 CHAPTER III The man in the iron mask. CHAPTER III WHO MESSER GEN PERSARIN WAS. The king's tailor, MESSER GEN PERSARIN, occupied a rather large house in the Rue Saint-Honoré, near the Rue de l'Arbre Sec. He was a man of great taste and elegant stuffs, embroideries, and velvets, being hereditary tailor to the king. The preferment of his house reached as far back as the time of Charles IX, from whose reign dated, as we know, fancy and bravery difficult enough to gratify. The person of that period was a Huguenot, like Ambrose Paré, and had been spared by the Queen of Navarre, the beautiful Margot, as they used to write and say, too, in those days, because in Sooth he was the only one who could make for her those wonderful writing habits which she so loved to wear, seeing that they were marvelously well suited to hide certain anatomical defects, which the Queen of Navarre used very studiously to conceal. Persara, being saved, made, out of gratitude, some beautiful black bodices, very inexpensively indeed, for Queen Catherine, who ended by being pleased at the preservation of a Huguenot people, on whom she had long looked with detestation. But Persara was a very prudent man, and having heard it said that there were no more dangerous sign for a Protestant than to be smiled upon by Catherine. And having observed that her smiles were more frequent than usual, he speedily turned Catholic with all his family, and having thus become irreproachable, attained the lofty position of Master Taylor to the Crown of France. Under Henry III, gay king as he was, this position was as grand as the height of one of the loftiest peaks of the Courieras. Now Persara had been a clever man all his life, and by way of keeping up his reputation beyond the grave, took very good care not to make a bad death of it, and so contrived to die very skillfully, and that at the very moment he felt his powers of invention declining. He left a son and a daughter. Both worthy of the name they were called upon to bear, the son a cutter, as unerring and exact as the square rule, the daughter apt at embroidery and at designing ornaments. The marriage of Henry IV and Merida Medici, and the exquisite court mourning for the aforementioned queen, together with a few words let fall by Monsieur de Basse-en-Pierre, king of the bow of the period, made the fortune of the second generation of Persara. Monsieur Concino Concini and his wife Galligaghi, who subsequently shone at the French court, sought to Italianize the fashion and introduce some Florentine tailors, but Persara, touched to the quick in his patriotism and his self-esteem, entirely defeated these foreigners, and that so well that Concino was the first to give up his compatriots and held the French tailor in such esteem that he would never employ any other, and thus wore a doublet of his on the very day that Vitry blew out his brains with a pistol at the Pont de Louvre. And so it was a doublet issuing from Monsieur Pessarant's workshop, which the Parisians rejoiced in hacking into so many pieces with the living human body it contained. Notwithstanding the favor Concino Concini had shown Persarant, the king Louis XIII had the generosity to bear no malice to his tailor and to retain him in his service. At the time that Louis the Just afforded this great example of equity, Persara had brought up two sons, one of whom made his debut at the marriage of Anne of Austria, invented that admirable Spanish costume, in which Richard Yer danced a Sarabande, made the costumes for the tragedy of Miramé, and stitched on to Buckingham's mantle those famous pearls which were destined to be scattered about the pavements of the Louvre. A man becomes equally notable who has made the dresses of a duke of Buckingham, a Monsieur de Sainte-Mar, a Mme Moselle, a Monsieur de Beaufort, and a Maryanne de Lorme, and thus Persarant III had attained the summit of his glory when his father died. This same Persarant III, old, famous, and wealthy, yet further dressed Louis XIV, and having no son, which was a great cause of sorrow to him, seeing that with himself his dynasty should end, he had brought up several hopeful pupils. He possessed a carriage, a country house, men's servants the tallest in Paris, and by special authority from Louis XIV, a pack of hounds. He worked for M. de Lyon and Le Tellier under a sort of patronage, but politic man as he was, and versed in state secrets, he never succeeded in fitting M. Colbert. This is beyond explanation. It is a matter for guessing or for intuition. Great geniuses of every kind live on unseen, intangible ideas. They act without themselves knowing why. The great Persarant, for, contrary to the rule of dynasties, it was, above all, the last of the Persarans, who deserved the name of Great. The great Persarant was inspired when he cut a robe for the queen, or a coat for the king. He could mount a mantle for M. de Lyon, the clock of a stocking for M. de Lyon, but in spite of his supreme talent he could never hit off anything approaching a creditable fit for M. de Lyon Colbert. That man, he used often to say, is beyond my art. My needle can never dot him down. We'd need scarcely say that Persarant's was M. de Lyon Fouquet's tailor, and that the superintendent highly esteemed him. M. de Persarant was nearly eighty years old, nevertheless still fresh, and at the same time so dry, the courtiers used to say, that he was positively brittle. His renown and his fortune were great enough for M. de Prince, that king of Phops, to take his arm when talking over the fashions, and for those least eager to pay, never to dare to leave their accounts in a rear with him. For Master Persarant would for the first time make clothes upon credit, but the second never, unless paid for the former order. It is easy to see at once that a tailor of such renown, instead of running after customers, made difficulties about obliging any fresh ones, and so Persarant declined to fit bourgeois, or those who had but recently obtained patents of nobility. A story used to circulate that even M. de Mésarant, in exchange for Persarant, supplying him with a full suit of ceremonial vestments as cardinal, one fine day slipped letters of nobility into his pocket. It was to the house of this great Lama of Tailors that D'Artagnan took the despairing porthos, who, as they were going along, said to his friend, Take care, my good D'Artagnan, not to compromise the dignity of a man such as I am, with the arrogance of this Persarant, 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, replied D'Artagnan, you have nothing to fear, even though you were what you are not. Ah! Just because! What? Do you know anything against Persarant, porthos? I think that I once sent Moustan 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, Moustan must have made a mistake. Perhaps he has confused the names. Possibly, that rascal Moustan 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 hall, and you told me the house was at the corner of the Rue de l'Arbre Sec. It is true. But look. Well, I do look, and I see. What? Padir, that we are at the house. 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? It is very simple. They are waiting their turn. Bah! Have the comedians of the hotel de Burgogneus shifted their quarters? No. Their turn to obtain an entrance to Monsieur Passerin'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, said Porthos. They accordingly elighted and made their way on foot towards the establishment. The cause of the confusion was that Monsieur Passerin's doors were closed, while a servant standing before them was explaining to the illustrious customers of the illustrious tailor that just then Monsieur Passerin could not receive anybody. Who was greeted about outside still, on the authority of what the great lackey had told some great noble whom he favored, in confidence, that Monsieur Passerin was engaged on five costumes for the king, and that, owing to the urgency of the case, he was meditating in his office on the ornaments, colors, and cut of these five suits. Some, contended with this reason, went away again, contended to repeat the tale to others. But others, more tenacious, insisted on having the doors opened, and among these last three blue ribbons, intended to take parts in the ballet, which would inevitably fail unless the said three had their costumes shaped by the very hand of the great Passerin himself. Tartanian, pushing on Porthos, who scattered the groups of people right and left, succeeded in gaining the counter, behind which the journeymen tailors were doing their best to answer queries. We forgot to mention that at the door they wanted to put off Porthos like the rest, but Tartanian, showing himself, pronounced merely these words, that king's order, and was led in with his friend. The poor fellows had enough to do, and did their best, to reply to the demands of the customers in the absence of their master, leaving off drawing a stitch to knit a sentence, and when wounded pride or disappointed expectation brought down upon them two cutting of rebuke, he who was attacked made a dive and disappeared under the