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

D’Artagnan made no reply. The title of comte had hardly struck him; D’Artagnan had been a comte four years.

“Are you not very much fatigued with the long journey you have taken, monsieur le capitaine?” continued the falconer. “It must be full two hundred leagues from hence to Pignerol.”

“Two hundred and sixty to go, and as many to return,” said D’Artagnan, quietly.

“And,” said the falconer, “is he well?”

“Who?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Why, poor M. Fouquet,” continued the falconer, in a low voice. The keeper of the harriers had prudently withdrawn.

“No,” replied D’Artagnan, “the poor man frets terribly; he cannot comprehend how imprisonment can be a favor; he says that parliament absolved him by banishing him, and banishment is, or should be, liberty. He cannot imagine that they had sworn his death, and that to save his life from the claws of parliament was to be under too much obligation to Heaven.”

“Ah! yes; the poor man had a close chance of the scaffold,” replied the falconer; “it is said that M. Colbert had given orders to the governor of the Bastile, and that the execution was ordered.”

“Enough!” said D’Artagnan, pensively, and with a view of cutting short the conversation.

“Yes,” said the keeper of the harriers, drawing towards them, “M. Fouquet is now at Pignerol; he has richly deserved it. He had the good fortune to be conducted there by you; he robbed the king sufficiently.”

D’Artagnan launched at the master of the dogs one of his crossest looks, and said to him, “Monsieur, if any one told me you had eaten your dogs’ meat, not only would I refuse to believe it; but still more, if you were condemned to the lash or to jail for it, I should pity you and would not allow people to speak ill of you. And yet, monsieur, honest man as you may be, I assure you that you are not more so than poor M. Fouquet was.”

After having undergone this sharp rebuke, the keeper of the harriers hung his head, and allowed the falconer to get two steps in advance of him nearer to D’Artagnan.

“He is content,” said the falconer, in a low voice, to the musketeer; “we all know that harriers are in fashion nowadays; if he were a falconer he would not talk in that way.”

D’Artagnan smiled in a melancholy manner at seeing this great political question resolved by the discontent of such humble interest. He for a moment ran over in his mind the glorious existence of the surintendant, the crumbling of his fortunes, and the melancholy death that awaited him; and to conclude, “Did M. Fouquet love falconry?” said he.

“Oh, passionately, monsieur!” repeated the falconer, with an accent of bitter regret and a sigh that was the funeral oration of Fouquet.

D’Artagnan allowed the ill-humor of the one and the regret of the other to pass, and continued to advance. They could already catch glimpses of the huntsmen at the issue of the wood, the feathers of the outriders passing like shooting stars across the clearings, and the white horses skirting the bosky thickets looking like illuminated apparitions.

“But,” resumed D’Artagnan, “will the sport last long? Pray, give us a good swift bird, for I am very tired. Is it a heron or a swan?”

“Both, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the falconer; “but you need not be alarmed; the king is not much of a sportsman; he does not take the field on his own account, he only wishes to amuse the ladies.”

The words “to amuse the ladies” were so strongly accented they set D’Artagnan thinking.

“Ah!” said he, looking keenly at the falconer.

The keeper of the harriers smiled, no doubt with a view of making it up with the musketeer.

“Oh! you may safely laugh,” said D’Artagnan; “I know nothing of current news; I only arrived yesterday, after a month’s absence. I left the court mourning the death of the queen-mother. The king was not willing to take any amusement after receiving the last sigh of Anne of Austria; but everything comes to an end in this world. Well! then he is no longer sad? So much the better.” 8

“And everything begins as well as ends,” said the keeper with a coarse laugh.

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan, a second time,—he burned to know, but dignity would not allow him to interrogate people below him,—“there is something beginning, then, it seems?”

The keeper gave him a significant wink; but D’Artagnan was unwilling to learn anything from this man.

“Shall we see the king early?” asked he of the falconer.

“At seven o’clock, monsieur, I shall fly the birds.”

“Who comes with the king? How is Madame? How is the queen?”

“Better, monsieur.”

“Has she been ill, then?”

“Monsieur, since the last chagrin she suffered, her majesty has been unwell.”

“What chagrin? You need not fancy your news is old. I have but just returned.”

“It appears that the queen, a little neglected since the death of her mother-in-law, complained to the king, who answered her,—‘Do I not sleep at home every night, madame? What more do you expect?’”

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan,—“poor woman! She must heartily hate Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”

“Oh, no! not Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” replied the falconer.

“Who then—” The blast of a hunting-horn interrupted this conversation. It summoned the dogs and the hawks. The falconer and his companions set off immediately, leaving D’Artagnan alone in the midst of the suspended sentence. The king appeared at a distance, surrounded by ladies and horsemen. All the troop advanced in beautiful order, at a foot’s pace, the horns of various sorts animating the dogs and horses. There was an animation in the scene, a mirage of light, of which nothing now can give an idea, unless it be the fictitious splendor of a theatric spectacle. D’Artagnan, with an eye a little, just a little, dimmed by age, distinguished behind the group three carriages. The first was intended for the queen; it was empty. D’Artagnan, who did not see Mademoiselle de la Valliere by the king’s side, on looking about for her, saw her in the second carriage. She was alone with two of her women, who seemed as dull as their mistress. On the left hand of the king, upon a high-spirited horse, restrained by a bold and skillful hand, shone a lady of most dazzling beauty. The king smiled upon her, and she smiled upon the king. Loud laughter followed every word she uttered.

“I must know that woman,” thought the musketeer; “who can she be?” And he stooped towards his friend, the falconer, to whom he addressed the question he had put to himself.

The falconer was about to reply, when the king, perceiving D’Artagnan, “Ah, comte!” said