot profound, To admire the greatest king of all kings round. You would not put ‘who quittest,’ would you?


‘Quittest,’ after ‘you who’?


Ah! my dear fellow, you are a shocking pedant!


Without counting, that the second verse, ‘king of all kings round,’ is very weak, my dear La Fontaine.


Then you see clearly I am nothing but a poor creature,--a shuffler, as you said.


I never said so.


Then, as Loret said.


And it was not Loret either; it was Pelisson.


Well, Pelisson was right a hundred times over. But what annoys me more than anything, my dear Moliere, is, that I fear we shall not have our Epicurean dresses.


You expected yours, then, for the fete?


Yes, for the fete, and then for after the fete. My housekeeper told me that my own is rather faded.


Diable! your housekeeper is right; rather more than faded.


Ah, you see, the fact is, I left it on the floor in my room, and my cat--


Well, your cat--


She made her nest upon it, which has rather changed its color.


Remember, gentlemen, we leave to-morrow evening.


In that case, I must give notice at home.


Yes; poor Moliere!


‘He loves,’ yes, ‘He loves,’ that does not mean, they love him.


As for me, they love me at Chateau Thierry, I am very sure.


Will any one go with me? I am going by Paris, after having passed a quarter of an hour with M. Fouquet. I offer my carriage.


Good. I accept it. I am in a hurry.


I shall dine here. M. de Gourville has promised me some craw-fish. He has promised me some whitings. Find a rhyme for that, La Fontaine.


He has promised us some whitings, In return for these our writings.


Oh, how they are laughing there! Do you not laugh, monseigneur? I laugh no longer now, M. d’Herblay. The fete is approaching; money is departing.


Have I not told you that was my business?


Yes, you promised me millions.


You shall have them the day after the king’s entree into Vaux. Why doubt me?


Man of little faith! My dear M. d’Herblay, if I fall--


Well; if you ‘fall’?


I shall, at least, fall from such a height, that I shall shatter myself in falling. Whence came you,


From Paris--from Percerin.


And what have you been doing at Percerin’s, for I suppose you attach no great importance to our poets’ dresses?


No; I went to prepare a surprise.


Surprise?


Yes; which you are going to give to the king.


And will it cost much?


Oh! a hundred pistoles you will give Lebrun.


A painting?--Ah! all the better! And what is this painting to represent?


I will tell you; then at the same time, whatever you may say or think of it, I went to see the dresses for our poets.


Bah! and they will be rich and elegant?


Splendid! There will be few great monseigneurs with so good. People will see the difference there is between the courtiers of wealth and those of friendship.


Ever generous and grateful, dear prelate.


In your school.


And where are you going?


I am off to Paris, when you shall have given a certain letter.


For whom?


M. de Lyonne.


And what do you want with Lyonne?


I wish to make him sign a lettre de cachet.


‘Lettre de cachet!’ Do you desire to put somebody in the Bastile?


On the contrary--to let somebody out.


And who?


A poor devil--a youth, a lad who has been Bastiled these ten years, for two Latin verses he made against the Jesuits.


‘Two Latin verses!’ and, for ‘two Latin verses,’ the miserable being has been in prison for ten years!


Yes!


And has committed no other crime?


Beyond this, he is as innocent as you or I.


On your word?


On my honor!


And his name is--


Seldon.


Yes.--But it is too bad. You knew this, and you never told me!


‘Twas only yesterday his mother applied to me, monseigneur.


And the woman is poor!


In the deepest misery.


Heaven, sometimes bears with such injustice on earth, that I hardly wonder there are wretches who doubt of its existence. Stay, M. d’Herblay. Stay, set the son at liberty, and give this to the mother; but, above all, do not tell her--


What, monseigneur?


That she is ten thousand livres richer than I. She would say I am but a poor superintendent! Go! and I pray that God will bless those who are mindful of his poor!


So also do I pray, kissing Fouquet’s hand.