counter. The line of discontented lords formed a truly remarkable picture. Our captain of musketeers, a man of sure and rapid observation, took it all in at a glance, and having run over the groups, his eye rested on a man in front of him. This man, seated upon a stool, scarcely showed his head above the counter that sheltered him. He was about forty years of age, with a melancholy aspect, pale face, and soft, luminous eyes. He was looking at Tartanian at the rest, with his chin resting upon his hand, like a calm and inquiring amateur. Only on perceiving, and doubtless recognizing, our captain, he pulled his hat down over his eyes. It was this action, perhaps, that attracted Tartanian's attention. If so, the gentleman who had pulled down his hat produced an effect entirely different from what he had desired. In other respects his costume was plain, and his hair evenly cut enough for customers, who were not close observers, to take him for a mere tailor's apprentice, perched behind the board, and carefully stitching cloth or velvet. Nevertheless, this man held up his head too often to be very productively employed with his fingers. Tartanian was not deceived. Not he, and he saw at once that if this man was working at anything, it certainly was not at velvet. "'Ey!' said he, addressing this man, "'And so you have become a tailor's boy, Monsieur Mulheir!' "'Hush, Monsieur Tartanian!' replied the man softly. "'You will make them recognize me!' "'Well, in what harm?' "'The fact is there is no harm, but—' "'You are 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 Mulheir! 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 Monsieur Pesserin 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 Mulheir, but you will go and tell him I am here.' "'I,' exclaimed Mulheir, in the tone of a courageous dog, "'from which you snatch the bone it has legitimately gained. "'I disturbed myself? Ah, Monsieur D'Artagnan, how hard you are upon me!' "'If you don't go directly and tell Monsieur Pesserin that I am here, my dear Mulheir,' said D'Artagnan in a low tone, "'I warn you of one thing, that I won't exhibit to you the friend I have brought with me.' Mulheir indicated porthos by an imperceptible gesture. "'This gentleman? Is it not?' "'Yes.' Mulheir fixed upon porthos one of those looks which penetrate the minds and hearts of men. The subject doubtless appeared a very promising one, for he immediately rose and led the way into the adjoining chamber. End of chapter 3 Chapter 4 of The Man in the Iron Mask During all this time the noble mob was slowly heaving away, leaving at every angle of the counter either a murmur or a menace, as the waves leave foam or scattered seaweed on the sands, when they retire with the ebbing tide. In about ten minutes Mulheir re-evaluated, and the menace of the man in the iron mask, and the man in the iron mask, and the man in the iron mask, and the man in the iron mask, in about ten minutes Mulheir re-appeared, making another sign to D'Artagnan from under the hangings. The latter hurried after him, with porthos in the rear, and after threading a labyrinth of corridors, introduced him to Monsieur Pesserin's room. The old man, with his sleeves turned up, was gathering up in folds a piece of gold-flowered brocade, so as the better to exhibit its luster. Perceiving D'Artagnan he put the silk aside, and came to meet him, by no means radiant with joy, and by no means courteous, but, take it all together, in a tolerably civil manner. The captain of the king's musketeers would excuse me, I am sure, for I am engaged. Hey, yes, on the king's costumes. I know that, my dear Monsieur Pesserin. 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 world, they must first be made. And to do this, captain, I am pressed for time. Oh, pah! There are two days yet, tis much more than you require, Monsieur Pesserin, said D'Artagnan, in the coolest possible manner. Pesserin raised his head with the air of a man little accustomed to be contradicted, even in his whims. But D'Artagnan did not pay the least attention to the airs which the illustrious tailor began to assume. My dear Monsieur Pesserin, he continued, I bring you a customer. Ah, ha! exclaimed Pesserin crossly. Monsieur le baron de valant, de presieux, et pire fonds. Continued D'Artagnan. Pesserin attempted a bow which found no favour in the eyes of the terrible porthos, who, from his first entry into the room, had been regarding the tailor a skance. A very good friend of mine concluded D'Artagnan. I will attend to Monsieur, said Pesserin, but later. But when? When I have time. You have already told my valet as much, broke in porthos discontentedly. Very likely, said Pesserin, I am nearly always pushed for time. My friend, returned porthos sententiously, there is always time to be found when one chooses to seek it. D'Artagnan turned crimson, an ominous sign indeed, in old men blanched by age. Monsieur has quieted liberty to confer his custom elsewhere. Come, come, Pesserin, interposed D'Artagnan, you are not in a good temper today. Well, I will say one more word to you, which will bring you on your knees. Monsieur is not only a friend of mine, but more a friend of Monsieur Fouquets. Ah, ah, exclaimed the tailor. That is another thing. Then, turning to porthos, Monsieur de Berron is attached to the superintendent, he inquired. I am attached to myself, shouted porthos at the very moment that the tapestry was raised to introduce a new speaker in the dialogue. Molière was all observation. D'Artagnan laughed. Porthos swore. Ha, ha, ha, my dear Pesserin said, D'Artagnan, you will make a dress for the Baron, desire who ask you. To you I will not say nay, Captain. But that is not all. You will make it for him at once. It is impossible within eight days. That, then, is as much as to refuse, because the dress is wanted for the fete at Vaux. I repeat that it is impossible. Return the obstinate old man. By no means, my dear Monsieur Pesserin, above all, if I ask you, said a mild voice at the door, a silvery voice which made D'Artagnan prick up his ears. It was the voice of Hermes. Monsieur de Blay cried the tailor. Hermes murmured D'Artagnan. Ah, our bishop, said Porthos. Good morning, D'Artagnan. Good morning, Porthos. Good morning, my dear friends, said Hermes. Calm, calm, Monsieur Pesserin. Make the Baron's dress, and I will answer for it. You will gratify Monsieur Fouquette. And he accompanied the words with a sign which seemed to say, Agree and dismiss them. It appeared that Hermes had over Master Pesserin an influence superior even to D'Artagnan's, for the tailor bowed in assent, and turning round upon Porthos said, Go and get measured on the other side. Porthos coloured in a formidable manner. D'Artagnan saw the storm coming, and addressing Molière, said to him in an undertone, You see before you, my dear Monsieur, a man who considers himself disgraced if you measured the flesh and bones that heaven has given him. Study this type for me, Master Aristophanes, and profit by it. Molière had no need of encouragement, and is gazed well long and keenly on the Baron Porthos. Monsieur, he said, If you will come with me, I will make them take your measure without touching you. Oh! said Porthos. 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 lowborn fellows to touch them. We know some susceptible people 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. Corbeuf! I believe I am, too! Well that is a capital of most consolatory coincidence, and you shall have the benefit of our invention. But how in the world can it be done? asked Porthos, delighted. Monsieur, said Molière, bowing, If you were deigned to follow me, you will see. Hermes observed this scene with all his eyes, perhaps he fancied from D'Artagnan's liveliness that he would leave with Porthos, so as not to lose the conclusion of a scene well begun. But, clear-sighted as he was, Hermes deceived himself. Porthos and Molière left together. D'Artagnan remained with presserin. Why? From curiosity doubtless? Probably to enjoy a little longer the society of his good friend, Hermes. As Molière and Porthos disappeared, D'Artagnan drew near the bishop of Vaan, a proceeding which appeared particularly to disconcert him. A dress for you also, is it not, my friend? Hermes smiled. Oh! said he. You will go to Vaux, however. I shall go, but without a new dress. You forget, dear D'Artagnan, that a poor bishop of Vaan is not rich enough to have new dresses for every fit. Ha! said the musketeer, laughing. And do we write no more poems now, either? Oh! D'Artagnan exclaimed Hermes. I have long ago given up all such tomfoolery. True, repeated D'Artagnan, only half convinced. As for presserin, he was once more absorbed in contemplation of the brocades. Don't you perceive, said Hermes, smiling, that we are greatly boring this good gentleman, my dear D'Artagnan? Ah! murmured the musketeer, aside. That is, I am boring you, my friend. Then allowed. Well, then, let us leave. I have no further business here. And if you are as disengaged as I, Hermes? No. Not I. I wished. Ah! You had something particular to say to Mr. Pessera. Why did you not tell me so at once? Something particular, certainly, repeated Hermes. 