The Man in the Iron Mask. Dumas Alexandre

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      “Well, I do look, and I see – ”

      “What?”

      “Pardieu! that we are at the Halles!”

      “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 Bourgogne shifted their quarters?”

      “No; their turn to obtain an entrance to M. Percerin’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 towards the establishment. The cause of the confusion was that M. Percerin’s doors were closed, while a servant, standing before them, was explaining to the illustrious customers of the illustrious tailor that just then M. Percerin could not receive anybody. It was bruited about outside still, on the authority of what the great lackey had told some great noble whom he favored, in confidence, that M. Percerin 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 Percerin himself. D’Artagnan, pushing on Porthos, who scattered the groups of people right and left, succeeded in gaining the counter, behind which the journeyman 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 too cutting a 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 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.

      “Eh!” said he, addressing this man, “and so you have become a tailor’s boy, Monsieur Moliere!”

      “Hush, M. d’Artagnan!” replied the man, softly, “you 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 Moliere. 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 M. Percerin 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 Moliere, but you will go and tell him I am here.”

      “I!” exclaimed Moliere, in the tone of a courageous dog, from which you snatch the bone it has legitimately gained; “I disturb myself! Ah! Monsieur d’Artagnan, how hard you are upon me!”

      “If you don’t go directly and tell M. Percerin that I am here, my dear Moliere,” 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.”

      Moliere indicated Porthos by an imperceptible gesture, “This gentleman, is it not?”

      “Yes.”

      Moliere 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.

      Chapter IV. The Patterns

      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 Moliere reappeared, 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 M. Percerin’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 altogether, in a tolerably civil manner.

      “The captain of the king’s musketeers will excuse me, I am sure, for I am engaged.”

      “Eh! yes, on the king’s costumes; I know that, my dear Monsieur Percerin. 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.”

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