Monsieur, for indeed to-night I dare not call you monseigneur. By no means, call me monsieur; I am booted. Do you know, monsieur, of whom you remind me this evening? No! faith, but I hope I remind you of a capital guest. You remind me of two, monsieur. Francois, shut the window; the wind may annoy his greatness. And let him go. The supper is completely served, and we shall eat it very well without waiters. I like exceedingly to be tete-a-tete when I am with a friend. I like exceedingly, to help myself. Retire, Francois. I was saying that your greatness puts me in mind of two persons; one very illustrious, the late cardinal, the great Cardinal de la Rochelle, who wore boots like you. Indeed, and the other? The other was a certain musketeer, very handsome, very brave, very adventurous, very fortunate, who, from being abbe, turned musketeer, and from musketeer turned abbe. From abbe, bishop--and from bishop-- Ah! stay there, I beg. Enough, dear M. Baisemeaux. As you said, I have on the boots of a cavalier, but I do not intend, for all that, to embroil myself with the church this evening.


But you have wicked intentions, nevertheless, monseigneur.


Oh, yes, wicked, I own, as everything mundane is.


You traverse the town and the streets in disguise?


In disguise, as you say.


And you still make use of your sword?


Yes, I should think so; but only when I am compelled. Do me the pleasure to summon Francois.


Have you no wine there?


'Tis not for wine, but because it is hot here, and the window is shut.


I shut the windows at supper-time so as not to hear the sounds or the arrival of couriers.


Ah, yes. You hear them when the window is open?


But too well, and that disturbs me. You understand?


Nevertheless I am suffocated. Francois.


Open the windows, I pray you, Master Francois. You will allow him, dear M. Baisemeaux?


You are at home here,


Do you not think, that you will find yourself very lonely, now M. de la Fere has returned to his household gods at Blois? He is a very old friend, is he not?


You know it as I do, Baisemeaux, seeing that you were in the musketeers with us.


Bah! with my friends I reckon neither bottles of wine nor years.


And you are right. But I do more than love M. de la Fere, dear Baisemeaux; I venerate him.


Well, for my part, though 'tis singular. I prefer M. d'Artagnan to him. There is a man for you, who drinks long and well! That kind of people allow you at least to penetrate their thoughts.


Baisemeaux, make me tipsy to-night; let us have a merry time of it as of old, and if I have a trouble at the bottom of my heart, I promise you, you shall see it as you would a diamond at the bottom of your glass.


Bravo!


The devil take him,


What! who? I hope 'tis neither the wine you drank nor he who is the cause of your drinking it.


No; it is a horse, who is making noise enough in the court for a whole squadron.


Pooh! some courier or other. Yes; and may the devil take him, and so quickly that we shall never hear him speak more. Hurrah! hurrah!


You forget me, Baisemeaux! my glass is empty,


Upon my honor, you delight me. Francois, wine! Wine, fellow! and better.


Yes, monsieur, yes; but a courier has just arrived.


Let him go to the devil, I say.


Yes, monsieur, but--


Let him leave his news at the office; we will see to it to-morrow. To-morrow, there will be time to-morrow; there will be daylight,


Ah, monsieur, monsieur.


Take care, take care!


Of what? dear M. d'Herblay,


The letter which the courier brings to the governor of a fortress is sometimes an order.


Nearly always.


Do not orders issue from the ministers?


Yes, undoubtedly; but--


And what to these ministers do but countersign the signature of the king?


Perhaps you are right. Nevertheless, 'tis very tiresome when you are sitting before a good table, tete-a-tete with a friend--Ah! I beg your pardon, monsieur; I forgot it is I who engage you at supper, and that I speak to a future cardinal.


Let us pass over that, dear Baisemeaux, and return to our soldier, to Francois.


Well, and what has Francois done?


He has demurred!


He was wrong, then?


However, he has demurred, you see; 'tis because there is something extraordinary in this matter. It is very possible that it was not Francois who was wrong in demurring, but you, who are in the wrong in not listening to him.


Wrong? I to be wrong before Francois? that seems rather hard.


Pardon me, merely an irregularity. But I thought it my duty to make an observation which I deem important.


Oh! perhaps you are right. The king's order is sacred; but as to orders that arrive when one is at supper, I repeat that the devil--


If you had said as much to the great cardinal--hem! my dear Baisemeaux, and if his order had any importance.


I do it that I may not disturb a bishop. Mordioux! am I not, then, excusable?