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! said D'Artagnan, imparting to his voice an evident tone of curiosity, for Hermes's annoyance, well dissembled as it was, had not a wit escaped him, and he knew that, in that impenetrable mind, every thing, even the most apparently trivial, was designed to some end, an unknown one, but an end that, from the knowledge he had of his friend's character, the musketeer felt must be important. On his part, Hermes saw that D'Artagnan was not without suspicion and pressed him. Stay! By all means, he said, this is what it is. Then turning towards the tailor, my dear Père Sera, said he, I am even very happy that you are here, D'Artagnan. Oh! indeed! exclaimed the Gaskon for the third time, even less deceived this time than before. Père Sera never moved. Hermes roused him violently by snatching from his hands the stuff upon which he was engaged. My dear Père Sera, said he, I have, near hand, Monsieur Lebrun, one of Monsieur Fouquet's painters. Ah! very good, thought D'Artagnan. But why Lebrun? Hermes looked at D'Artagnan, who seemed to be occupied with an engraving of Mark Antony. And you wish that I should make him address, similar to those of the Epicurians? answered Père Sera, and while saying this, in an absent manner, the worthy tailor endeavored to recapture his piece of brocade. An Epicurian's dress, asked D'Artagnan, in a tone of inquiry. I see, said Hermes, with a most engaging smile, it is written that our dear D'Artagnan shall know all our secrets this evening. Yes, friend, you have surely heard speak of Monsieur Fouquet's Epicurians, have you not? Undoubtedly, is it not a kind of poetical society, of which La Fontaine, Loré, Pellissant, and Molière are members, and which holds its sittings at Saint-Monde? 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, Monsieur Fouquet is getting up for the king. Be at ease. If that is the secret about Monsieur 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. I am going to go back to D'Artagnan, making a show of departure. Come in, Monsieur Lebrun, come in, said Hermes, opening a side door with his right hand, and holding back D'Artagnan with his left. In faith, too, I am quite in the dark. Quote Pesserin. Hermes took an opportunity, as is said in theatrical matters. My dear Monsieur de Pesserin, Hermes continued, 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? How do you know all that, Monsignor? said Pesserin, astounded. It is all very simple, my dear Monsieur. There will be a hunt, a banquet, concert, promenade, and auction. These five kinds of dress are required by etiquette. You know everything, Monsignor. And a thing or two, in addition, muttered D'Artagnan. But, cried the tailor in triumph, what you do not know, Monsignor, Prince of the church, though you are, what nobody will know, what only the king, Mme Moselle de la Valière, and myself do know, is the color of the materials and nature of the ornaments, and the cut, the ensemble, and the finish of it all. Well, said Hermes, that is precisely what I have come to ask you, dear Pesserin. Bah! Bah! exclaimed the tailor, terrified, though Hermes had pronounced these words in his softest and most honeyed tones. The request appeared, on reflection, so exaggerated, so ridiculous, so monstrous, to Monsieur Pesserin, that first he laughed to himself, then allowed, and finished with a shout. D'Artagnan followed his example, not because he found the matter so very funny, but in order not to allow Hermes to cool. At the outset I appear to be hazarding an absurd question, do I not? said Hermes, but D'Artagnan, who is incarnate wisdom itself, will tell you that I could not do this otherwise than ask you this. Let us see, said the attentive musketeer, perceiving with his wonderful instinct that they had only been skirmishing till now, and that the hour of battle was approaching. Let us see, said Pesserin, incredulously. Why now, continued Hermes, does Monsieur Fouquet give the king afet? Is it not to please him? Assuredly, said Pesserin, D'Artagnan, not a dissent, by delicate attentions, by some happy device, by a succession of surprises, like that of which we are talking, the enrolment of our epicurians. Admirable. Well, then, this is the surprise we intend. Monsieur Lebrun here is a man who draws most excellently. Yes, said Pesserin, 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 epicurians or an original one. My dear Monsieur, we accept your offer, and shall presently avail ourselves of it. But just now, Monsieur Lebrun is not in want of the dresses you will make for himself, but of those you are making for the king. Pesserin made a bound backwards, which D'Artagnan, calmest and most appreciative of men, did not consider overdone, so many strange and startling aspects wore the proposal which Eremus had just hazarded. The king's dresses? Give the king's dresses to any mortal whatever! Oh, for once, Monsignor, your grace is mad! cried the poor tailor in extremity. Help me now, D'Artagnan. Said Eremus, more and more calm and smiling. Help me now to persuade Monsieur, for you understand, do you not? Eh, eh, eh, not exactly, I declare. What? You do not understand that Monsieur 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! said the musketeer, nearly convinced, so plausible was this reasoning. Yes, my dear Eremus, you are right, it is a happy idea. I will wager it as one of your own, Eremus. Well, I don't know, replied the bishop, either mine or Monsieur Fouquet's. Then scanning Percera, after noticing D'Artagnan's hesitation. Well, Monsieur Percera, he asked, 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 Monsieur Fouquet's idea. You dread appearing to flatter the king. A noble spirit, Monsieur Percera. A noble spirit! The tailor stammered. It would indeed be a very pretty compliment to pay the young prince, continued Eremus. But as the superintendent told me, if Percera refuse, tell him that it will not at all lower him, in my opinion, and I shall always esteem him only— Only, repeated Percera, rather troubled. Only, continued Eremus, I shall be compelled to say to the king. You understand, my dear Monsieur Percera, that these are Monsieur 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, Monsieur Percera opposed the project. Opposed! cried the tailor, terrified at the responsibility which would weigh upon him. I had to oppose the desire, the will of Monsieur Fouquet, when he is seeking to please the king. Oh, what a hateful word you have uttered, Monsignor! Oppose! Oh, it is 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? D'Artagnan made a sign, indicating he wished to remain neutral. He felt that there was an intrigue at the bottom of it, whether comedy or tragedy, he was at his wits and at not being able to fathom it, but in the meanwhile wished to keep clear. But already Percera, goaded by the idea that the king was to be told he stood in the way of a pleasant surprise, had offered Le Brun a chair, and proceeded to bring from a wardrobe four magnificent dresses, the fifth being still in the workman's hands, and these masterpieces he successively fitted upon four lay figures, which, imported into France in the time of Concini, had been given to Percera, too, by Marshal Donor. After the discomforture of the Italian tailors ruined in their competition, the painter set to work to draw and then to paint the dresses. But Aramis, who was closely watching all the phases of his toil, suddenly stopped him. I think you have not quite got it, my dear Le Brun, he said. Your colours 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, said Percera, but time is wanting, and on that head you will agree with me, Monseigneur, I can do nothing. Then the affair will fail, said Aramis quietly, and that because of a want of precision in the colours. Nevertheless Le Brun went on copying the materials and ornaments with the closest fidelity, a process which Aramis watched with ill-concealed impatience. What in the world now is the meaning of this embryo? the musketeer kept saying to himself. That will never do, said Aramis. Monsieur Le Brun, close your box and roll up your canvas. But, Monsieur, cried the vex painter, the light is abominable here. An idea, Monsieur Le Brun, an idea, if we had a pattern of the materials, for example, and with time, at a better light. Oh, then, cried Le Brun, I would answer for the effect. Good, said D'Artagnan, this ought to be the naughty point of the whole thing. They want a pattern of each of the materials. Maudiot, will this perseron give in now? Perseron, beaten from his last retreat, and duped moreover by the feigned good nature of Aramis, cut out five patterns and handed them to the Bishop of Van. I like this better. That is your opinion, is it not? Said Aramis to D'Artagnan. My dear Aramis, said D'Artagnan, my opinion is that you are always the same. And consequently, always your friend. Said the Bishop in a charming tone. Yes, yes, said D'Artagnan aloud, then in a low voice, if I am your dupe, double Jesuit that you are, I