Title: The Man in the Iron Mask Author: Alexandre Dumas, Pere Release Date: August, 2001 [Etext #2759] [Yes, we are about one year ahead of schedule] Edition: 11 The Man in the Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas Chapter I: The Prisoner. Since Aramis's singular transformation into a confessor of the order, Baisemeaux was no longer the same man. Up to that period, the place which Aramis had held in the worthy governor's estimation was that of a prelate whom he respected and a friend to whom he owed a debt of gratitude; but now he felt himself an inferior, and that Aramis was his master. He himself lighted a lantern, s ummoned a turnkey, and said, returning to Aramis, "I am at your orders, monseigneur." Aramis merely nodded his head, as much as to say, "Very good"; and signed to him with his hand to lead the way. Ba isemeaux advanced, and Aramis followed him. It was a calm and lovely starlit night; the steps of thr ee men resounded on the flags of the terraces, and the clinking of the keys hanging from the jailer's girdle made itself heard up to the stories of the towers, as if to remind the prisoners that the lib erty of earth was a luxury beyond their reach. It might have been said that the alteration effected in Baisemeaux extended even to the prisoners. The turnkey, the same who, on Aramis's first arrival h ad shown himself so inquisitive and curious, was now not only silent, but impassible. He held his he ad down, and seemed afraid to keep his ears open. In this wise they reached the basement of the Bert audière, the two first stories of which were mounted silently and somewhat slowly; for Baisemeaux, th ough far from disobeying, was far from exhibiting any eagerness to obey. On arriving at the door, Ba isemeaux showed a disposition to enter the prisoner's chamber; but Aramis, stopping him on the thresh old, said, "The rules do not allow the governor to hear the prisoner's confession." Baisemeaux bowed, and made way for Aramis, who took the lantern and entered; and then signed to them to close the door behind him. For an instant he remained standing, listening whether Baisemeaux and the turnkey had retired; but as soon as he was assured by the sound of their descendi ng footsteps that they had left the tower, he put the lantern on the table and gazed around. On a be d of green serge, similar in all respect to the other beds in the Bastile, save that it was newer, an d under curtains half-drawn, reposed a young man, to whom we have already once before introduced Aram is. According to custom, the prisoner was without a light. At the hour of curfew, he was bound to e xtinguish his lamp, and we perceive how much he was favored, in being allowed to keep it burning even till then. Near the bed a large leathern armchair, with twisted legs, sustained his clothes. A lit tle table - without pens, books, paper, or ink - stood neglected in sadness near the window; while se veral plates, still unemptied, showed that the prisoner had scarcely touched his evening meal. Arami s saw that the young man was stretched upon his bed, his face half concealed by his arms. The arriva l of a visitor did not caused any change of position; either he was waiting in expectation, or was as leep. Aramis lighted the candle from the lantern, pushed back the armchair, and approached the bed w ith an evident mixture of interest and respect. The young man raised his head. "What is it?" said he. "You desired a confessor?" replied Aramis. "Yes." "Because you were ill?" "Yes." "Very ill?" The young man gave Aramis a piercing glance, and answered, "I thank you." After a mom ent's silence, "I have seen you before," he continued. Aramis bowed. Doubtless the scrutiny the prisoner had just made of the cold, crafty, and imperious chara cter stamped upon the features of the bishop of Vannes was little reassuring to one in his situation, for he added, "I am better." "And so?" said Aramis. "Why, then - being better, I have no longer the same need of a confessor, I think." "Not even of the hair-cloth, which the note you found in your bread informed you of?" The young man started; but before he had either assented or denied, Aramis continued, "Not even of the ecclesiastic from whom you were to hear an important revelation?" "If it be so," said the young man, sinking again on his pillow, "it is different; I am listening." Aramis then looked at him more closely, and was struck with the easy majesty of his mie n, one which can never be acquired unless Heaven has implanted it in the blood or heart. "Sit down, mo nsieur," said the prisoner. Aramis bowed and obeyed. "How does the Bastile agree with you?" asked the bishop. "Very well." "You do not suffer?" "No." "You have nothing to regret?" "Nothing." "Not even your liberty?" "What do you call liberty, monsieur?" asked the prisoner, with the tone of a man who is prep aring for a struggle. "I call liberty, the flowers, the air, light, the stars, the happiness of going whithersoever the sinewy limbs of one-and-twenty chance to wish to carry you." The young man smiled, whether in resignation or contempt, it was difficult to tell. " Look," said he, "I have in that Japanese vase two roses gathered yesterday evening in the bud from the governor's garden; this morning they have blown and spread their vermilion chalice