Do not forget, Baisemeaux, that I have worn the soldier's coat, and I am accustomed to obedience everywhere.


You wish, then--


I wish that you would do your duty, my friend; yes, at least before this soldier.


'Tis mathematically true. Let them send this order of the king's up to me. Do you know what it is? I will tell you something about as interesting as this. 'Beware of fire near the powder magazine;' or, 'Look close after such and such a one, who is clever at escaping,' Ah! if you only knew, monseigneur, how many times I have been suddenly awakened from the very sweetest, deepest slumber, by messengers arriving at full gallop to tell me, or rather, bring me a slip of paper containing these words: 'Monsieur de Baisemeaux, what news?' 'Tis clear enough that those who waste their time writing such orders have never slept in the Bastile. They would know better; they have never considered the thickness of my walls, the vigilance of my officers, the number of rounds we go. But, indeed, what can you expect, monseigneur? It is their business to write and torment me when I am at rest, and to trouble me when I am happy. Then let them do their business.


And do you do yours,


What was I just saying?


What is it?


An order of release! There, now; excellent news indeed to disturb us!


Excellent news for him whom it concerns, you will at least agree, my dear governor!


And at eight o'clock in the evening!


It is charitable!


Oh! charity is all very well, but it is for that fellow who says he is so weary and tired, but not for me who am amusing myself,


Will you lose by him, then? And is the prisoner who is to be set at liberty a good payer?


Oh, yes, indeed! a miserable, five-franc rat!


Let me see it. It is no indiscretion?


By no means; read it.


There is 'Urgent,' on the paper; you have seen that, I suppose?


Oh, admirable! 'Urgent!'--a man who has been there ten years! It is urgent to set him free to-day, this very evening, at eight o'clock!--urgent! They are fond of these tricks! Watch this fellow well. Keep him very strictly. Set him at liberty, urgent. You will own, my lord, ‘tis enough to make a man at dinner shrug his shoulders!


What do you expect? It is for them to write, for you to execute the order.


Good! good! execute it! Oh, patience! You must not imagine that I am a slave.


Gracious Heaven! my very good M. Baisemeaux, who ever said so? Your independence is well known.


Thank Heaven!


But your goodness of heart is also known.


Ah! don't speak of it!


And your obedience to your superiors. Once a soldier, you see, Baisemeaux, always a soldier.


And I shall directly obey; and to-morrow morning, at daybreak, the prisoner referred to shall be set free.


To-morrow?


At dawn.


Why not this evening, seeing that the lettre de cachet bears, both on the direction and inside, 'urgent'?


Because this evening we are at supper, and our affairs are urgent, too!


Dear Baisemeaux, booted though I be, I feel myself a priest, and charity has higher claims upon me than hunger and thirst. This unfortunate man has suffered long enough, since you have just told me that he has been your prisoner these ten years. Abridge his suffering. His good time has come; give him the benefit quickly. God will repay you in Paradise with years of felicity.


You wish it?


I entreat you.


What! in the very middle of our repast?


I implore you; such an action is worth ten Benedicites.


It shall be as you desire, only our supper will get cold.


Oh! never heed that.


Francois, let the major come up here with the turnkeys of the Bertaudiere.


Eh! but it is impossible!


How impossible? Give me a glimpse of this impossibility.


'Tis impossible to set a prisoner at liberty at such an hour. Where can he go to, a man so unacquainted with Paris?


He will find a place wherever he can.


You see, now, one might as well set a blind man free!


I have a carriage, and will take him wherever he wishes.


You have an answer for everything. Francois, tell monsieur le major to go and open the cell of M. Seldon, No. 3, Bertaudiere.


Seldon! You said Seldon, I think?


I said Seldon, of course. 'Tis the name of the man they set free.


Oh! you mean to say Marchiali?


Marchiali? oh! yes, indeed. No, no, Seldon.


I think you are making a mistake, Monsieur Baisemeaux.


I have read the order.


And I also.


And I saw 'Seldon' in letters as large as that,


And I read 'Marchiali' in characters as large as this. I read 'Marchiali',


To the proof; let us throw a light on the matter. There is the paper, you have only to read it.


I read ‘Marchiali,’ Look.