will not be your accomplice, to prevent it, to his time I left this place. Adieu, Aramis, he added aloud. Adieu, I am going to rejoin Porthos. Then wait for me, said Aramis, pocketing the patterns, for I have done, and shall be glad to say a parting word to our dear old friend. Lebrun packed up his paints and brushes, perseron put back the dresses into the closet, Aramis put his hand on his pocket to assure himself the patterns were secure, and they all left the study. CHAPTER 5 Where, probably, Molière obtained his first idea of the bourgeois jean-tillon. Aramis found Porthos in the adjoining chamber, but no longer an irritated Porthos, or a disappointed Porthos, but Porthos radiant, blooming, fascinating, and chattering with Molière, who was looking upon him with a species of idolatry, and as a man would who had not only never seen anything greater, but not even ever anything so great, Aramis went straight up to Porthos and offered him his white hand, which lost itself in the gigantic clasp of his old friend, an operation which Aramis never hazarded without a certain uneasiness, but the friendly pressure having been performed not too painfully for him, the bishop of Vannes passed over to Molière. CHAPTER 6 Well, monsieur, said he, will you come with me to Salmond? CHAPTER 7 I will go anywhere you like, Monsignor. CHAPTER 8 To Saint-Mond, cried Porthos, surprised at seeing the proud bishop of Vannes fraternizing with a journeyman tailor. What, Aramis, are you going to take this gentleman to Salmond? CHAPTER 8 Yes, said Aramis, smiling, our work is pressing. CHAPTER 8 And besides, my dear Porthos, continued d'Artagnan, monsieur Molière is not altogether what he seems. CHAPTER 9 In what way, asked Porthos, why, this gentleman is one of monsieur Pesserin's chief clerks, and is expected at Saint-Mond to try on the dresses which monsieur Fouquet has ordered for the Epicurians. CHAPTER 10 He is precisely so, said Molière. CHAPTER 11 Yes, monsieur. CHAPTER 12 Come, then, my dear monsieur Molière, said Aramis, that is, if you have done with monsieur de Vellon. CHAPTER 13 We have finished, replied Porthos. CHAPTER 14 And you are satisfied, asked Artagnan. CHAPTER 15 Completely so, replied Porthos. CHAPTER 16 Molière took his leave of Porthos with much ceremony and grasped the hand which the captain of the musketeers furtively offered him. CHAPTER 16 Pray, monsieur, concluded Porthos, mincingly, above all, be exact. CHAPTER 16 You will have your dress the day after tomorrow, monsieur LeBarrell. CHAPTER 17 Answered Molière, and he left with Aramis. CHAPTER 18 Then Artagnan, taking Porthos's arm. CHAPTER 18 What has this tailor done for you, my dear Porthos? CHAPTER 18 He asked, that you are so pleased with him. CHAPTER 18 What has he done for me, my friend? Done for me! cried Porthos enthusiastically. CHAPTER 18 Yes, I ask you, what has he done for you? CHAPTER 18 My friend, he has done that which no tailor ever yet accomplished. He has taken my measure without touching me. CHAPTER 18 Ah, bah! Tell me how he did it. CHAPTER 18 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. CHAPTER 18 Indeed, it is exactly as I tell you, Artagnan, but he is a great man, or at the very least a great tailor is this Monsieur Molière. He was not at all put at fault by the circumstance. CHAPTER 18 What did he do then? CHAPTER 18 Oh, it is a very simple matter. If faith is 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 Portos. CHAPTER 18 Yes, thirty dresses. CHAPTER 18 Well, my dear Portos, come, tell me Monsieur Molière's plan. Molière, you call him so, do you? I shall make a point of recollecting his name. CHAPTER 18 Yes, or Pochlain, if you prefer that. MOLIÈRE No, I like Molière best. When I wish to recollect his name, I shall think of Volière, which is an aviary, and as I have won a pierre faune, capital, returned Artagnan, and Monsieur Molière'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, Artagnan made a sign of approbation with his head. Monsieur, he said to me, continued Portos, a gentleman ought to measure himself. Do me the pleasure to draw near this glass. And I drew near the glass. I must own, I did not exactly understand, what this good Monsieur Volière wanted with me. Molière? Ah, yes, Molière, Molière, 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. But he, with his soft voice, for he is a courteous fellow, we must admit, my friend, he with his soft voice, 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, said Artagnan, 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. It is 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 world did you acquire such a voluminous vocabulary? At Belial, Aramis and I had to use such words in our strategic studies and castramentative experiments. Artagnan recoiled as though the sesquipedalian syllables had knocked the breath out of his body. Ah, very good. Let us return to the looking glass, my friend. Then this good Monsieur Molière. Molière. Yes, Molière, you are right. You will see now, my dear friend, that I shall recollect his name quite well. This excellent Monsieur Molière, set to work tracing out lines on the mirror, with a piece of Spanish chalk, following on 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, said Artagnan, 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. Parpleur. 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, said Artagnan. And so continued Monsieur Molière. Molière. Molière, yes. And so went on Monsieur Molière. 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. Ha, ha! 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,' said he. "'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,' said Artagnan. "'Tis the true guard, the academic guard.' "'You have said the very word, dear friend. "'In the meanwhile, Volière, Molière. "'Hold. "'I should certainly, after all, prefer to call him—' "'What did you say his other name was?' "'Po-Colain. "'I prefer to call him Po-Colain. "'And how will you remember this name "'better than the other?' "'You understand, he calls himself Po-Colain, "'does he not?' "'Yes. "'If I were to call to my madame Co-Colain.' "'Good. "'I'd change Co-Colain to Po-C, "'Nord and de L'in, "'and instead of Co-Colain, I shall have Po-Colain.' "'Tis wonderful,' cried Artagnan, astounded. "'Go on, my friend. "'I am listening to you with admiration. "'This Co-Colain sketched my arm on the glass. "'I beg your pardon, Po-Colain.' "'What did I say, then?' "'You said Co-Colain.' "'Ha, true. "'This Po-Colain there 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,' interrupted Artagnan. "'Then,' continued Porthos, "'he made a sign. "'Two lads approached. "'One supported my left arm, "'while the other, with infinite address, supported my right.' "'Another, my man,' cried he. "'A third approached. "'Support, monsieur, by the waist,' said he. "'The garçon,' complied. "'So that you were at rest,' asked Artagnan. "'Perfectly, and Po-Colain drew me on the glass. "'Po-Colain, my friend.' "'Po-Colain, you are right. "'Stay. "'Decidedly, I prefer calling him Volière.' "'Yes. "'And then it was over, wasn't it? "'During that time, Volière drew me "'as I appeared in the mirror. "'Twas delicate in him. "'I much like the plan. "'It is respectful and keeps everyone in his place.' "'And there it ended. "'Without a soul having touched me, my friend.' "'Except the three garçons who supported you. "'Doubtless, but I have, I think, already explained to you "'the difference there is between supporting and measuring.' "'Tis true,' answered Artagnan, who said afterwards to himself, "'In faith I greatly deceive myself, "'or I have been the means of a good windfall "'to that rascal Molière, "'and we shall assuredly see the scene hit off to the life. "'In some comedy or other,' Porto smiled. "'What are you laughing at?' asked Artagnan. "'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 to has had his measure taken "'in that manner.' "'Are you so sure of it?' "'Nearly so. "'Certain signs of intelligence which pass between "'Volière and the other garçons show me the fact.' "'Well, my friend, that does not surprise me from Molière,' said Artagnan. "'Volière, my friend!' "'Oh, no, no indeed. "'I am very willing to leave you to go on saying Molière, "'but as for me, I shall continue to say Molière. "'Well, this, I was saying, does not surprise me coming from "'Molière, who is a very ingenious fellow and inspired you "'with his 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 Molière, is of all known tailors "'the man who best clothes our barons, comps, and marqueses, "'according to their measure.' "'On this observation, neither the application nor depth "'of which we shall discuss, Artagnan and Porto's quitted "'Monsieur de Pesserance's house, and rejoin their carriages, "'wherein we will leave them in order to look after Molière "'and Arama said Salman.' End of chapter. CHAPTER VI The Bishop of Van, much annoyed at having met Artagnan at Monsieur Pesserance, returned to some bond in no very good humour. Molière, on the other hand, quite delighted at having made such a capital-rough sketch, and at knowing where