Man in the Iron Mask by Dumas, Alexandre part one

“Without doubt, Monsieur.”

“How could that have been, since I have the key in my own pocket?” returned Basque, perseveringly.

De Saint-Aignan crumpled up the letter in his hand, after having read it.

“There is something mysterious about this,” he murmured, absorbed in thought.

Porthos left him to his reflections; but after a while returned to the mission he had undertaken. “Shall we return to our little affair?” he said, addressing De Saint-Aignan, as soon as the lackey had disappeared.

“I think I can now understand it, from this note which has arrived here in so singular a manner. M. de Bragelonne says that a friend will call.”

“I am his friend, and am the one he alludes to.”

“For the purpose of giving me a challenge?”

“Precisely.”

“And he complains that I have offended him?”

“Mortally so.”

“In what way, may I ask?- for his conduct is so mysterious that it at least needs some explanation.”

“Monsieur,” replied Porthos, “my friend cannot but be right; and so far as his conduct is concerned, if it be mysterious, as you say, you have only yourself to blame for it.”

Porthos pronounced these words with an amount of confidence which for a man who was unaccustomed to his ways must have indicated an infinity of sense.

“Mystery? Be it so; but what is the mystery about?” said De Saint-Aignan.

“You will think it best, perhaps,” Porthos replied, with a low bow, “that I do not enter into particulars, and for excellent reasons.”

“Oh, I perfectly understand you! We will touch very lightly upon it, then. So speak, Monsieur; I am listening.”

“In the first place, Monsieur,” said Porthos, “you have changed your apartments.”

“Yes, that is quite true.”

“You admit it, then,” said Porthos, with an air of satisfaction.

“Admit it? of course I admit it. Why should I not admit it, do you suppose?”

“You have admitted it. Very good,” said Porthos, lifting up one finger.

“But how can my having moved my lodgings have done M. de Bragelonne any harm? Have the goodness to tell me that, for I positively do not comprehend a word of what you are saying.”

Porthos stopped him, and then said with great gravity: “Monsieur, this is the first of M. de Bragelonne’s complaints against you. If he makes a complaint, it is because he feels himself insulted.”

De Saint-Aignan began to beat his foot impatiently on the floor. “This looks like a bad quarrel,” he said.

“No one can possibly have a bad quarrel with the Vicomte de Bragelonne,” returned Porthos; “but, at all events, you have nothing to add on the subject of your changing your apartments, I suppose?”

“Nothing. And what is the next point?”

“Ah, the next! You will observe, Monsieur, that the one I have already mentioned is a most serious injury, to which you have given no answer, or rather have answered very indifferently. So, Monsieur, you change your lodgings; that offends M. de Bragelonne, and you do not attempt to excuse yourself? Very well!”

“What!” cried De Saint-Aignan, who was irritated by the coolness of his visitor,- “what! Am I to consult M. de Bragelonne whether I am to move or not? You can hardly be serious, Monsieur.”

“Absolutely necessary, Monsieur; but, under any circumstances, you will admit that it is nothing in comparison with the second ground of complaint.”

“Well, what is that?”

Porthos assumed a very serious expression as he said, “How about the trap-door, Monsieur?”

De Saint-Aignan turned exceedingly pale. He pushed back his chair so abruptly that Porthos, simple as he was, perceived that the blow had told. “The trap-door?” murmured De Saint-Aignan.

“Yes, Monsieur, explain that if you can,” said Porthos, shaking his head.

De Saint-Aignan held down his head. “Oh, I have been betrayed,” he murmured; “everything is known!”

“Everything,” replied Porthos, who knew nothing.

“You see me overwhelmed,” pursued De Saint-Aignan,- “overwhelmed to such a degree that I hardly know what I am about.”

“A guilty conscience, Monsieur! Your affair is a bad one.”

“Monsieur!”

“And when the public shall learn all about it, and will judge-”

“Oh, Monsieur!” exclaimed the count, hurriedly, “such a secret ought not to be known, even by one’s confessor!”

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