Yes, yes, yes, Marchiali. 'Tis plainly written Marchiali! Quite true!


Ah!--


How? the man of whom we have talked so much? The man whom they are every day telling me to take such care of?


There is ‘Marchiali,’


I must own it, monseigneur. But I understand nothing about it.


You believe your eyes, at any rate.


To tell me very plainly there is 'Marchiali.'


And in a good handwriting, too.


'Tis a wonder! I still see this order and the name of Seldon, Irishman. I see it. Ah! I even recollect that under this name there was a blot of ink.


No, there is no ink; no, there is no blot.


Oh! but there was, though; I know it, because I rubbed my finger--this very one--in the powder that was over the blot.


In a word, be it how it may, dear M. Baisemeaux, and whatever you may have seen, the order is signed to release Marchiali, blot or no blot.


The order is signed to release Marchiali,


And you are going to release this prisoner. If your heart dictates you to deliver Seldon also, I declare to you I will not oppose it the least in the world.


Monseigneur, this Marchiali is the very same prisoner whom the other day a priest confessor of our order came to visit in so imperious and so secret a manner.


I don't know that, monsieur,


'Tis no such long time ago, dear Monsieur d'Herblay.


It is true. But with us, monsieur, it is good that the man of to-day should no longer know what the man of yesterday did.


In any case, the visit of the Jesuit confessor must have given happiness to this man.


Are you going to release Marchiali? What mellow, fragrant and delicious sherry this is, my dear governor.


Monseigneur. I shall release the prisoner Marchiali when I have summoned the courier who brought the order, and above all, when, by interrogating him, I have satisfied myself.


The order is sealed, and the courier is ignorant of the contents. What do you want to satisfy yourself about?


Be it so, monseigneur; but I shall send to the ministry, and M. de Lyonne will either confirm or withdraw the order.


What is the good of all that?


What good?


Yes; what is your object, I ask?


The object of never deceiving oneself, monseigneur; nor being wanting in the respect which a subaltern owes to his superior officers, nor infringing the duties of a service one has accepted of one's own free will.


Very good; you have just spoken so eloquently, that I cannot but admire you. It is true that a subaltern owes respect to his superiors; he is guilty when he deceives himself, and he should be punished if he infringed either the duties or laws of his office. It follows, that you are going to ask advice, to put your conscience at ease in the matter?


Yes, monseigneur.


And if a superior officer gives you orders, you will obey?


Never doubt it, monseigneur.


You know the king's signature well, M. de Baisemeaux?


Is it not on this order of release?


It is true, but it may--


Be forged, you mean?


That is evident, monseigneur.


You are right. And that of M. de Lyonne?


I see it plain enough on the order; but for the same reason that the king's signature may have been forged, so also, and with even greater probability, may M. de Lyonne's.


Your logic has the stride of a giant, M. de Baisemeaux, and your reasoning is irresistible. But on what special grounds do you base your idea that these signatures are false?


On this: the absence of counter-signatures. Nothing checks his majesty's signature; and M. de Lyonne is not there to tell me he has signed.


Well, Monsieur de Baisemeaux. I adopt so frankly your doubts, and your mode of clearing them up, that I will take a pen, if you will give me one. And a sheet of white paper. Now, I--I, also--I, here present--incontestably, I--am going to write an order to which I am certain you will give credence, incredulous as you are! A. M. D. G., to the greater glory of God; It is our pleasure that the order brought to M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun, governor, for the king, of the castle of the Bastile, be held by him good and effectual, and be immediately carried into operation. General of the Order, by the grace of God.


Come, come, do not lead me to believe, dear Baisemeaux, that the presence of the general of the order is as terrible as His, and that men die merely from having seen Him. Take courage, rouse yourself; give me your hand--obey.


Immediately?


Oh, there is no pressing haste, my host; take your place again, and do the honors over this beautiful dessert.


Monseigneur, I shall never recover such a shock as this; I who have laughed, who have jested with you! I who have dared to treat you on a footing of equality!


Say nothing about it, old comrade, say nothing about it. Let us each live in our own way; to you, my protection and my friendship; to me, your obedience. Having exactly fulfilled these two requirements, let us live happily. My dear Baisemeaux, you are a simpleton. Lose this habit of reflection when I give myself the trouble to think for you.


