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

“To-morrow,” replied D’Artagnan.

M. de Saint-Mars went to make his rounds, and left D’Artagnan alone with the pretended Spaniards.

“Oh!” exclaimed the musketeer, “here is a life and a society that suits me very little. I command this man, and he bores me, mordioux! Come, let us have a shot or two at the rabbits; the walk will be beautiful, and not fatiguing. The whole island is but a league and a half in length, with the breadth of a league; a real park. Let us try to amuse ourselves.”

“As you please, D’Artagnan; not for the sake of amusing ourselves, but to gain an opportunity for talking freely.”

D’Artagnan made a sign to a soldier, who brought the gentlemen some guns, and then returned to the fort.

“And now,” said the musketeer, “answer me the question put to you by that black-looking Saint-Mars: what did you come to do at the Lerin Isles?”

“To bid you farewell.”

“Bid me farewell! What do you mean by that? Is Raoul going anywhere?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will lay a wager it is with M. de Beaufort.”

“With M. de Beaufort it is, my dear friend. You always guess correctly.”

“From habit.”

Whilst the two friends were commencing their conversation, Raoul, with his head hanging down and his heart oppressed, seated himself on a mossy rock, his gun across his knees, looking at the sea—looking at the heavens, and listening to the voice of his soul; he allowed the sportsmen to attain a considerable distance from him. D’Artagnan remarked his absence.

“He has not recovered the blow?” said he to Athos.

“He is struck to death.”

“Oh! your fears exaggerate, I hope. Raoul is of a tempered nature. Around all hearts as noble as his, there is a second envelope that forms a cuirass. The first bleeds, the second resists.”

“No,” replied Athos, “Raoul will die of it.”

“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, in a melancholy tone. And he did not add a word to this exclamation. Then, a minute after, “Why do you let him go?”

“Because he insists on going.”

“And why do you not go with him?”

“Because I could not bear to see him die.”

D’Artagnan looked his friend earnestly in the face. “You know one thing,” continued the comte, leaning upon the arm of the captain; “you know that in the course of my life I have been afraid of but few things. Well! I have an incessant gnawing, insurmountable fear that an hour will come in which I shall hold the dead body of that boy in my arms.”

“Oh!” murmured D’Artagnan; “oh!”

“He will die, I know, I have a perfect conviction of that; but I would not see him die.”

“How is this, Athos? you come and place yourself in the presence of the bravest man, you say you have ever seen, of your own D’Artagnan, of that man without an equal, as you formerly called him, and you come and tell him, with your arms folded, that you are afraid of witnessing the death of your son, you who have seen all that can be seen in this world! Why have you this fear, Athos? Man upon this earth must expect everything, and ought to face everything.”

“Listen to me, my friend. After having worn myself out upon this earth of which you speak, I have preserved but two religions: that of life, friendship, my duty as a father—that of eternity, love, and respect for God. Now, I have within me the revelation that if God should decree that my friend or my son should render up his last sigh in my presence—oh! no, I cannot even tell you, D’Artagnan!”

“Speak, speak, tell me!”

“I am strong against everything, except against the death of those I love. For that only there is no remedy. He who dies, gains; he who sees others die, loses. No, this is it—to know that I should no more meet on earth him whom I now behold with joy; to know that there would nowhere be a D’Artagnan any more, nowhere again be a Raoul, oh! I am old, look you, I have no longer courage; I pray God to spare me in my weakness; but if he struck me so plainly and in that fashion, I should curse him. A Christian gentleman ought not to curse his God, D’Artagnan; it is enough to once have cursed a king!”

“Humph!” sighed D’Artagnan, a little confused by this violent tempest of grief.

“Let me speak to him, Athos. Who knows?”

“Try, if you please, but I am convinced you will not succeed.”

“I will not attempt to console him. I will serve him.”

“You will?”

“Doubtless, I will. Do you think this would be the first time a woman had repented of an infidelity? I will go to him, I tell you.”

Athos shook his head, and continued his walk alone, D’Artagnan, cutting across the brambles, rejoined Raoul and held out his hand to him. “Well, Raoul! You have something to say to me?”

“I have a kindness to ask of you,” replied Bragelonne.

“Ask it, then.”

“You will some day return to France?”

“I hope so.”

“Ought I to write to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?”

“No, you must not.”

“But I have many things to say to her.”

“Go and say them to her, then.”

“Never!”

“Pray, what virtue do you attribute to a letter, which your speech might not possess?”

“Perhaps you are right.”

“She loves the king,” said D’Artagnan, bluntly; “and she is an honest girl.” Raoul started. “And you, you whom she abandons, she, perhaps, loves better than she does the king, but after another fashion.”

“D’Artagnan, do you believe she loves the king?”

“To idolatry. Her heart is inaccessible to any other feeling. You might continue to live near her, and would be her best friend.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Raoul, with a passionate burst of repugnance at such a hideous hope.

“Will you do so?”

“It would be base.”

“That is a very absurd word, which would lead me to think slightly of your understanding. Please to