 CHAPTER 32 OF THE MEN IN THE IRON MASK by Alexandre Dumas, translated by William Robson. This leave of course recordings in the public domain. WHO MR. GEN. PESSERHAN WAS? The king's tailor, Mr. Gen. Pesserhan, occupied a rather large house in the Rue Saint-Henor near the Rue de l'Abrissec. He was a man of great taste and elegant stuffs, and broideries and velvets, being hereditary tailor to the king. And 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 Pesserhan of that period was a Huguenot, like Ambrose Perret and had been spared by the Queen of Navarre, the beautiful Margot, as they used to write and say too in those days, because ensouce, 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 to very studiously conceal. Pesserhan being saved, made out of gratitude, some beautiful black bodices, very expensively indeed, for Queen Catherine, who ended by being pleased at the preservation of a Huguenot people on whom she had long looked with detestation. Pesserhan was a very prudent man, and having heard it said that there was no more dangerous sign for a Protestant than to be smiled upon by Catherine, and having observed that her smiles are 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 Cordilleras. Now, Pesserhan 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. In 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 Marie de Medici, the exquisite court mourning for the aforementioned queen, together with the 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 Pesserans. Monsieur Concino Concini and his wife Galagai, who subsequently shown at the French court, sought to Italianize the fashion and introduced some Florentine tailors, but Pesseran 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 Pesseran'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 showed Pesseran, 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, Pesseran 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 Richelieu danced a Saravant, made the costume for the tragedy of Miram, and stitched onto Buckingham's mantle those famous pearls which were destined to be scattered about the pavements of the Louvre. A man becomes easily notable who has made the dresses of a duke of Buckingham, a monsieur de Sainte-Mar, a mademoiselle niant, and a monsieur de Beaufort, and a marion de l'homme. And thus Pesseran III had attained the summit of his glory when his father died, the same Pesseran 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 would 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 of Louis XIV, a pack of hounds. He worked for messieurs 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 monsieur 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 Pesseran, for contrary to the rule of dynasties, it was above all the last of the Pesserans who deserved the name of great. The great Pesseran was inspired when he cut a robe for the queen or a coat for the king. He could mount a mantle for monsieur, the clock of a stocking for madame, but, in spite of his supreme talent, he could never hit off anything approaching a credible fit for monsieur Colbert. That man, he used often to say, is beyond my art. My needle can never dot him down. We need scarcely say that Pesseran was Monsieur Fouquet's tailor, and that the superintendent highly esteemed him. Monsieur Pesseran 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 Monsieur Le Prance, that king of fobs, 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 Pesseran 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 Pesseran declined to fit bourgeois, or those who had but recently obtained patents of nobility. A story used to circulate that even Monsieur de Mazarin, in exchange for Pesseran 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 grand 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 Pesseran. 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, tis because... What? Have you anything against Pesseran, porthos? I think that I once sent Mouston to a fellow of that name. And then? The fellow refused to supply me. Oh, uh, 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 Hala, and you told me the house was at the corner of the rude Elabra sack. Tis true, but look. Well, I do look, and I see. What? But dear, that we are at the Hala. 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 Bourgen shifted their quarters? No. Their turn to obtain an entrance to Mishir Pesaran'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 alighted and made their way on foot toward the establishment. The cause of the confusion was that Mishir Pesaran's doors were closed, while a servant standing before them was explaining to the illustrious customers of the illustrious tailor that just then Mishir Pesaran could not receive anybody. It was brooded about outside. Still, on the authority of what the great lackey had told some great noble whom he favored, in confidence, that Mishir Pesaran 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 contented with this reason went away again, contented 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 a ballet, which would inevitably fail, unless the said three had their costumes shaped by the very hand of the great Pesaran himself. D'Artagnan, 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 D'Artagnan, showing himself, pronounced merely these words, the king's order, and was let 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 shore 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 illuminous eyes. He was looking at D'Artagnan and 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 D'Artagnan'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. D'Artagnan was not deceived, not he, and he saw at once that if this man was working at anything, it certainly was not at velvet. Hey! said he addressing this man. And so you have become a tailor's boy, Monsieur Molière. Hush! Monsieur D'Artagnan! replied the man softly. He 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 Molière. 