to find the original again, whenever he should desire to convert his sketch into a picture, Molière arrived in the merriest of moods. All the first story of the left wing was occupied by the most celebrated Epicurians in Paris, and those on the freest footing in the house, every one in his compartment, like the bees in their cells, employed in producing the honey intended for that royal cake which Monsieur Fouquet proposed to offer his majesty Louis XIV during the fettet-vaux. Pellissant, his head leaning on his hand, was engaged in drawing out the plan of the prologue to the fâcheur, a comedy in three acts, which was to be put on the stage by Poquelin de Molière, as D'Artagnan called him, or Coquelin de Folière, as Porto styled him. L'horre, with all the charming innocence of a gazetteur, the gazetteurs of all ages, have always been so artless, L'horre was composing an account of the fettes at Vaux, before those fettes had taken place. La Fontaine, sauntered about from one to the other, a parapetetic, absent-minded, boring, unbearable dreamer, who kept buzzing and humming at everybody's elbow a thousand poetic abstractions. He so often disturbed Pellissant that the latter, raising his head crossly, said, At least La Fontaine, supply me with a rhyme, since you have the run of the gardens at Panassas. What rhyme do you want? Asked the fabler, as Madame de Savine used to call him. I want a rhyme to Lumière. Onière answered La Fontaine. Ah, but my good friend, one can at-talk of wheel-ruts when celebrating the delights of Vaux, cette l'horre. Besides, it doesn't rhyme, answered Pellissant. What, doesn't rhyme? cried La Fontaine in surprise. Yes, you have an abominable habit, my friend, a habit which will ever prevent you from becoming a poet of the First Order. You rhyme in a slovenly manner. Oh, oh, you think so, do you, Pellissant? 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, said La Fontaine, who had taken up Pellissant's reproach in earnest. Ah, I often suspected I was nothing but a rascally poet. Yes, it is 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, continued La Fontaine, following up his idea, 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. It's true, said La Fontaine, but if I do not burn them, well, what will happen if you do not burn them? They will remain in my mind, and I shall never forget them. The deuce, cried Lechret, what a dangerous thing one would go mad with it. The deuce, the deuce, repeated La Fontaine, what can I do? I have discovered the way, said Molière, who had entered just at this point of the conversation. What way? Write them first, and burn them afterwards. How simple! Well, I should never have discovered that. What a mind that devil of a Molière has, said La Fontaine, then striking his forehead. Oh, thou wilt never be ought but an ass, Jean La Fontaine, he added. What are you saying there, my friend? I broke in Molière, approaching the poet, whose aside he had heard. I say I shall never be ought but an ass, answered La Fontaine, with a heavy sigh and swimming eyes. Yes, my friend, he added, with increasing grief. It means that I rhyme in a slovenly manner. Oh, just wrong to say so. Nay, I am a poor creature. Who said so? Ah, bleu, twist, Pellissant, did you not, Pellissant? Pellissant, again absorbed in his work, took good care not to answer. But if Pellissant said you were so, cried Molière, Pellissant 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! exclaimed La Fontaine. Did you ever fight? Once only, with the lieutenant and the light-horse. What wrong had he done you? It seems he ran away with my wife. Ah, ah, said Molière, becoming slightly pale. But as, at La Fontaine's declaration, the others had turned round, Molière kept upon his lips the rallying smile which had so nearly died away and continuing to make La Fontaine speak. But 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. And you consider yourself satisfied? Said Molière. 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. No, as I have never known any peace, save since you made her acquaintance, do me the pleasure to continue your visits as here before, or, more blur, let us set to again. And so continued La Fontaine. He was compelled to resume his friendship with Madame, and I continued to be the happiest of husbands. All burst out laughing. Molière alone passed his hand across his eyes. Why? Perhaps to wipe away a tear. Perhaps to smother a sigh. Alas, we know that Molière was a moralist, but he was not a philosopher. Tizol won, he said, returning to the topic of the conversation. Pellissant 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. I am going to stay, exclaimed La Fontaine. I want your advice. Upon what? This insult? No, tell me really now whether Lumiere does not rhyme with Ornière. I should make them rhyme. I knew you would. And I have made a hundred thousand such rhymes in my time. A hundred thousand, cried La Fontaine, four times as many as La Pousselle, which Monsieur 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, said Molière. It is certain, continued La Fontaine, that legume, for instance, rhymes with postume, in the plural above all. Yes, above all in the plural, seeing that then it rhymes not with three letters, but with four, as Ornière does with Lumiere. But give me Ornière and Lumiere in the plural, my dear Pellissant, said La Fontaine, clapping his hand on the shoulder of his friend, whose insult he had quite forgotten. And they will rhyme. Hm! Coughed Pellissant. Molière says so, and Molière is a judge of such things. He declares he has himself made a hundred thousand verses. Come, said Molière, laughing, he is off now. It is like Rivage, which rhymes admirably with Herbage. I would take my oath of it. But, said Molière, I tell you all this, continued La Fontaine, because you are preparing a divertissement for vos, are you not? Yes, the fâcheux. Oh, yes, the fâcheux. Yes, I recollect. Well, I was thinking a prologue would admirably suit your divertissement. Doubtless it would suit Capitoli. 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 Pellissant, engaged upon it at this moment. Ah! That is what Pellissant is doing, then. In faith, my dear Molière, 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. But inasmuch as Pellissant is about it. Ah! True! No rascal that I am, Lochray was indeed right in saying I was a poor creature. It was not Lochray who said so, my friend. Well then, whoever said so tis the same to me. And so your divertissement is called the fâcheux. Well, can you make Heureux rhyme with fâcheux? 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, said Lafantaine, leaving Molière for Lochray. I was fancying. What were you fancying, said Lochray in the middle of a sentence? Make haste. You are writing the prologue to the fâcheux. Are you not? No. More Dieu! It is Pellissant. Ah! Pellissant! cried Lafantaine, going over to him. I was fancying, he continued, that the nymph of vôe. Ah! Beautiful! cried Lochray. The nymph of vôe. Thank you, Lafantaine. You have just given me the two concluding verses of my paper. Well, if you can rhyme so well, Lafantaine, said Pellissant, 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's singular of the present indicative, and should go on thus, this grote profound. But the verb, the verb, asked Pellissant, to admire the greatest king of all kings round, continued Lafantaine. But the verb, the verb, obstinately, insisted Pellissant, this second person in singular of the present indicative? Well, then, quitist. Oh, nymph, who quitist now this grote profound, to admire the greatest king of all kings round. You would not put who quitist, would you? Why not? Quitist after you who? Ah, my dear fellow, exclaimed Lafantaine, you are a shocking pedant. Without counting, said Molière, that the second verse, king of all kings round, is very weak, my dear Lafantaine. Then you see I am nothing but a poor creature, a shuffler, as you said. I never said so. Then, as Loire said, And it was not Loire, either, it was Pellissant. Well, Pellissant was right a hundred times over, but what annoys me more than anything, my dear Molière, is that I fear we shall not have our Epicurean dresses. You expected yours, then, for the Fet? Yes, for the Fet, and then for after the Fet. My housekeeper told me that my own is rather faded. Diable, your housekeeper is right, rather more than faded. Ah, you see, returned Lafantaine. 