beneath my gaze; w ith every opening petal they unfold the treasures of their perfumes, filling my chamber with a fragran ce that embalms it. Look now on these two roses; even among roses these are beautiful, and the rose i s the most beautiful of flowers. Why, then, do you bid me desire other flowers when I possess the lov eliest of all?" Aramis gazed at the young man in surprise. "If flowers constitute liberty," sadly resumed the captive, "I am free, for I possess them." "But the air!" cried Aramis; "air is so necessary to life!" "Well, monsieur," returned the prisoner; "draw near to the window; it is open. Betwee n high heaven and earth the wind whirls on its waftages of hail and lightning, exhales its torrid mist or breathes in gentle breezes. It caresses my face. When mounted on the back of this armchair, with my arm around the bars of the window to sustain myself, I fancy I am swimming the wide expanse before me." The countenance of Aramis darkened as the young man continued: "Light I have! what is better th an light? I have the sun, a friend who comes to visit me every day without the permission of the gove rnor or the jailer's company. He comes in at the window, and traces in my room a square the shape of the window, which lights up the hangings of my bed and floods the very floor. This luminous square in creases from ten o'clock till midday, and decreases from one till three slowly, as if, having hastened to my presence, it sorrowed at bidding me farewell. When its last ray disappears I have enjoyed its presence for five hours. Is not that sufficient? I have been told that there are unhappy beings who dig in quarries, and laborers who toil in mines, who never behold it at all." Aramis wiped the drops from his brow. "As to the stars which are so delightful to view," continued the young man, "they all resemble each other save in size and brilliancy. I am a favored mortal, for if you had not lighted th at candle you would have been able to see the beautiful stars which I was gazing at from my couch befo re your arrival, whose silvery rays were stealing through my brain." Aramis lowered his head; he felt himself overwhelmed with the bitter flow of that sinister ph ilosophy which is the religion of the captive. "So much, then, for the flowers, the air, the daylight, and the stars," tranquilly continue d the young man; "there remains but exercise. Do I not walk all day in the governor's garden if it is fine - here if it rains? in the fresh air if it is warm; in perfect warmth, thanks to my winter stove, if it be cold? Ah! monsieur, do you fancy," continued the prisoner, not without bitterness, "that men have not don e everything for me that a man can hope for or desire?" "Men!" said Aramis; "be it so; but it seems to me you are forgetting Heaven." "Indeed I have forgotten Heaven," murmured the prisoner, with emotion; "but why do you me ntion it? Of what use is it to talk to a prisoner of Heaven?" Aramis looked steadily at this singular youth, who possessed the resignation of a martyr with the smile of an atheist. "Is not Heaven in everything?" he murmured in a reproachful tone. "Say rather, at the end of everything," answered the prisoner, firmly. "Be it so," said Aramis; "but let us return to our starting-point." "I ask nothing better," returned the young man. "I am your confessor." "Yes." "Well, then, you ought, as a penitent, to tell me the truth." "My whole desire is to tell it you." "Every prisoner has committed some crime for which he has been imprisoned. What crim e, then, have you committed?" "You asked me the same question the first time you saw me," returned the prisoner. "And then, as now you evaded giving me an answer." "And what reason have you for thinking that I shall now reply to you?" "Because this time I am your confessor." "Then if you wish me to tell what crime I have committed, explain to me in what a crime c onsists. For as my conscience does not accuse me, I aver that I am not a criminal." "We are often criminals in the sight of the great of the earth, not alone for having our selves committed crimes, but because we know that crimes have been committed." The prisoner manifested the deepest attention. "Yes, I understand you," he said, after a pause; "yes, you are right, monsieur; it is very pos sible that, in such a light, I am a criminal in the eyes of the great of the earth." "Ah! then you know something," said Aramis, who thought he had pierced not merely through a defect in the harness, but through the joints of it. "No, I am not aware of anything," replied the young man; "but sometimes I think - and I say to myself - " "What do you say to yourself?" "That if I were to think but a little more deeply I should either go mad or I should divine a gre at deal." "And then - and then?" said Aramis, impatiently. "Then I leave off." "You leave off?" "Yes; my head becomes confused and my ideas melancholy; I feel ennui overtaking me; I wi sh - " "What?" "I don't know; but I do not like to give myself up to longing for things which I do not poss ess, when I am so happy with what I have." "You are afraid of death?" said Aramis, with a slight uneasiness. "Yes," said the young man, smiling. Aramis felt the chill of that smile, and shuddered. "Oh, as you fear death, you know more about matters than you say," he cried.