Part 19

— Can she not strike your turnkeys?

— Oh! my dear Monsieur d’Herblay, one must be a man of the court, like yourself, to trouble about all those details.

— You are a thousand times right, my dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux. Another drop of that Volnay, if you please.

— Not a drop, a glass.

— No, no. You have remained a musketeer to the very tips of your fingers, while I have become a bishop. A drop for me, a glass for you.

— Agreed.

Aramis and the governor clinked glasses.

— And then, said Aramis, fixing his brilliant gaze upon the molten ruby raised by his hand to the level of his eye, as though he would fain enjoy through all his senses at once; and then what you call a resemblance, another might perhaps not notice.

— Oh! but they would. Anyone else who knew, at least, the person he resembles.

— I believe, dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, it is simply a play of your mind.

— No indeed, upon my word.

— Listen, Aramis went on: I have seen many people resemble the man we speak of, but out of respect no one spoke of it.

— No doubt because there is resemblance and resemblance; this one is striking, and if you were to see him…

— Well?

— You would admit it yourself.

— If I were to see him, said Aramis with an easy air; but I shall not see him, in all likelihood.

— And why?

— Because, were I but to set foot in one of those horrible chambers, I should think myself buried forever.

— Nay! the lodging is good.

— No.

— How, no?

— I do not take your word for it, that is all.

— Pray, pray, do not speak ill of the second… Bertaudière. Zounds! it is a good room, very pleasantly furnished, with carpets.

— The devil!

— Yes! yes! that lad was not unfortunate; the best lodging in the Bastille was for him. What a stroke of luck!

— Come, come! said Aramis coldly, you will never make me believe there are good rooms in the Bastille; and as for your carpets…

— Well! as for my carpets?…

— Well! they exist only in your imagination; I see spiders, rats, toads even.

— Toads? Ah! in the dungeons, I say nothing.

— But I see few furnishings and no carpets at all.

— Are you a man to convince yourself with your own eyes? said Baisemeaux with animation.

— No! oh, by heaven, no!

— Even to assure yourself of this resemblance, which you deny like the carpets?

— Some spectre, some shadow, a wretched dying man.

— No such thing! No such thing! A fine fellow as hearty as the Pont-Neuf.

— Sad, sulky?

— Not at all: frolicsome.

— Come now!

— That is the word. I have said it, I take it not back.

— It is impossible!

— Come.

— Where?

— With me.

— To do what?

— A turn about the Bastille.

— How?

— You shall see, you shall see with your own eyes, you shall see with your own eyes.

— And the regulations?

— Oh! never mind that. It is the day my major goes out; the lieutenant is on rounds upon the bastions; we are masters in our own house.

— No, no, dear governor; the mere thought of the noise of the bolts we should have to draw gives me the shivers.

— Come now!

— You might only go and forget me in some third or fourth Bertaudière… Brr!…

— You are joking?

— No, I speak seriously.

— You refuse a unique occasion. Do you know that, to obtain the favor I offer you gratis, certain princes of the blood have offered as much as fifty thousand livres?

— Decidedly, it must be very curious then?

— The forbidden fruit, my lord! the forbidden fruit! You who are of the Church should know that.

— No. If I had any curiosity, it would be for the poor scholar of the distich.

— Well then, look you, that one; he lodges in the third Bertaudière, precisely.

— Why do you say precisely?

— Because, for my part, if I had a curiosity, it would be for the fine hung chamber and its lodger.

— Bah! furniture is commonplace; an insignificant face is without interest.

— A fifteen-livre man, my lord, a fifteen-livre man is always interesting.

— Eh! precisely, I had forgotten to question you on that. Why fifteen livres to that one and only three livres to poor Seldon?

— Ah! see, it is a superb thing, that distinction, my dear sir, and there one sees the goodness of the king burst forth…

— Of the king! of the king!

— Of the cardinal, I mean. “This wretch,” said Monsieur de Mazarin, “this wretch is destined to remain always in prison.”

— Why?

— Why! it seems to me his crime is eternal, and that consequently the punishment should be so too.

— Eternal?

— Doubtless. If he has not the good fortune to catch the smallpox, you understand… and even that chance is hard for him, for one gets no bad air in the Bastille.

— Your reasoning is most ingenious, dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux.

— Is it not?

— You would say then that this wretch must suffer without respite and without end…

— Suffer, I did not say that, my lord; a fifteen-livre man does not suffer.

— Suffer imprisonment, at least?

— Doubtless, it is a fatality; but that suffering, one softens it for him. In short, you will agree, that fellow had not come into the world to eat all the good things he eats. By heaven! you shall see: we have here this untouched pie, these crayfish we have scarce touched, Marne crayfish, big as lobsters, see. Well! all that is going the way of the Second Bertaudière, with a bottle of this Volnay you find so good. Having seen, you will doubt no more, I hope.