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. Molière burst out, laughing. Pellissant and Loire followed his example. At this juncture the Bishop of Vaughn appeared, with the role of plans and parchment under his arm. As if the Angel of Death had chilled all gay and sprightly fancies. As if that wan form had scared away the graces to whom Xenocrates sacrificed. Silence immediately reigned through the study, and every one resumed his self-possession and his pen. Xenocrates distributed the notes of invitation, and thanked them in the name of M. Fouquet. The superintendent, he said, being kept to his room by business, could not come and see them, but begged them to send him some of the fruits of their day's work, to enable him to forget the fatigue of his labor in the night. At these words all settled down to work. Lafantaine placed himself at a table, and set his rapid pen an endless dance across the smooth white vellum. Pellissant made a fair copy of his prologue. Molière contributed fifty fresh verses, with which his visit to Pest-surin had inspired him. Loire, an article on the marvellous fets he predicted, and Aramis, laden with his booty like the king of the bees, that great black drone, decked with purple and gold, re-entered his apartment, silent and busy. But before departing. Your gentleman, said he, we leave to-morrow evening. In that case I must give notice at home, said Molière. Yes, poor Molière, said Loire, smiling, he loves his home. He loves, yes, replied Molière with his sad sweet smile. He loves. That does not mean they love him. As for me, said Lafantaine, they love me as Château Thierry, I am very sure. Aramis here re-entered after a brief disappearance. Will anyone go with me? He asked. I am going by Paris, after having passed a quarter of an hour with Monsieur Fouquette. I offer my carriage. Good! said Molière. I accept it. I am in a hurry. I shall dine here, said Loire. Monsieur de Gourville has promised me some crawfish. He has promised me some whitings. Find a rhyme for that, Lafantaine. Aramis went out laughing, as only he could laugh, and Molière followed him. They were at the bottom of the stairs when Lafantaine opened the door and shouted out, He has promised us some whitings in return for these are writings. The shouts of laughter reached the ears of Fouquette at the moment Aramis opened the door of his study. As to Molière he had undertaken to order the horses, while Aramis went to exchange a parting word with the superintendent. Oh! out there laughing there! said Fouquette with a laugh. Do you not laugh, Monsignor? I laugh no longer now, Monsieur de Blay. The Fed is approaching. Money is departing. Have I not told you that that was my business? Yes, you promise me millions. You shall have them the day after the King's entree and de Vaux. Fouquette looked closely at Aramis and passed the back of his icy hand across his moistened brow. Aramis perceived that the superintendent either doubted him, or felt he was powerless to obtain the money. How could Fouquette suppose that a poor bishop, ex-Abbey, ex-Musceteer, could find any? Why doubt me? said Aramis. Fouquette smiled and shook his head. Man of little faith added the bishop. My dear Monsieur de Blay, answered Fouquette, if I fall? Well, if you fall? I shall at least fall from such a height that I shall shatter myself in falling. Even giving himself a shake as though to escape from himself. Whence came you? said he, my friend. From Paris, from Pesserin. And what have you been doing at Pesserin's? For I suppose you attach no great importance to our poet's 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, that at the same time, whatever you may say or think of it, I went to see the dresses for our poet's. Bah! And they will be rich and elegant? Splendid! There will be few great monsignors with so good. People will see the difference there is between the couriers of wealth and those of friendship. Ever generous and grateful, dear Prelate? In your school. Fouquet grasped his hand. And where are you going? he said. I am off to Paris, when you shall have given a certain letter. For whom? Monsieur de Lyon. And what do you want with Lyon? I wish to make him sign a letter de cachet. Letter de cachet? Do you desire to put somebody in the Bastille? On the contrary, to let somebody out. And who? A poor devil, a youth, a lad who has been Bastille 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 honour. And his name is? Seldon. Yes. But it is too bad. You knew this and you never told me. To us only yesterday his mother applied to me, Monsignor. And the woman is poor, in the deepest misery. Heaven, said Fouquette, sometimes bears with such injustice on earth that I hardly wonder there are wretches who doubt of its existence. Stay, Monsieur de Blay. And Fouquette, taking a pen, wrote a few rapid lines to his colleague Lyon. Hermes took the letter and made ready to go. Wait, said Fouquette. He opened his drawer and took out ten government notes which were there, each four thousand francs. Stay, he said. Set the son at liberty and give this to the mother. But above all, do not tell her— What, Monsignor? That she is ten thousand leavers 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. Replied Hermes kissing Fouquette's hand, and he went out quickly, carrying off the letter for Lyon and the notes for Selden's mother, and taking up Molière who was beginning to lose patience. CHAPTER 7 Seven o'clock sounded from the great clock of the Bastille, that famous clock which, like all the accessories of the state prison, the very use of which is a torture, recalled to the prisoner's minds the destination of every hour of their punishment. The timepiece of the Bastille, adorned with figures, like most of the clocks of the period, represented St. Peter in bonds. It was the supper hour of the unfortunate captives. The doors, grating on their enormous hinges, opened for the passage of the baskets and trays of provisions, the abundance and the delicacy of which, as Monsieur de Besmeau has himself taught us, was regulated by the condition in life of the prisoner. We understand on this head the theories of Monsieur de Besmeau, sovereign dispenser of gastronomic delicacies, head-cook of the royal fortress, whose trays full laden were ascending the steeped staircases, carrying some consolation to the prisoners and the shape of honestly filled bottles of good vintages. The same hour was that of Monsieur de Gouverneur's supper also. He had a guest to-day, and the spit turned more heavily than usual. Roast-partridges flanked with quails and flanking a larded leverette, oiled fowls, hams, fried and sprinkled with white wine. Cardons of Guipuscoa and Labisque et Cravis, these, together with soups and hors d'oeuvres, constituted the governor's bill of fare. Besmeau, seated at table, was rubbing his hands and looking at the bishop of Van, who, booted like a cavalier, dressed in gray and soared head-side, kept talking of his hunger and testifying the liveliest impatience. Monsieur de Besmeau de Montlisoun was not accustomed to the unbending movements of his greatness, my Lord of Van, and this evening, Aramis, becoming sprightly, volunteered confidence on confidence, that Prelate had again a little touch of the musketeer about him. The bishop just trenched on the borders only of license in his style of conversation. As for Monsieur de Besmeau, with the facility of vulgar people, he gave himself up entirely upon this point of his guest's freedom. Monsieur, said he, for indeed tonight I dare not call you Monsignor. By no means, said Aramis, call me Monsieur, I am booted. Do you know, Monsieur, of whom you remind me this evening? No, faith, said Aramis, taking up his glass. 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, added Aramis. The supper is completely served, and we shall eat it very well without waiters. I like exceedingly to be tet-a-tet when I am with a friend. Besmeau bowed respectfully. I like exceedingly, continued Aramis, to help myself. Fire, Francois, cried Besmeau. 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, said Aramis, and the other. The other was a certain musketeer, very handsome, very brave, very adventurous, very fortunate, who, from being Abbey, turned musketeer, and from musketeer, turned Abbey. Aramis condescended to smile. From Abbey, continued Besmeau, encouraged by Aramis' smile. From Abbey, Bishop, and from Bishop. Ah, stay there, I beg, exclaimed Aramis. I have just said, Monsieur, that you gave me the idea of a Cardinal. Enough, dear Monsieur Besmeau. 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, Monsieur. 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? It is not for wine, but because it is hot here, and the window is shut. I shut the windows at suppertime, so as not to hear the sounds of 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. Francois entered. Open the windows, I pray you, Master Francois, said Aramis. You will allow him, dear Monsieur Besmeau? You are at home here, answered the governor. The window was opened. Do you not think, said Monsieur de Besmeau, that you will find yourself very lonely? Now Monsieur de la Faire has returned to his household gods at Blois. He is a very old friend, is he not? You know it as I do, Besmeau, 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 Monsieur de la Faire, dear Besmeau. I venerate him. Well, for my part, though to singular, said the governor, I prefer Monsieur 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. Besmeau, 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 in the bottom of your glass. Bravo! said Besmeau, and he poured out a great glass of wine and drank it off at a draught, trembling with joy at the idea of being, by hook or by crook, in the secret of some high arch-apiscopal misdemeanor. While he was drinking he did not see with what attention Aramis was noting the sounds in the great court. A courier came in about eight o'clock as Francois brought in the fifth bottle, and although the courier made a great noise, Besmeau heard nothing. The devil take him, said Aramis. What? Who? asked Besmeau. I hoped is 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. Poo! some courier or other, replied the governor, redoubling his attention to the passing bottle. Yes, and may the devil take him, and so quickly that we shall never hear him speak more. Hurrah! hurrah! You forget me, Besmeau. My glass is empty. Said Aramis, lifting his dazzling Benishan goblet. Upon my honour you delight me. Francois, wine. Francois entered. 