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- Wydawca: KtoCzyta.pl
- Kategoria: Powieści przygodowe i historyczne
- Język: polski
„The Man in the Iron Mask” is the final episode in the cycle of novels featuring Dumas’ celebrated foursome of D’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos and Aramis, who first appeared in „The Three Musketeers”. Some thirty-five years on, the bonds of comradeship are under strain as they end up on different sides in a power struggle that may undermine the young Louis XIV and change the face of the French monarchy. Unbeknownst to D’Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos plot to remove the inept king and place the king’s twin brother on the throne of France. Meanwhile, deep inside the dreaded Bastille, a young twenty-three-year-old prisoner known only as „Philippe” has languished, his face hidden from all, for eight long years. He knows neither his true identity nor the crime that got him there. When the destinies of the king and Phillippe converge, the Three Musketeers and D’Artagnan find themselves caught between conflicting loyalties...
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Contents
Chapter I. The Prisoner
Chapter II. How Mouston Had Become Fatter without Giving Porthos Notice Thereof, and of the Troubles Which Consequently Befell that Worthy Gentleman
Chapter III. Who Messire Jean Percerin Was
Chapter IV. The Patterns
Chapter V. Where, Probably, Moliere Obtained His First Idea of the Bourgeois Gentilhomme
Chapter VI. The Bee-Hive, the Bees, and the Honey
Chapter VII. Another Supper at the Bastile
Chapter VIII. The General of the Order
Chapter IX. The Tempter
Chapter X. Crown and Tiara
Chapter XI. The Chateau de Vaux-le-Vicomte
Chapter XII. The Wine of Melun
Chapter XIII. Nectar and Ambrosia
Chapter XIV. A Gascon, and a Gascon and a Half
Chapter XV. Colbert
Chapter XVI. Jealousy
Chapter XVII. High Treason
Chapter XVIII. A Night at the Bastile
Chapter XIX. The Shadow of M. Fouquet
Chapter XX. The Morning
Chapter XXI. The King’s Friend
Chapter XXII. Showing How the Countersign Was Respected at the Bastile
Chapter XXIII. The King’s Gratitude
Chapter XXIV. The False King
Chapter XXV. In Which Porthos Thinks He Is Pursuing a Duchy
Chapter XXVI. The Last Adieux
Chapter XXVII. Monsieur de Beaufort
Chapter XXVIII. Preparations for Departure
Chapter XXIX. Planchet’s Inventory
Chapter XXX. The Inventory of M. de Beaufort
Chapter XXXI. The Silver Dish
Chapter XXXII. Captive and Jailers
Chapter XXXIII. Promises
Chapter XXXIV. Among Women
Chapter XXXV. The Last Supper
Chapter XXXVI. In M. Colbert’s Carriage
Chapter XXXVII. The Two Lighters
Chapter XXXVIII. Friendly Advice
Chapter XXXIX. How the King, Louis XIV., Played His Little Part
Chapter XL. The White Horse and the Black
Chapter XLI. In Which the Squirrel Falls,—the Adder Flies
Chapter XLII. Belle-Ile-en-Mer
Chapter XLIII. Explanations by Aramis
Chapter XLIV. Result of the Ideas of the King, and the Ideas of D’Artagnan
Chapter XLV. The Ancestors of Porthos
Chapter XLVI. The Son of Biscarrat
Chapter XLVII. The Grotto of Locmaria
Chapter XLVIII. The Grotto
Chapter XLIX. An Homeric Song
Chapter L. The Death of a Titan
Chapter LI. Porthos’s Epitaph
Chapter LII. M. de Gesvres’s Round
Chapter LIII. King Louis XIV
Chapter LIV. M. Fouquet’s Friends
Chapter LV. Porthos’s Will
Chapter LVI. The Old Age of Athos
Chapter LVII. Athos’s Vision
Chapter LVIII. The Angel of Death
Chapter LIX. The Bulletin
Chapter LX. The Last Canto of the Poem
Epilogue
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, summoned 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. Baisemeaux advanced, and Aramis followed him. It was a calm and lovely starlit night; the steps of three 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 liberty 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 had shown himself so inquisitive and curious, was now not only silent, but impassible. He held his head down, and seemed afraid to keep his ears open. In this wise they reached the basement of the Bertaudiere, the two first stories of which were mounted silently and somewhat slowly; for Baisemeaux, though far from disobeying, was far from exhibiting any eagerness to obey. On arriving at the door, Baisemeaux showed a disposition to enter the prisoner’s chamber; but Aramis, stopping him on the threshold, 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 descending footsteps that they had left the tower, he put the lantern on the table and gazed around. On a bed of green serge, similar in all respect to the other beds in the Bastile, save that it was newer, and under curtains half-drawn, reposed a young man, to whom we have already once before introduced Aramis. According to custom, the prisoner was without a light. At the hour of curfew, he was bound to extinguish 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 little table–without pens, books, paper, or ink–stood neglected in sadness near the window; while several plates, still unemptied, showed that the prisoner had scarcely touched his evening meal. Aramis saw that the young man was stretched upon his bed, his face half concealed by his arms. The arrival of a visitor did not caused any change of position; either he was waiting in expectation, or was asleep. Aramis lighted the candle from the lantern, pushed back the armchair, and approached the bed with 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 moment’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 character 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 mien, one which can never be acquired unless Heaven has implanted it in the blood or heart. “Sit down, monsieur,” 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 preparing 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; with every opening petal they unfold the treasures of their perfumes, filling my chamber with a fragrance that embalms it. Look now on these two roses; even among roses these are beautiful, and the rose is the most beautiful of flowers. Why, then, do you bid me desire other flowers when I possess the loveliest 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. Between 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 than light? I have the sun, a friend who comes to visit me every day without the permission of the governor 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 increases 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 that candle you would have been able to see the beautiful stars which I was gazing at from my couch before 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 philosophy which is the religion of the captive.
“So much, then, for the flowers, the air, the daylight, and the stars,” tranquilly continued 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 done 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 mention 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.”
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