The Man in the Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas (the beginning after the end novel read txt) 📕

“What I have to say to you, friend Porthos, will probably surprise you, but it may prove instructive.”

“I like to be surprised,” said Porthos, in a kindly tone; “do not spare me, therefore, I beg. I am hardened against emotions; don’t fear, speak out.”

“It is difficult, Porthos—difficult; for, in truth, I warn you a second time, I have very strange things, very extraordinary things, to tell you.”

“Oh! you speak so well, my friend, that I could listen to you for days together. Speak, then, I beg—and—stop, I have an idea: I will, to make your task more easy, I will, to assist you in telling me such things, question you.”

“I shall be pleased at your doing so.”

“What are we going to fight for, Aramis?”

“If you ask me many such questions as that—if you would render my task the easier by interrupting my revelations thus, Porthos, you will not help me at all. So far, on the contrary, that is the very Gordian knot. But, my friend, with a man like you, good, generous, and devoted, the confession must be bravely made. I have deceived you, my worthy friend.”

“You have deceived me!”

“Good Heavens! yes.”

“Was it for my good, Aramis?”

“I thought so, Porthos; I thought so sincerely, my friend.”

“Then,” said the honest seigneur of Bracieux, “you have rendered me a service, and I thank you for it; for if you had not deceived me, I might have deceived myself. In what, then, have you deceived me, tell me?”

“In that I was serving the usurper against whom Louis XIV., at this moment, is directing his efforts.”

“The usurper!” said Porthos, scratching his head. “That is—well, I do not quite clearly comprehend!”

“He is one of the two kings who are contending for the crown of France.”

“Very well! Then you were serving him who is not Louis XIV.?”

“You have hit the matter in one word.”

“It follows that—”

“It follows that we are rebels, my poor friend.”

“The devil! the devil!” cried Porthos, much disappointed.

“Oh! but, dear Porthos, be calm, we shall still find means of getting out of the affair, trust me.”

“It is not that which makes me uneasy,” replied Porthos; “that which alone touches me is that ugly word rebels.”

“Ah! but—”

“And so, according to this, the duchy that was promised me—”

“It was the usurper that was to give it to you.”

“And that is not the same thing, Aramis,” said Porthos, majestically.

“My friend, if it had only depended upon me, you should have become a prince.”

Porthos began to bite his nails in a melancholy way.

“That is where you have been wrong,” continued he, “in deceiving me; for that promised duchy I reckoned upon. Oh! I reckoned upon it seriously, knowing you to be a man of your word, Aramis.”

“Poor Porthos! pardon me, I implore you!”

“So, then,” continued Porthos, without replying to the bishop’s prayer, “so then, it seems, I have quite fallen out with Louis XIV.?”

“Oh! I will settle all that, my good friend, I will settle all that. I will take it on myself alone!”

“Aramis!”

“No, no, Porthos, I conjure you, let me act. No false generosity! No inopportune devotedness! You knew nothing of my projects. You have done nothing of yourself. With me it is different. I alone am the author of this plot. I stood in need of my inseparable companion; I called upon you, and you came to me in remembrance of our ancient device, ‘All for one, one for all.’ My crime is that I was an egotist.”

“Now, that is a word I like,” said Porthos; “and seeing that you have acted entirely for yourself, it is impossible for me to blame you. It is natural.”

And upon this sublime reflection, Porthos pressed his friend’s hand cordially.

In presence of this ingenuous greatness of soul, Aramis felt his own littleness. It was the second time he had been compelled to bend before real superiority of heart, which is more imposing than brilliancy of mind. He replied by a mute and energetic pressure to the endearment of his friend.

“Now,” said Porthos, “that we have come to