— No, dear governor, no; but in all this you think only of the blessed fifteen livres, and you always forget poor Seldon, my protégé.

— Very well! for your sake, a feast-day for him: he shall have biscuits and preserves, with this flask of port.

— You are a brave fellow, I have already told you so and I repeat it, my dear Baisemeaux.

— Let us go, let us go, said the governor, a little dizzy, half from the wine he had drunk, half from Aramis’s praises.

— Remember it is to oblige you that I do this, said the prelate.

— Oh! you will thank me on our return.

— Let us go then.

— Wait while I warn the turnkey.

Baisemeaux rang twice; a man appeared.

— I am going to the towers! cried the governor. No guards, no drums, no noise, in short!

— If I did not leave my cloak here, said Aramis, affecting fear, I should truly believe I am going to prison on my own account.

The turnkey went before the governor; Aramis took the right; a few soldiers scattered in the court fell in, stiff as stakes, along the governor’s passage.

Baisemeaux made his guest cross several steps leading to a kind of esplanade; from there they came to the drawbridge, on which the sentinels received the governor and recognized him.

— Sir, said the governor then, turning toward Aramis and speaking so that the sentinels should lose not a word; sir, you have a good memory, have you not?

— Why? asked Aramis.

— For your plans and your measurements, for you know it is not permitted, even to architects, to enter the lodgings of persons with paper, pens, or a pencil.

“Good!” said Aramis to himself, “it appears I am an architect. Is not this yet another jest of d’Artagnan, who saw me engineer at Belle-Île?”

Then, aloud:

— Rest easy, Monsieur the Governor; in our state, the eye and the memory suffice.

Baisemeaux did not flinch: the guards took Aramis for what he seemed to be.

— Well! let us go first to the Bertaudière, said Baisemeaux, still with the intent to be heard by the sentinels.

— Let us go, answered Aramis.

Then, addressing the turnkey:

— You will take advantage of this, he said, to carry to number 2 the sweetmeats I designated.

— Number 3, dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, number 3, you always forget it.

— True.

They went up.

What bolts, gratings, and locks there were for this single court would have sufficed for the safety of a whole town.

Aramis was neither a dreamer nor a sensitive man; he had made verses in his youth; but he was dry of heart, like every man of fifty-five who has greatly loved women, or rather who has been much loved by them.

But, when he set foot upon the stone steps worn by the passage of so many unfortunates, when he felt himself steeped in the atmosphere of those dark vaults humid with tears, he was, beyond doubt, moved; for his brow bent, for his eyes grew dim, and he followed Baisemeaux without addressing him a word.

Chapter XCIX — The Second of the Bertaudière

On the second floor, whether from fatigue or emotion, the visitor’s breath failed him.

He leaned against the wall.

— Will you begin with this one? said Baisemeaux. Since we are going from one to the other, it matters little, it seems to me, whether we go up from the second to the third, or down from the third to the second. There are, besides, certain repairs to be made in this chamber, he hastened to add for the turnkey who was within hearing.

— No! no! cried Aramis eagerly; higher, higher, Monsieur the Governor, if you please; the top is the most pressing.

They continued to climb.

— Ask the jailer for the keys, breathed Aramis in a low voice.

— Gladly.

Baisemeaux took the keys and opened himself the door of the third chamber. The turnkey entered first and set upon a table the provisions the good governor called sweetmeats.

Then he went out.

The prisoner had not made a movement.

Then Baisemeaux entered in his turn, while Aramis stood upon the threshold.

From there, he saw a young man, a child of eighteen, who, raising his head at the unusual noise, threw himself out of bed on perceiving the governor, and, clasping his hands, began to cry:

— My mother! my mother!

The accent of this young man held such sorrow that Aramis felt himself shiver in spite of himself.

— My dear host, said Baisemeaux, trying to smile, I bring you at once a diversion and a treat, the diversion for the mind and the treat for the body. Here is Monsieur who is going to take measurements of you, and here are preserves for your dessert.

— Oh! sir! sir! said the young man, leave me alone for a year, feed me on bread and water for a year, but tell me that at the end of a year I shall leave this place, tell me that at the end of a year I shall see my mother again!

— But, my dear friend, said Baisemeaux, I have heard you say yourself that she was very poor, your mother, that you were very ill lodged with her, while here, zounds!

— If she was poor, sir, all the more reason to restore her her support. Ill lodged with her? Oh! sir, one is always well lodged when one is free.

— In short, since you say yourself you did but that unhappy distich…

— And without intent, sir, without any intent, I swear to you; I was reading Martial when the idea came to me. Oh! sir, let them punish me, let them cut off the hand with which I wrote it, I shall work with the other; but let them give me back my mother.

