The Man in the Iron Mask. Dumas Alexandre

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      “How? the man of whom we have talked so much? The man whom they are every day telling me to take such care of?”

      “There is ‘Marchiali,’” repeated the inflexible Aramis.

      “I must own it, monseigneur. But I understand nothing about it.”

      “You believe your eyes, at any rate.”

      “To tell me very plainly there is ‘Marchiali.’”

      “And in a good handwriting, too.”

      “‘Tis a wonder! I still see this order and the name of Seldon, Irishman. I see it. Ah! I even recollect that under this name there was a blot of ink.”

      “No, there is no ink; no, there is no blot.”

      “Oh! but there was, though; I know it, because I rubbed my finger – this very one – in the powder that was over the blot.”

      “In a word, be it how it may, dear M. Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, “and whatever you may have seen, the order is signed to release Marchiali, blot or no blot.”

      “The order is signed to release Marchiali,” replied Baisemeaux, mechanically, endeavoring to regain his courage.

      “And you are going to release this prisoner. If your heart dictates you to deliver Seldon also, I declare to you I will not oppose it the least in the world.” Aramis accompanied this remark with a smile, the irony of which effectually dispelled Baisemeaux’s confusion of mind, and restored his courage.

      “Monseigneur,” he said, “this Marchiali is the very same prisoner whom the other day a priest confessor of our order came to visit in so imperious and so secret a manner.”

      “I don’t know that, monsieur,” replied the bishop.

      “‘Tis no such long time ago, dear Monsieur d’Herblay.”

      “It is true. But with us, monsieur, it is good that the man of to-day should no longer know what the man of yesterday did.”

      “In any case,” said Baisemeaux, “the visit of the Jesuit confessor must have given happiness to this man.”

      Aramis made no reply, but recommenced eating and drinking. As for Baisemeaux, no longer touching anything that was on the table, he again took up the order and examined it every way. This investigation, under ordinary circumstances, would have made the ears of the impatient Aramis burn with anger; but the bishop of Vannes did not become incensed for so little, above all, when he had murmured to himself that to do so was dangerous. “Are you going to release Marchiali?” he said. “What mellow, fragrant and delicious sherry this is, my dear governor.”

      “Monseigneur,” replied Baisemeaux, “I shall release the prisoner Marchiali when I have summoned the courier who brought the order, and above all, when, by interrogating him, I have satisfied myself.”

      “The order is sealed, and the courier is ignorant of the contents. What do you want to satisfy yourself about?”

      “Be it so, monseigneur; but I shall send to the ministry, and M. de Lyonne will either confirm or withdraw the order.”

      “What is the good of all that?” asked Aramis, coldly.

      “What good?”

      “Yes; what is your object, I ask?”

      “The object of never deceiving oneself, monseigneur; nor being wanting in the respect which a subaltern owes to his superior officers, nor infringing the duties of a service one has accepted of one’s own free will.”

      “Very good; you have just spoken so eloquently, that I cannot but admire you. It is true that a subaltern owes respect to his superiors; he is guilty when he deceives himself, and he should be punished if he infringed either the duties or laws of his office.”

      Baisemeaux looked at the bishop with astonishment.

      “It follows,” pursued Aramis, “that you are going to ask advice, to put your conscience at ease in the matter?”

      “Yes, monseigneur.”

      “And if a superior officer gives you orders, you will obey?”

      “Never doubt it, monseigneur.”

      “You know the king’s signature well, M. de Baisemeaux?”

      “Yes, monseigneur.”

      “Is it not on this order of release?”

      “It is true, but it may – ”

      “Be forged, you mean?”

      “That is evident, monseigneur.”

      “You are right. And that of M. de Lyonne?”

      “I see it plain enough on the order; but for the same reason that the king’s signature may have been forged, so also, and with even greater probability, may M. de Lyonne’s.”

      “Your logic has the stride of a giant, M. de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis; “and your reasoning is irresistible. But on what special grounds do you base your idea that these signatures are false?”

      “On this: the absence of counter-signatures. Nothing checks his majesty’s signature; and M. de Lyonne is not there to tell me he has signed.”

      “Well, Monsieur de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, bending an eagle glance on the governor, “I adopt so frankly your doubts, and your mode of clearing them up, that I will take a pen, if you will give me one.”

      Baisemeaux gave him a pen.

      “And a sheet of white paper,” added Aramis.

      Baisemeaux handed him some paper.

      “Now, I – I, also – I, here present – incontestably, I – am going to write an order to which I am certain you will give credence, incredulous as you are!”

      Baisemeaux turned pale at this icy assurance of manner. It seemed to him that the voice of the bishop’s, but just now so playful and gay, had become funereal and sad; that the wax lights changed into the tapers of a mortuary chapel, the very glasses of wine into chalices of blood.

      Aramis took a pen and wrote. Baisemeaux, in terror, read over his shoulder.

      “A. M. D. G.,” wrote the bishop; and he drew a cross under these four letters, which signify ad majorem Dei gloriam, “to the greater glory of God;” and thus he continued: “It is our pleasure that the order brought to M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun, governor, for the king, of the castle of the Bastile, be held by him good and effectual, and be immediately carried into operation.”

      (Signed) D’HERBLAY

      “General of the Order, by the grace of God.”

      Baisemeaux was so profoundly astonished, that his features remained contracted, his lips parted, and his eyes fixed. He did not move an inch, nor articulate a sound. Nothing could be heard in that large chamber but the wing-whisper of a little moth, which was fluttering to its death about the candles. Aramis, without СКАЧАТЬ