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. There will be time to-morrow. There will be daylight," said Besmeau, chanting the words. Ah, Monsieur, grumbled the soldier Francois in spite of himself. Monsieur, take care, said Aramis, take care. Of what, dear Monsieur de Blay? Said Besmeau, half intoxicated. 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 do 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, tet-a-tet, 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 Besmeau, and return to our soldier, to Francois. Well, and what is Francois done? He has demurred. He was wrong, then? However, he has demurred, you see, just because there is something extraordinary in this matter. It is very possible that it was not Francois who was wrong in demuring, 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, oh, perhaps you are right. Stammered Besmeau, 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, my dear Besmeau, and if his order had any importance, I do it that I may not disturb a bishop. Mordio, am I not, then, excusable? Do not forget, Besmeau, 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, exclaimed Besmeau. Francois still waited. Let them send this order of the kings up to me. He repeated, recovering himself, and he added in a low tone, 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. If you only knew, Monsignor, 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 Besmeau, what news? Tis clear enough that those who waste their time writing such orders have never slept in the Bastille. 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, Monsignor? It is their business to write and torment me when I am at rest, and to trouble me when I am happy, added Besmeau, bowing to Eremus. Then let them do their business. And do you do yours, added the bishop, smiling. Once while re-entered, Besmeau took from his hands the minister's order. He slowly undid it, and as slowly read it. Eremus pretended to be drinking, so as to be able to watch his host through the glass. Then Besmeau, having read it, What was I just saying? he exclaimed. What is it? asked the bishop. 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. Added 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. Said Besmeau, exasperated. Will you lose by him, then? And is the prisoner who is to be said at liberty a good payer? Oh, yes indeed, a miserable five-frank rat. Let me see it, asked Monsieur de Blay. 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! And Besmeau, shrugging his shoulders with an air of supreme disdain, flung the order on the table and began eating again. They are fond of these tricks, he said with his mouth full. They seize a man some fine day, keep him under locking key for ten years, and write to you, watch this fellow well, or keep him very strictly. And then, as soon as you are accustomed to look upon the prisoner as a dangerous man, all of a sudden, without rhyme or reason, they write, set him at liberty, and actually add to their missive, urgent! You will own, my lord, is enough to make a man at dinner shrug his shoulders. What do you expect? It is for them to write, said Hermes. 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 Monsieur Besmeau! 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! Do your obedience to your superiors. Once a soldier, you say, Besmeau, always a soldier. And I shall directly obey, and tomorrow morning at daybreak the prisoner referred to shall be set free. Tomorrow at dawn. Why not this evening, seeing that the letter de cachet bears both on the direction and inside, urgent? Because this evening we are at supper, and our affairs are urgent too. Dear Besmeau, 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. A bridge is suffering. His good time has come. Give him the benefit quickly. I 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 benedictes. It shall be as you desire. Only our supper will get cold. Oh! Never heed that! Besmeau leaned back to ring for Francois, and by a very natural motion turned round towards the door. The order had remained on the table. Hermes seized the opportunity when Besmeau was not looking to change the paper for another, folded in the same manner which he drew swiftly from his pocket. Francois, said the Governor, let the Major come up here with the turn-keys of the Bretolliere. He bowed bowed and quitted the room, leaving the two companions alone. CHAPTER 8 THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK by Alexandre Juma, CHAPTER VIII. THE GENERAL OF THE ORDER. There was now a brief silence, during which Hermes never removed his eyes from Besmeau for a moment. The latter seemed only half decided to disturb himself, thus in the middle of supper, and it was clear he was trying to invent some pretext, whether good or bad, for delay, at any rate till after dessert, and it appeared also that he had hit upon an excuse at last. Eh! But it is impossible! he cried. How impossible! said Hermes, give me a glimpse of this impossibility. It is 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 Monsieur Selden, number three, butardierre. Selden, exclaimed Hermes very naturally, you said Selden, I think. I said Selden, of course, it is the name of the man they set free. Oh! You mean to say Marquis Alley? said Hermes. Marquis Alley? Oh, yes, indeed, no, no, Selden. I think you are making a mistake, Monsieur Besmo. I have read the order, and I also. And I saw Selden in letters as large as that, and Besmo held up his finger. And I read Marquis Alley in characters as large as this, said Hermes, also holding up two fingers. To the proof let us throw a light on the matter, said Besmo, confident he was right. There is the paper, you have only to read it. I read Marquis Alley. Returned Hermes, spreading out the paper. Look! Besmo looked, and his arms dropped suddenly. Yes, yes, he said, quite overwhelmed. Yes, Marquis Alley. It is plainly written, Marquis Alley. 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 Marquis Alley, repeated the inflexible Hermes. I must own it, Monsignor, but I understand nothing about it. You believe your eyes at any rate? To tell me very plainly, there is Marquis Alley. And in good handwriting, too. Tis a wonder. I still see this order and the name of Selden, 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. As I rubbed my finger, this very one, in the powder that was over the blot. In a word, be it how it may, dear Monsieur Besmo, said Hermes, and whatever you may have seen the order is signed to release Marquis Alley, blot or no blot. The order is signed to release Marquis Alley, replied Besmo mechanically, endeavouring to regain his courage. And you are going to release this prisoner. If your heart dictates you to deliver Selden also, I declare to you I will not oppose it at the least in the world. Hermes accompanied this remark with a smile, the irony of which effectually dispelled Besmo's confusion of mind and restored his courage. Monseigneur, he said, this Marquis Alley 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, replied the bishop. It is no such long time ago, dear Monsieur de Blay. It is true, but with us, Monsieur, it is good that the man of today should no longer know what the man of yesterday did. In any case, said Besmo, the visit of the Jesuit confessor must have given happiness to this man. Hermes made no reply, but recommended eating and drinking. As for Besmo, no longer touching anything that was on the table, he again took up the order and examined it every way. This investigation, under ordinary circumstances, would have made the ears of the impatient Hermes burn with anger, but the bishop of Van did not become incensed for so little, above all, when he had murmured to himself that to do so was dangerous. Are you going to release Marquis Alley? he said. What mellow, fragrant, and delicious sherry this is, my dear governor. Monseigneur, replied Besmo, I shall release the prisoner Marquis Alley 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 Monsieur de Lyon will either confirm or withdraw the order. What is the good of all that? asked Hermes coldly. 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. Besmo looked at the bishop with astonishment. It follows, pursued Hermes, 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 Besmo? Yes, Monseigneur. 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 Leon? 