The Man in the Iron Mask. Dumas Alexandre

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      “Aramis, I will do more than help you – I will do more than remain neuter – I will save you.”

      “You are mad, D’Artagnan.”

      “I am the wiser of the two, in this matter.”

      “You to suspect me of wishing to assassinate the king!”

      “Who spoke of such a thing?” smiled the musketeer.

      “Well, let us understand one another. I do not see what any one can do to a legitimate king as ours is, if he does not assassinate him.” D’Artagnan did not say a word. “Besides, you have your guards and your musketeers here,” said the bishop.

      “True.”

      “You are not in M. Fouquet’s house, but in your own.”

      “True; but in spite of that, Aramis, grant me, for pity’s sake, one single word of a true friend.”

      “A true friend’s word is ever truth itself. If I think of touching, even with my finger, the son of Anne of Austria, the true king of this realm of France – if I have not the firm intention of prostrating myself before his throne – if in every idea I may entertain to-morrow, here at Vaux, will not be the most glorious day my king ever enjoyed – may Heaven’s lightning blast me where I stand!” Aramis had pronounced these words with his face turned towards the alcove of his own bedroom, where D’Artagnan, seated with his back towards the alcove, could not suspect that any one was lying concealed. The earnestness of his words, the studied slowness with which he pronounced them, the solemnity of his oath, gave the musketeer the most complete satisfaction. He took hold of both Aramis’s hands, and shook them cordially. Aramis had endured reproaches without turning pale, and had blushed as he listened to words of praise. D’Artagnan, deceived, did him honor; but D’Artagnan, trustful and reliant, made him feel ashamed. “Are you going away?” he said, as he embraced him, in order to conceal the flush on his face.

      “Yes. Duty summons me. I have to get the watch-word. It seems I am to be lodged in the king’s ante-room. Where does Porthos sleep?”

      “Take him away with you, if you like, for he rumbles through his sleepy nose like a park of artillery.”

      “Ah! he does not stay with you, then?” said D’Artagnan.

      “Not the least in the world. He has a chamber to himself, but I don’t know where.”

      “Very good!” said the musketeer; from whom this separation of the two associates removed his last suspicion, and he touched Porthos lightly on the shoulder; the latter replied by a loud yawn. “Come,” said D’Artagnan.

      “What, D’Artagnan, my dear fellow, is that you? What a lucky chance! Oh, yes – true; I have forgotten; I am at the fete at Vaux.”

      “Yes; and your beautiful dress, too.”

      “Yes, it was very attentive on the part of Monsieur Coquelin de Voliere, was it not?”

      “Hush!” said Aramis. “You are walking so heavily you will make the flooring give way.”

      “True,” said the musketeer; “this room is above the dome, I think.”

      “And I did not choose it for a fencing-room, I assure you,” added the bishop. “The ceiling of the king’s room has all the lightness and calm of wholesome sleep. Do not forget, therefore, that my flooring is merely the covering of his ceiling. Good night, my friends, and in ten minutes I shall be asleep myself.” And Aramis accompanied them to the door, laughing quietly all the while. As soon as they were outside, he bolted the door, hurriedly; closed up the chinks of the windows, and then called out, “Monseigneur! – monseigneur!” Philippe made his appearance from the alcove, as he pushed aside a sliding panel placed behind the bed.