How shall I set about it?


What is the process for releasing a prisoner?


I have the regulations.


Well, then, follow the regulations, my friend.


I go with my major to the prisoner’s room, and conduct him, if he is a personage of importance.


But this Marchiali is not an important personage. I don’t know. Then if you don’t know it, I am right; so act towards Marchiali as you act towards one of obscure station.


Good; the regulations so provide. They are to the effect that the turnkey, or one of the lower officials, shall bring the prisoner before the governor, in the office.


Well, ‘tis very wise, that; and then?


Then we return to the prisoner the valuables he wore at the time of his imprisonment, his clothes and papers, if the minister’s orders have not otherwise dictated.


What was the minister’s order as to this Marchiali?


Nothing; for the unhappy man arrived here without jewels, without papers, and almost without clothes.


See how simple, then, all is. Indeed, Baisemeaux, you make a mountain of everything. Remain here, and make them bring the prisoner to the governor’s house.


Go and meet your men,


You will swear [‘tis the regulation that requires it), never to reveal anything that you have seen or heard in the Bastile. And now, monsieur, you are free. Whither do you intend going?


I am here, to render the gentleman whatever service he may please to ask.


God have you in his holy keeping,


Does my order trouble you? Do you fear their finding it here, should they come to search?


I desire to keep it, monseigneur. If they found it here, it would be a certain indication I should be lost, and in that case you would be a powerful and a last auxiliary for me.


Being your accomplice, you mean? Adieu, Baisemeaux. Go on,


What is the matter? The matter is, monseigneur, that before going further, it is necessary your royal highness and I should converse.


I will await an opportunity, monsieur,


We could not have a better, monseigneur. We are in the middle of a forest, and no one can hear us.


The postilion?


The postilion of this relay is deaf and dumb, monseigneur.


I am at your service, M. d’Herblay.


Is it your pleasure to remain in the carriage?


Yes; we are comfortably seated, and I like this carriage, for it has restored me to liberty.


Wait, monseigneur; there is yet a precaution to be taken.


What?


We are here on the highway; cavaliers or carriages traveling like ourselves might pass, and seeing us stopping, deem us in some difficulty. Let us avoid offers of assistance, which would embarrass us.


Give the postilion orders to conceal the carriage in one of the side avenues.


‘Tis exactly what I wished to do, monseigneur.


I am listening, but what are you doing there?


I am disarming myself of my pistols, of which we have no further need, monseigneur. My prince,


I listen,


Monseigneur, you know the history of the government which to-day controls France. The king issued from an infancy imprisoned like yours, obscure as yours, and confined as yours; only, instead of ending, like yourself, this slavery in a prison, this obscurity in solitude, these straightened circumstances in concealment, he was fain to bear all these miseries, humiliations, and distresses, in full daylight, under the pitiless sun of royalty; on an elevation flooded with light, where every stain appears a blemish, every glory a stain. The king has suffered; it rankles in his mind; and he will avenge himself. He will be a bad king. I say not that he will pour out his people’s blood, like Louis XI., or Charles IX.; for he has no mortal injuries to avenge; but he will devour the means and substance of his people; for he has himself undergone wrongs in his own interest and money. In the first place, then, I acquit my conscience, when I consider openly the merits and the faults of this great prince; and if I condemn him, my conscience absolves me. All that Heaven does, Heaven does well, and I am so persuaded of it that I have long been thankful to have been chosen depositary of the secret which I have aided you to discover. To a just Providence was necessary an instrument, at once penetrating, persevering, and convinced, to accomplish a great work. I am this instrument. I possess penetration, perseverance, conviction; I govern a mysterious people, who has taken for its motto, the motto of God, ‘Patiens quia oeternus.’


You speak to me, of that religious order whose chief you are. For me, the result of your words is, that the day you desire to hurl down the man you shall have raised, the event will be accomplished; and that you will keep under your hand your creation of yesterday.


Undeceive yourself, monseigneur. I should not take the trouble to play this terrible game with your royal highness, if I had not a double interest in gaining it. The day you are elevated, you are elevated forever; you will overturn the footstool, as you rise, and will send it rolling so far, that not even the sight of it will ever again recall to you its right to simple gratitude.