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 Leon's. Your logic has the stride of a giant, M. de Besmo, said Hermes, 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 countersignatures. Nothing checks his majesty's signature, and M. de Leon is not there to tell me he has signed. Well, M. de Besmo, said Hermes, bending an eagle glance on the governor, 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. Besmo gave him a pen. And a sheet of white paper, added Hermes. Besmo had in him some 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. Besmo turned pale at this icy assurance of manner. It seemed to him that the voice of the bishops, but just now so playful and gay, had become funeral and sad, that the wax lights changed into the tapers of a mortuary chapel, the very glasses of wine and the chalices of blood. Hermes took a pen and wrote, Besmo in terror, read over his shoulder, A. M. D. G., wrote the bishop, and he drew a cross under these four letters, which signify Ad Majorum Dei Gloriam to the greater glory of God. And thus he continued, It is our pleasure that the order brought to Messur de Besmo de Montleson, Governor for the King of the Castle of the Bastille, be held by him good and effectual, and be immediately carried into operation. Signed Derbley, General of the Order by the Grace of God. Besmo was so profoundly astonished that his features remained contracted, his lips parted and his eyes fixed. He did not move an inch, nor articulate a sound. Nothing could be heard in that large chamber but the wing whisper of a little moth, which was fluttering to its death about the candles. Hermes, without even daining to look at the man whom he had reduced to so miserable a condition, drew from his pocket a small case of black wax. He sealed the letter and stamped it with a seal suspended at his breast, beneath his doublet, and when the operation was concluded, presented, still in silence, the missive to Messur de Besmo. The latter, whose hands trembled in a manner to excite pity, turned a dull and meaningless gaze upon the letter. A last gleam of feeling played over his features, and he fell as if thunderstruck on a chair. Come, come! said Hermes after a long silence, during which the governor of the Bastia had slowly recovered his senses. Do not lead me to believe, dear Besmo, that the presence of the general of the Order is as terrible as his, and that men die merrily from having seen him. Take courage! Rouse yourself! Give me your hand! Obey! Besmo reassured, if not satisfied, obeyed, kissed Hermes' hand, and rose. He murmured, Oh, there is pressing haste, my host. Take your place again, and do the honors over this beautiful dessert. Monsignor, I shall never recover such a shock as this. I who have laughed, who have gested with you. I who have dared to treat you on a footing of equality. Say nothing about it, old comrade. Replied the bishop, who perceived how strained the court was, and how dangerous it would have been to break it. 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. Besmo reflected. He perceived, at a glance, the consequence of this withdrawal of prisoner by means of a forged order, and, putting in the scale the guarantee offered him by the official order of the general, did not consider it of any value. Hermes' divineness. My dear Besmo, said he, you are a simpleton. Lose this habit of reflection when I give myself the trouble to think for you. And at another gesture he made, Besmo bowed again. How shall I set about it? He said, 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 Machiali is not an important personage, said Hermes carelessly. I don't know, answered the governor, as if he would have said, It is for you to instruct me. Then if you don't know it, I am right, so act towards Machiali 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, it is 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 Machiali? Nothing, for the unhappy man arrived here without jewels, without papers, and almost without clothes. See how simple then it all is! Indeed Besmo, you make a mountain of everything. Remain here, and make them bring the prisoner to the governor's house. Besmo obeyed. He summoned his lieutenant, and gave him an order, which the latter passed on, without disturbing himself about it, to the next whom it concerned. Half an hour afterwards they heard a gate shut in the court. It was the door to the dungeon, which had just rendered up its prey to the free air. Aramis blew out all the candles which lighted the room, but one, which he left burning behind the door. This flickering glare prevented the sight from resting steadily on any object. It multiplied tenfold the changing forms and shadows of the place by its wavering uncertainty. Steps drew near. Go and meet your men, said Aramis to Besmo. The governor obeyed. The sergeant and turn keys disappeared. Besmo re-entered, followed by a prisoner. Aramis had placed himself in the shade he saw without being seen. Besmo, in an agitated tone of voice, made the young man acquainted with the order which set him at liberty. The prisoner listened, without making a single gesture or saying a word. "'You will swear, it is the regulation that requires it,' said the governor. "'Never to reveal anything that you have seen or heard in the Bastille.' The prisoner perceived a crucifix. He stretched out his hands and swore with his lips. "'And now, monsieur, you are free. Withered you intend going?' The prisoner turned his head as if looking behind him for some protection on which he ought to rely. Then was it that Aramis came out of the shade. "'I am here,' he said, to render the gentleman whatever service he may please to ask.' The prisoner, slightly reddened and, without hesitation, passed his arm through that of Aramis. "'God have you in his holy keeping!' He said, in a voice the firmness of which made the governor tremble as much as the form of the blessing astonished him. Aramis, on shaking hands with Besmo, said to him, "'Does my order trouble you? Do you fear they're finding it here, should they come to search?' "'I desire to keep it, Monsignor,' said Besmo. "'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?' answered Aramis, shrugging his shoulders. "'I do, Besmo,' said he. The horses were in waiting, making each rusty spring reverberate the carriage again with their impatience. Besmo accompanied the bishop to the bottom of the steps. Aramis caused his companion to mount before him, then followed, and without giving the driver any further order. "'Go on,' said he. The carriage rattled over the pavement of the courtyard. An officer with a torch went before the horses and gave orders at every post to let them pass. During the time taken in opening all the barriers, Aramis barely breathed, and you might have heard his sealed heart knock against his ribs. The prisoner, buried in a corner of the carriage, made no more sign of life than his companion. At length, a jolt more severe than the others, announced to them that they had cleared the last water-course. Behind the carriage closed the last gate, that in the rue Saint Antoine. No more walls, either on the right or the left. Heaven everywhere, liberty everywhere, and life everywhere. The horses, kept in check by a vigorous hand, went quietly as far as the middle of the Foubourg. There they began to trot. Little by little, whether they were warming to their work or whether they were urged, they gained in swiftness and once past Bercy the carriage seemed to fly so great was the ardor of the coarsers. The horses galloped thus as far as Verneux, Saint-Georges, where relays were waiting. Then four instead of two whirled the carriage away in the direction of Mélan and pulled up for a moment in the middle of the forest of Sainte-Hare. No doubt the order had been given the postillien beforehand, for Aramis had no occasion even to make a sign. What is the matter?" asked the prisoner as if waking from a long dream. The matter is, Monsignor, said Aramis, that before going further it is necessary your royal highness and I should converse. I will await an opportunity, monsieur, answered the young prince. We could not have a better Monsignor. We are in the middle of a forest, and no one can hear us. The postillien? The postillien of this relay is deaf and dumb, Monsignor. I am at your service, monsieur de Blay. Is it your pleasure to remain in the carriage? Yes, we are comfortably seated, and I like this carriage, for it is restored me to liberty. Wait, Monsignor, 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 postillien orders to conceal the carriage in one of the side avenues. It is exactly what I wish to do, Monsignor. Aramis made a sign to the deaf and dumb driver of the carriage whom he touched on the arm. The ladder, dismounted, took the leaders by the bridle, and led them over the velvet sward in the mossy grass of a winding alley, at the bottom of which, on this moonless night, the deep shades formed a curtain, blacker than ink. This done, the man laid down on a slope near his horses, who on either side kept nibbling the young oak shoots. I am listening.