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 Père Saint-Anne 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 Molière, but you will go and tell him I am here. I? exclaimed Molière, in the tone of a courageous dog from which you snatched the bone it has legitimately gained. I disturbed myself! Mr. D'Artagnan, how hard you are upon me! If you don't go directly and tell Monsieur Père Saint-Anne that I am here, my dear Molière, 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. Molière indicated porthos by an imperceptible gesture. This gentleman? Is it not? Yes. Molière 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 32. Recording by John Van Stan. Savannah, Georgia. Chapter 85 of the Men in the Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas, translated by William Robson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The old age of Athos. While these affairs were separating forever the four musketeers, formerly bound together in a manner that seemed indissoluble, Athos, left alone after the departure of Raoul, began to pay his tribute to that foretaste of death which is called the absence of those we love. Back in his house at Blois, no longer having even grimoire to receive a poor smile as he passed through the parterre, Athos daily felt the decline of vigor of a nature which for so long a time had seemed impregnable. Age, which had been kept back by the presence of the beloved object, arrived with that cortege of pains and inconveniences which grows by geometrical accretion. Athos had no longer his son to induce him to walk firmly with head erect as a good example. He had no longer in those brilliant eyes of the young man an ever ardent focus, at which to kindle anew the fire of his looks, and then must it be said that nature, exquisite in tenderness and reserve, no longer finding anything to understand its feelings, gave itself up to grief with all the warmth of common natures when they yield to joy. The compdel affair who had remained a young man to his sixty-second year, the warrior who had preserved his strength in spite of fatigue, his freshness of mind in spite of misfortune, his mild serenity of soul and body in spite of Milady, in spite of Mazurine, in spite of Lavallier. Athos had become an old man in a week, from the moment at which he lost the comfort of his later youth. Still handsome, though bent, noble, but sad, he sought since his solitude the deeper glades where sunshine scarcely penetrated. He discontinued all the mighty exercises he had enjoyed through life when Rahu was no longer with him. The servants accustomed to see him stirring with the dawn at all seasons were astonished to hear seven o'clock strike before their master quitted his bed. Athos remained in bed with a book under his pillow, but he did not sleep, neither did he read. Remaining in bed that he might no longer have to carry his body, he allowed his soul and spirit to wander from their envelope and return to his son or to God. His people were sometimes terrified to see him for hours together absorbed in silent reverie, mute and insensible. He no longer heard the timid step of the servant who came to the door of his chamber to watch the sleeping or waking of his master. It often occurred that he forgot the day had half passed away that the hours for the two first meals were gone by. Then he was awakened. He rose, descended to his shady walk, then came out a little into the sun as though to partake of its warmth for a minute in memory of his absent child. And then the dismal monotonous walk recommenced until exhausted. He regained the chamber and his bed, his domicile by choice. For several days the comp did not speak a single word. He refused to receive the visits that were paid him, and during the night he was seen to relight his lamp and pass long hours in writing or examining parchments. Athos wrote one of these letters to Van, another to Fontainebleu. They remained without answers. But we know why. Arama said quitted France and D'Artagnan was travelling from Nat to Paris, from Paris to Pierre Fond. His valet de chambre observed that he shortened his walk every day by several turns. The great alley of limes soon became too long for feet that used to traverse it formally a hundred times a day. The comp walked feebly as far as the middle trees, seated himself upon a mossy bank that sloped towards a sidewalk, and there waited the return of his strength or rather the return of night. Very shortly a hundred steps exhausted him. At length Athos refused to rise at all. He declined all nourishment and his terrified people, although he did not complain, although he wore a smile upon his lips, although he continued to speak with his sweet voice. His people went to Blois in search of the ancient physician of the late Monsieur, and brought him to the Comp de la Faire in such a fashion that he could see the comp without being himself seen. For this purpose, they placed him in a closet adjoining the chamber of the patient, and implored him not to show himself for fear of displeasing their master, who had not asked for a physician. The doctor obeyed. Athos was a sort of model for the gentleman of the country. The blazois boasted of possessing this sacred relic of French glory. Athos was a great senior compared with such nobles as the king improvised by touching with his artificial scepter the patched up trunks of the heraldic trees of the province. People respected Athos, we say, and they loved him. The physician could not