Man in the Iron Mask by Dumas, Alexandre part two

“But, Sire, how could you know?”

“How do you yourself know?”

“By this letter, Sire, which M. d’Herblay, free and out of danger, writes me from Bayonne.”

“Look here,” said the King, drawing from a casket placed upon the table close to the seat upon which d’Artagnan was leaning a letter copied exactly from that of M. d’Herblay; “here is the very letter which Colbert placed in my hands a week before you received yours. I am well served, you may perceive.”

“Yes, Sire,” murmured the musketeer; “you were the only man whose fortune was capable of dominating the fortunes and strength of my two friends. You have used it, Sire; but you will not abuse it, will you?”

“D’Artagnan,” said the King, with a smile beaming with kindness, “I could have M. d’Herblay carried off from the territories of the King of Spain, and brought here alive to inflict justice upon him. But, d’Artagnan, be assured I will not yield to this first and natural impulse. He is free; let him continue free.”

“Oh, Sire! you will not always remain so clement, so noble, so generous as you have shown yourself with respect to me and M. d’Herblay; you will have about you councillors who will cure you of that weakness.”

“No, d’Artagnan, you are mistaken when you accuse my council of urging me to pursue rigorous measures. The advice to spare M. d’Herblay comes from Colbert himself.”

“Oh, Sire!” said d’Artagnan, extremely surprised.

“As for you,” continued the King, with a kindness very uncommon with him, “I have several pieces of good news to announce to you; but you shall know them, my dear captain, the moment I have finished my accounts. I have said that I wish to make, and would make, your fortune; that promise will soon be a reality.”

“A thousand times thanks, Sire! I can wait. But I implore you, while I go and practise patience, that your Majesty will deign to notice those poor people who have for so long a time besieged your antechamber, and come humbly to lay a petition at your feet.”

“Who are they?”

“Enemies of your Majesty.” The King raised his head. “Friends of M. Fouquet,” added d’Artagnan.

“Their names?”

“M. Gourville, M. Pelisson, and a poet, M. Jean de la Fontaine.”

The King took a moment to reflect.

“What do they want?”

“I do not know.”

“How do they appear?”

“In great affliction.”

“What do they say?”

“Nothing.”

“What do they do?”

“They weep.”

“Let them come in,” said the King, with a serious brow.

D’Artagnan turned rapidly on his heel, raised the tapestry which closed the entrance to the royal chamber, and directing his voice to the adjoining room, cried, “Introduce!”

The three men d’Artagnan had named soon appeared at the door of the cabinet in which were the King and his captain. A profound silence prevailed. The courtiers, at the approach of the friends of the unfortunate Superintendent of the Finances, drew back, as if fearful of being soiled by contact with disgrace and misfortune. D’Artagnan, with a quick step, came forward to take by the hand the unhappy men who stood hesitating and trembling at the door of the cabinet; he led them up to the arm-chair of the King, who, having placed himself in the embrasure of a window, awaited the moment of presentation, and was preparing himself to give the supplicants a rigorously diplomatic reception.

The first of the friends of Fouquet that advanced was Pelisson. He did not weep, but his tears were only restrained that the King might the better hear his voice and his prayer. Gourville bit his lips to check his tears, out of respect for the King. La Fontaine buried his face in his handkerchief, and the only signs of life he gave were the convulsive motions of his shoulders, raised by his sobs.

The King had preserved all his dignity. His countenance was impassive. He even maintained the frown which had appeared when d’Artagnan had announced his enemies to him. He made a gesture which signified, “Speak”; and he remained standing, with his eyes searchingly fixed upon these desponding men. Pelisson bowed down to the ground, and La Fontaine knelt as people do in churches. This obstinate silence, disturbed only by such dismal sighs and groans, began to excite in the King, not compassion, but impatience.

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