— My child, said Baisemeaux, you know that does not depend on me; I can only increase your ration, give you a little glass of port, slip you a biscuit between two plates.

— O my God! my God! cried the young man, falling backward and rolling upon the floor.

Aramis, unable longer to bear this scene, withdrew to the landing.

— The wretch! he murmured low.

— Oh! yes, sir, he is very wretched; but it is his parents’ fault.

— How so?

— Doubtless… Why were they having him learn Latin?… Too much learning, you see, sir, does harm… I, I neither read nor write: accordingly I am not in prison.

Aramis looked at this man, who called not being in prison being turnkey at the Bastille.

As for Baisemeaux, seeing the little effect of his counsel and his port wine, he went out quite troubled.

— Well! and the door! the door! said the turnkey, you forget to shut the door.

— True, said Baisemeaux. Here, here are the keys.

— I shall ask the pardon of this child, said Aramis.

— And if you do not obtain it, said Baisemeaux, ask at least that he be raised to ten livres, that makes us both gain by it.

— If the other prisoner also calls for his mother, said Aramis, I had rather not enter; I shall take my measure from outside.

— Oh! oh! said the turnkey, have no fear, Monsieur the architect, that one, he is gentle as a lamb; to call for his mother he would need to speak, and he never speaks.

— Then let us enter, said Aramis darkly.

— Oh! sir, said the turnkey, you are an architect of prisons?

— Yes.

— And you are no more used to the thing? It is astonishing!

Aramis saw that, to inspire no suspicion, he must call all his strength to his aid.

Baisemeaux had the keys; he opened the door.

— Stay outside, he said to the turnkey, and wait for us at the foot of the stair.

The turnkey obeyed and withdrew.

Baisemeaux passed first and opened himself the second door.

Then one saw, in the square of light filtering through the grated window, a handsome young man, of small stature, with short hair and already growing beard; he was seated on a stool, his elbow in an armchair against which the whole upper part of his body leaned.

His coat, thrown upon the bed, was of fine black velvet, and he breathed the fresh air that came rushing into his chest covered with a shirt of the finest batiste that could be found.

When the governor entered, this young man turned his head with a movement full of nonchalance, and, as he recognized Baisemeaux, he rose and bowed courteously.

But, when his eyes fell upon Aramis, who remained in the shadow, the latter shivered; he grew pale and his hat, which he held in his hand, escaped him as if all his muscles had just relaxed at once.

Baisemeaux, meanwhile, accustomed to the presence of his prisoner, seemed to share none of the sensations Aramis shared; he spread upon the table his pie and his crayfish, as a zealous servant might have done. Thus occupied, he noticed not the trouble of his guest.

But, when he had finished, addressing the young prisoner:

— You look well, said he, is all going well?

— Very well, sir, thank you, answered the young man.

That voice all but overthrew Aramis. In spite of himself he took a step forward, his lips trembling.

This movement was so visible it could not escape Baisemeaux, preoccupied though he was.

— Here is an architect who is going to examine your chimney, said Baisemeaux; does it smoke?

— Never, sir.

— You said one could not be happy in prison, said the governor, rubbing his hands; here is a prisoner, though, who is. You do not complain, I hope?

— Never.

— You are not bored? said Aramis.

— Never.

— Eh! said Baisemeaux low, was I right?

— Why, what would you have, dear governor, one must yield to evidence. Is he permitted to be questioned?

— As much as shall please you.

— Well! then do me the pleasure of asking him if he knows why he is here.

— Monsieur charges me to ask you, said Baisemeaux, if you know the cause of your detention.

— No, sir, said the young man simply, I do not know it.

— But that is impossible, said Aramis, carried away in spite of himself. If you ignored the cause of your detention, you would be furious.

— I was, during the first days.

— Why are you no longer?

— Because I have reflected.

— It is strange, said Aramis.

— Is he not astonishing? said Baisemeaux.

— And what have you reflected upon? asked Aramis. May one ask you that, sir?

— I reflected that, having committed no crime, God could not punish me.

— But what is prison, asked Aramis, if not a punishment?

— Alas! said the young man, I know not; all I can tell you is that it is the very contrary of what I said seven years ago.

— To hear you, sir, to see your resignation, one would be tempted to believe you love the prison.

— I endure it.

— In the certainty of being free one day?

— I have no certainty, sir; hope, that is all; and yet, each day, I confess, that hope is lost.

— But finally, why should you not be free, since you already have been?

— That is precisely, answered the young man, the reason that keeps me from expecting liberty; why would they have imprisoned me, if they meant to make me free later?

— How old are you?

— I know not.

— What is your name?

— I have forgotten the name they gave me.

— Your parents?

— I never knew them.

— But those who brought you up?