Oh, monsieur!


Your movement, monseigneur, arises from an excellent disposition. I thank you. Be well assured, I aspire to more than gratitude! I am convinced that, when arrived at the summit, you will judge me still more worthy to be your friend; and then, monseigneur, we two will do such great deeds, that ages hereafter shall long speak of them.


Tell me plainly, monsieur--tell me without disguise--what I am to-day, and what you aim at my being to-morrow.


I understand, my brother’s blood will not be shed, then.


You will be sole arbiter of his fate.


The secret of which they made an evil use against me?


You will employ it against him. What did he do to conceal it? He concealed you. Living image of himself, you will defeat the conspiracy of Mazarin and Anne of Austria. You, my prince, will have the same interest in concealing him, who will, as a prisoner, resemble you, as you will resemble him as a king.


I fall back on what I was saying to you. Who will guard him?


Who guarded you?


You know this secret--you have made use of it with regard to myself. Who else knows it?


The queen-mother and Madame de Chevreuse.


What will they do?


Nothing, if you choose.


How is that?


How can they recognize you, if you act in such a manner that no one can recognize you?


‘Tis true; but there are grave difficulties.


State them, prince.


My brother is married; I cannot take my brother’s wife.


I will cause Spain to consent to a divorce; it is in the interest of your new policy; it is human morality. All that is really noble and really useful in this world will find its account therein.


The imprisoned king will speak.


To whom do you think he will speak--to the walls?


You mean, by walls, the men in whom you put confidence.


If need be, yes. And besides, your royal highness--


Besides?


I will exile the deposed king,


‘twill be more human. The king’s good pleasure will decide the point. But has the problem been well put? Have I brought out of the solution according to the wishes or the foresight of your royal highness?


Yes, monsieur, yes; you have forgotten nothing--except, indeed, two things.


The first?


Let us speak of it at once, with the same frankness we have already conversed in. Let us speak of the causes which may bring about the ruin of all the hopes we have conceived. Let us speak of the risks we are running.


They would be immense, infinite, terrific, insurmountable, if, as I have said, all things did not concur to render them of absolutely no account. There is no danger either for you or for me, if the constancy and intrepidity of your royal highness are equal to that perfection of resemblance to your brother which nature has bestowed upon you. I repeat it, there are no dangers, only obstacles; a word, indeed, which I find in all languages, but have always ill-understood, and, were I king, would have obliterated as useless and absurd.


Yes, indeed, monsieur; there is a very serious obstacle, an insurmountable danger, which you are forgetting.


Ah!


There is conscience, which cries aloud; remorse, that never dies.


True, true, there is a weakness of heart of which you remind me. You are right, too, for that, indeed, is an immense obstacle. The horse afraid of the ditch, leaps into the middle of it, and is killed! The man who trembling crosses his sword with that of another leaves loopholes whereby his enemy has him in his power.


Have you a brother?


I am alone in the world,


But, surely, there is some one in the world whom you love?


No one!--Yes, I love you. Monseigneur. I have not said all I had to say to your royal highness; I have not offered you all the salutary counsels and useful resources which I have at my disposal. It is useless to flash bright visions before the eyes of one who seeks and loves darkness: useless, too, is it to let the magnificence of the cannon’s roar make itself heard in the ears of one who loves repose and the quiet of the country. Monseigneur, I have your happiness spread out before me in my thoughts; listen to my words; precious they indeed are, in their import and their sense, for you who look with such tender regard upon the bright heavens, the verdant meadows, the pure air. I know a country instinct with delights of every kind, an unknown paradise, a secluded corner of the world--where alone, unfettered and unknown, in the thick covert of the woods, amidst flowers, and streams of rippling water, you will forget all the misery that human folly has so recently allotted you. Oh! listen to me, my prince. I do not jest. I have a heart, and mind, and soul, and can read your own,--aye, even to its depths. I will not take you unready for your task, in order to cast you into the crucible of my own desires, of my caprice, or my ambition. Let it be all or nothing. You are chilled and galled, sick at heart, overcome by excess of the emotions which but one hour’s liberty has produced in you. For me, that is a certain and unmistakable sign that you do not wish to continue at liberty. Would you prefer a more humble life, a life more suited to your strength? Heaven is my witness, that I wish your happiness to be the result of the trial to which I have exposed you.


