lady and gentleman, not daring to keep the occurrence secret, wrote of all this to the queen and sent back the torn letter.”
“After which,” said Aramis, “you were arrested and removed to the Bastille.”
“As you see.”
“Your two attendants disappeared?”
“Alas!”
“Let us not take up our time with the dead, but see what can be done with the living. You told me you were resigned.”
“I repeat it.”
“Without any desire for freedom?”
“As I told you.”
“Without ambition, sorrow, or thought?”
The young man made no answer.
“Well,” asked Aramis, “why are you silent?”
“I think I have spoken enough,” answered the prisoner, “and that now it is your turn. I am weary.”
Aramis gathered himself up, and a shade of deep solemnity spread itself over his countenance. It was evident that he had reached the crisis in the part he had come to the prison to play. “One question,” said Aramis.
“What is it? speak.”
“In the house you inhabited there were neither looking-glasses nor mirrors?”
“What are those two words, and what is their meaning?” asked the young man; “I have no sort of knowledge of them.”
“They designate two pieces of furniture which reflect objects; so that, for instance, you may see in them your own lineaments, as you see mine now, with the naked eye.”
“No; there was neither a glass nor a mirror in the house,” answered the young man.
Aramis looked round him. “Nor is there anything of the kind here, either,” he said; “they have again taken the same precaution.”
“To what end?”
“You will know directly. Now, you have told me that you were instructed in mathematics, astronomy, fencing, and riding; but you have not said a word about history.”
“My tutor sometimes related to me the principal deeds of the king, St. Louis, King Francis I., and King Henry IV.”
“Is that all?”
“Very nearly.”
“This also was done by design, then; just as they deprived you of mirrors, which reflect the present, so they left you in ignorance of history, which reflects the past. Since your imprisonment, books have been forbidden you; so that you are unacquainted with a number of facts, by means of which you would be able to reconstruct the shattered mansion of your recollections and your hopes.”
“It is true,” said the young man.
“Listen, then; I will in a few words tell you what has passed in France during the last twenty-three or twenty-four years; that is, from the probable date of your birth; in a word, from the time that interests you.”
“Say on.” And the young man resumed his serious and attentive attitude.
“Do you know who was the son of Henry IV.?”
“At least I know who his successor was.”
“How?”
“By means of a coin dated 1610, which bears the effigy of Henry IV.; and another of 1612, bearing that of Louis XIII. So I presumed that, there being only two years between the two dates, Louis was Henry’s successor.”
“Then,” said Aramis, “you know that the last reigning monarch was Louis XIII.?”
“I do,” answered the youth, slightly reddening.
“Well, he was a prince full of noble ideas and great projects, always, alas! deferred by the trouble of the times and the dread struggle that his minister Richelieu had to maintain against the great nobles of France. The king himself was of a feeble character, and died young and unhappy.”
“I know it.”
“He had been long anxious about having a heir; a care which weighs heavily on princes, who desire to leave behind them more than one pledge that their best thoughts and works will be continued.”
“Did the king, then, die childless?” asked the prisoner, smiling.
“No, but he was long without one, and for a long while thought he should be the last of his race. This idea had reduced him to the depths of despair, when suddenly, his wife, Anne of Austria—”
The prisoner trembled.
“Did you know,” said Aramis, “that Louis XIII.’s wife was called Anne of Austria?”
“Continue,” said the young man, without replying to the question.
“When suddenly,” resumed Aramis, “the queen announced an interesting event. There was great joy at the intelligence, and all prayed for her happy delivery. On the 5th of September, 1638, she gave birth to a son.”
Here Aramis looked at his companion, and thought he observed him turning pale. “You are about to hear,” said Aramis, “an account which few indeed could now avouch; for it refers to a secret which they imagined buried with the dead, entombed in the abyss of the confessional.”
“And you will tell me this secret?” broke in the youth.
“Oh!” said Aramis, with unmistakable emphasis, “I do not know that I ought to risk this secret by intrusting it to one who has no desire to quit the Bastille.”
“I hear you, monsieur.”
“The queen, then, gave birth to a son. But while the court was rejoicing over the event, when the king had show the new-born child to the nobility and people, and was sitting gayly down to table, to celebrate the event, the queen, who was alone in her room, was again taken ill and gave birth to a second son.”
“Oh!” said the prisoner, betraying a bitter acquaintance with affairs than he had owned to, “I thought that Monsieur was only born in—”
Aramis raised his finger; “Permit me to continue,” he said.
The prisoner sighed impatiently, and paused.
“Yes,” said Aramis, “the queen had a second son, whom Dame Perronnette, the midwife, received in her arms.”
“Dame Perronnette!” murmured the young man.
“They ran at once to the banqueting-room, and whispered to the king what had happened; he rose and quitted the table. But this time it was no longer happiness that his face expressed, but something akin to terror. The birth of twins changed into bitterness the joy to which that of an only son had given rise, seeing that