— They did not call me their son.

— Did you love anyone before coming here?

— I loved my nurse and my flowers.

— Is that all?

— I also loved my valet.

— You regret that nurse and that valet?

— I wept much when they died.

— Did they die since you are here or before you were?

— They died the eve of the day I was taken.

— Both at the same time?

— Both at the same time.

— And how were you taken?

— A man came for me, made me mount into a carriage which was found locked with locks, and brought me here.

— That man, would you recognize him?

— He wore a mask.

— Is not this story extraordinary? said Baisemeaux low to Aramis.

Aramis could scarce breathe.

— Yes, extraordinary, he murmured.

— But what is yet more extraordinary is that never has he told me as much as he has just told you.

— Perhaps that is also because you never questioned him, said Aramis.

— It may be, answered Baisemeaux, I am not curious. Besides, you see the chamber: it is fine, is it not?

— Very fine.

— A carpet…

— Superb.

— I wager he had none like it before coming here.

— I believe it.

Then, turning toward the young man:

— Do you not recall ever having been visited by some stranger, man or woman? asked Aramis of the young man.

— Oh! yes indeed, three times by a woman, who each time stopped her carriage at the door, entered, covered with a veil she raised only when we were shut in and alone.

— You remember this woman?

— Yes.

— What did she say to you?

The young man smiled sadly.

— She asked me what you ask me, if I were happy and if I were bored.

— And when she arrived or departed?

— She pressed me in her arms, held me to her heart, kissed me.

— You remember her?

— Perfectly.

— I ask you if you remember the features of her face.

— Yes.

— Therefore, you would recognize her if chance brought her before you or led you to her?

— Oh! most certainly.

A fleeting gleam of satisfaction passed over Aramis’s face.

At that moment Baisemeaux heard the turnkey coming back up.

— Shall we go out? he said quickly to Aramis.

Probably Aramis knew all he wished to know.

— When you please, said he.

The young man saw them prepare to leave and bowed politely.

Baisemeaux answered with a simple inclination of the head.

Aramis, rendered respectful by misfortune no doubt, bowed deeply to the prisoner.

They went out. Baisemeaux locked the door behind them.

— Well! said Baisemeaux on the stair, what say you to all that?

— I have discovered the secret, dear governor, said he.

— Indeed! And what is this secret?

— There has been a murder committed in that house.

— Come now!

— Do you understand, the valet and the nurse dead the same day?

— Well?

— Poison.

— Ah! ah!

— What say you to that?

— That it may well be true… What! this young man would be a murderer?

— Eh! who tells you that? How would you have the poor child be a murderer?

— That is what I said.

— The crime was committed in his house; that is enough; perhaps he saw the criminals, and they fear he may speak.

— The devil! if I knew that.

— Well?

— I would redouble my watch.

— Oh! he has not the air of wishing to escape.

— Ah! prisoners, you do not know them.

— Has he books?

— Never; absolute prohibition to give him any.

— Absolute?

— From the very hand of Monsieur Mazarin.

— And you have that note?

— Yes, my lord; will you see it on your return for your cloak?

— I should like to, I am very fond of autographs.

— That one is of superb certainty; there is but one erasure.

— Ah! ah! an erasure! and on what account, this erasure?

— On account of a figure.

— A figure?

— Yes. Here is what was written at first: pension at fifty livres.

— Like the princes of the blood, then?

— But the cardinal will have seen he was mistaken, you understand well; he crossed out the zero and added a one before the five. But, by the way…

— What?

— You say nothing of the resemblance.

— I do not speak of it, dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, for a very simple reason; I do not speak of it because it does not exist.

— Oh! come now!

— Or because, if it exists, it is in your imagination, and that even, did it exist elsewhere, I think you would do well not to speak of it.

— Indeed!

— King Louis XIV, you understand well, would bear you mortal grudge did he learn that you help spread the report that one of his subjects dares resemble him.

— True, true, said Baisemeaux, quite frightened, but I have spoken of the thing to none but you, and you understand, my lord, that I count enough on your discretion.

— Oh! be at ease.

— Will you still see the note? said Baisemeaux, shaken.

— Assuredly.

Thus conversing, they had returned; Baisemeaux drew from the press a particular register like that he had already shown Aramis, but closed with a lock.

The key that opened this lock was part of a small ring Baisemeaux always carried on him.

Then, laying the book upon the table, he opened it at the letter M and showed Aramis this note in the observations column:

“Never any books, linen of the greatest fineness, choice clothes, no walks, no change of jailer, no communications.

Musical instruments; full license for comfort; fifteen livres of food. Monsieur de Baisemeaux may claim if the 15 livres suffice him not.”

— Why, to be sure, said Baisemeaux, I think of it: I shall claim.

Aramis closed the book.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”