bear to see his people weep, to see flock round him the poor of the canton, to whom Athos had so often given life and consolation by his kind words and his charities. He examined, therefore, from the depths of his hiding place, the nature of that mysterious malady which bent and aged more mortally every day, a man but lately so full of life and a desire to live. He remarked upon the cheeks of Athos the hectic hue of fever, which feeds upon itself, slow, fever, pitiless, born in a fold of the heart, sheltering itself behind that rampart growing from the suffering it engenders, at once cause and effect of a perilous situation. The comp spoke to nobody. He did not even talk to himself. His thought feared noise. It approached to that degree of over-excitement which borders upon ecstasy. Man thus absorbed, though he does not yet belong to God, already appertains no longer to the earth. The doctor remained for several hours studying this painful struggle of the will against superior power. He was terrified at seeing those eyes always fixed, ever directed on some invisible object, was terrified at the monotonous beating of that heart from which never a sigh arose to vary the melancholy state, for often pain becomes the hope of the physician. Half a day passed away thus. The doctor formed his resolution like a brave man. He issued suddenly from his place of retreat and went straight up to Athos, who beheld him without evincing more surprise than if he had understood nothing of the apparition. Mr. Lecompt, I crave your pardon, said the doctor, coming up to the patient with open arms. But I have a reproach to make you. You shall hear me. And he seated himself by the pillow of Athos, who had great trouble enrouting himself from his preoccupation. What is the matter, doctor? asked the comppt after a silence. The matter is, you are ill, monsieur, and have had no advice. I, ill, said Athos, smiling. Fever, consumption, weakness decay, monsieur Lecompt. Weakness, replied Athos. Is it possible? I do not get up. Come, come, monsieur Lecompt, no subterfuges. You are a good Christian. I hope so, said Athos. Is it your wish to kill yourself? Never, doctor. Well, monsieur, you are in a fair way of doing so. Thus to remain a suicide. Get well. Monsieur Lecompt, get well. Of what? Find the disease first. For my part, I never knew myself better. Never did the sky appear more blue to me. Never did I take more care of my flowers. You have a hidden grief. Concealed? Not at all. The absence of my son, doctor. That is my malady, and I do not conceal it. Monsieur Lecompt, your son lives. He is strong. He has all the future before him, the future of men of merit, of his race. Live for him. But I do live, doctor. Oh, be satisfied of that. Added he with a melancholy smile. For as long as Rahu lives, it will be plainly known for as long as he lives, I shall live. What do you say? A very simple thing. At this moment, doctor, I leave life suspended within me. A forgetful, dissipated, indifferent life would be beyond my strength. Now I have no longer Rahu with me. You do not ask the lamp to burn when the match has not illumined the flame. Do not ask me to live amidst noise and merriment. I vegetate. I prepare myself. I wait. Look, doctor, remember those soldiers we have so often seen together at the ports, where they were waiting to embark, lying down, indifferent, half on one element, half on the other. They were neither at the place where the sea was going to carry them, nor at the place the earth was going to lose them. The baggage prepared, mines on the stretch, arms stacked. They waited. I repeat, the word is the one which paints my present life, lying down like the soldiers my ear on the stretch for the report, that may reach me. I wish to be ready to set out at the first summons. Who will make me that summons? Life or death? God or Raul? My baggage is packed. My soul is prepared. I await the signal. I wait, doctor. I wait. The doctor knew the temper of that mind. He appreciated the strength of that body. He reflected for the moment, told himself that words were useless, remedies absurd, and left the chateau, exhorting Athos's servants not to quit him for a moment. The doctor being gone, Athos evinced neither anger nor vexation at having been disturbed. He did not even desire that all letters that came should be brought to him directly. He knew very well that every distraction which should arise would be a joy, a hope, which his servants would have paid with their blood to procure him. Sleep had become rare. By intense thinking, Athos forgot himself for a few hours at most, in a reverie most profound, more obscure than any other people would have called a dream. The momentary repose which this forgetfulness thus gave the body still further fatigued the soul. For Athos lived a double life during these wanderings of his understanding. One night he dreamt that Raoul was dressing himself in a tent to go upon an expedition commanded by Monsieur de Beaufort in person. The young man was sad. He clasped his cure ass slowly and slowly he girded on his sword. What is the matter? asked his father tenderly. What afflicts me is the death of Porthos, ever so dear a friend? replied Raoul. I suffer here the grief. You soon will feel at home. And the vision disappeared with the slumber of Athos. At daybreak one of his servants entered his master's apartment and gave him a letter which came from Spain. The writing of Aramis thought the compt and he read. Porthos is dead, cried he after the first lines. Thanks, thou keepest thy promise, thou warnest me. And Athos seized with a mortal sweat, fainted in his bed without any other cause than weakness. End of chapter eighty-five. Recording by John Van Stan. Savannah, Georgia