Speak, speak,


I know, in the Bas-Poitou, a canton, of which no one in France suspects the existence. Twenty leagues of country is immense, is not? Twenty leagues, monseigneur, all covered with water and herbage, and reeds of the most luxuriant nature; the whole studded with islands covered with woods of the densest foliage. These large marshes, covered with reeds as with a thick mantle, sleep silently and calmly beneath the sun’s soft and genial rays. A few fishermen with their families indolently pass their lives away there, with their great living-rafts of poplar and alder, the flooring formed of reeds, and the roof woven out of thick rushes. These barks, these floating-houses, are wafted to and fro by the changing winds. Whenever they touch a bank, it is but by chance; and so gently, too, that the sleeping fisherman is not awakened by the shock. Should he wish to land, it is merely because he has seen a large flight of landrails or plovers, of wild ducks, teal, widgeon, or woodchucks, which fall an easy pray to net or gun. Silver shad, eels, greedy pike, red and gray mullet, swim in shoals into his nets; he has but to choose the finest and largest, and return the others to the waters. Never yet has the food of the stranger, be he soldier or simple citizen, never has any one, indeed, penetrated into that district. The sun’s rays there are soft and tempered: in plots of solid earth, whose soil is swart and fertile, grows the vine, nourishing with generous juice its purple, white, and golden grapes. Once a week, a boat is sent to deliver the bread which has been baked at an oven--the common property of all. There--like the seigneurs of early days--powerful in virtue of your dogs, your fishing-lines, your guns, and your beautiful reed-built house, would you live, rich in the produce of the chase, in plentitude of absolute secrecy. There would years of your life roll away, at the end of which, no longer recognizable, for you would have been perfectly transformed, you would have succeeded in acquiring a destiny accorded to you by Heaven. There are a thousand pistoles in this bag, monseigneur--more, far more, than sufficient to purchase the whole marsh of which I have spoken; more than enough to live there as many years as you have days to live; more than enough to constitute you the richest, the freest, and the happiest man in the country. Accept it, as I offer it you--sincerely, cheerfully. Forthwith, without a moment’s pause, I will unharness two of my horses, which are attached to the carriage yonder, and they, accompanied by my servant--my deaf and dumb attendant--shall conduct you--traveling throughout the night, sleeping during the day--to the locality I have described; and I shall, at least, have the satisfaction of knowing that I have rendered to my prince the major service he himself preferred. I shall have made one human being happy; and Heaven for that will hold me in better account than if I had made one man powerful; the former task is far more difficult. And now, monseigneur, your answer to this proposition? Here is the money. Nay, do not hesitate. At Poitou, you can risk nothing, except the chance of catching the fevers prevalent there; and even of them, the so-called wizards of the country will cure you, for the sake of your pistoles. If you play the other game, you run the chance of being assassinated on a throne, strangled in a prison-cell. Upon my soul, I assure you, now I begin to compare them together, I myself should hesitate which lot I should accept.


Monsieur, before I determine, let me alight from this carriage, walk on the ground, and consult that still voice within me, which Heaven bids us all to hearken to. Ten minutes is all I ask, and then you shall have your answer.


As you please, monseigneur,


Lead me to where the crown of France is to be found.


Is this your decision, monseigneur?


It is.


Irrevocably so? Such looks are flashes of the hidden fire that betrays men’s character, you will be great, monseigneur, I will answer for that.


Let us resume our conversation. I wished to discuss two points with you; in the first place the dangers, or the obstacles we may meet with. That point is decided. The other is the conditions you intend imposing on me. It is your turn to speak, M. d’Herblay.


The conditions, monseigneur?


Doubtless. You will not allow so mere a trifle to stop me, and you will not do me the injustice to suppose that I think you have no interest in this affair. Therefore, without subterfuge or hesitation, tell me the truth--


I will do so, monseigneur. Once a king--


When will that be?


To-morrow evening--I mean in the night.


Explain yourself.