Charlotte M Yonge - "John Keble's Parishes"

Dillon Wallace - "The Long Labrador Trail"

Rafael Sabatini - ""

Francis Parkman, Jr. - "Pioneers Of France In The New World"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Man in the Iron Mask

A >> Alexandre Dumas, Pere >> The Man in the Iron Mask




"That does not matter to us, or the kingdom either; he is the son of his
father, says the French law, whose father is recognized by law."

"True; but it is a grave matter, when the quality of races is called into
question."

"A merely secondary question, after all. So that, in fact, you have
never learned or heard anything in particular?"

"Nothing."

"That is where my secret begins. The queen, you must know, instead of
being delivered of a son, was delivered of twins."

Fouquet looked up suddenly as he replied:

"And the second is dead?"

"You will see. These twins seemed likely to be regarded as the pride of
their mother, and the hope of France; but the weak nature of the king,
his superstitious feelings, made him apprehend a series of conflicts
between two children whose rights were equal; so he put out of the way -
he suppressed - one of the twins."

"Suppressed, do you say?"

"Have patience. Both the children grew up; the one on the throne, whose
minister you are - the other, who is my friend, in gloom and isolation."

"Good heavens! What are you saying, Monsieur d'Herblay? And what is
this poor prince doing?"

"Ask me, rather, what has he done."

"Yes, yes."

"He was brought up in the country, and then thrown into a fortress which
goes by the name of the Bastile."

"Is it possible?" cried the surintendant, clasping his hands.

"The one was the most fortunate of men: the other the most unhappy and
miserable of all living beings."

"Does his mother not know this?"

"Anne of Austria knows it all."

"And the king?"

"Knows absolutely nothing."

"So much the better," said Fouquet.

This remark seemed to make a great impression on Aramis; he looked at
Fouquet with the most anxious expression of countenance.

"I beg your pardon; I interrupted you," said Fouquet.

"I was saying," resumed Aramis, "that this poor prince was the unhappiest
of human beings, when Heaven, whose thoughts are over all His creatures,
undertook to come to his assistance."

"Oh! in what way? Tell me."

"You will see. The reigning king - I say the reigning king - you can
guess very well why?"

"No. Why?"

"Because _both_ of them, being legitimate princes, ought to have been
kings. Is not that your opinion?"

"It is, certainly."

"Unreservedly?"

"Most unreservedly; twins are one person in two bodies."

"I am pleased that a legist of your learning and authority should have
pronounced such an opinion. It is agreed, then, that each of them
possessed equal rights, is it not?"

"Incontestably! but, gracious heavens, what an extraordinary
circumstance!"

"We are not at the end of it yet. - Patience."

"Oh! I shall find 'patience' enough."

"Heaven wished to raise up for that oppressed child an avenger, or a
supporter, or vindicator, if you prefer it. It happened that the
reigning king, the usurper - you are quite of my opinion, I believe, that
it is an act of usurpation quietly to enjoy, and selfishly to assume the
right over, an inheritance to which a man has only half a right?"

"Yes, usurpation is the word."

"In that case, I continue. It was Heaven's will that the usurper should
possess, in the person of his first minister, a man of great talent, of
large and generous nature."

"Well, well," said Fouquet, "I understand you; you have relied upon me to
repair the wrong which has been done to this unhappy brother of Louis
XIV. You have thought well; I will help you. I thank you, D'Herblay, I
thank you."

"Oh, no, it is not that at all; you have not allowed me to finish," said
Aramis, perfectly unmoved.

"I will not say another word, then."

"M. Fouquet, I was observing, the minister of the reigning sovereign, was
suddenly taken into the greatest aversion, and menaced with the ruin of
his fortune, loss of liberty, loss of life even, by intrigue and personal
hatred, to which the king gave too readily an attentive ear. But Heaven
permits (still, however, out of consideration for the unhappy prince who
had been sacrificed) that M. Fouquet should in his turn have a devoted
friend who knew this state secret, and felt that he possessed strength
and courage enough to divulge this secret, after having had the strength
to carry it locked up in his own heart for twenty years.

"Go no farther," said Fouquet, full of generous feelings. "I understand
you, and can guess everything now. You went to see the king when the
intelligence of my arrest reached you; you implored him, he refused to
listen to you; then you threatened him with that secret, threatened to
reveal it, and Louis XIV., alarmed at the risk of its betrayal, granted
to the terror of your indiscretion what he refused to your generous
intercession. I understand, I understand; you have the king in your
power; I understand."

"You understand _nothing_ - as yet," replied Aramis, "and again you
interrupt me. Then, too, allow me to observe that you pay no attention
to logical reasoning, and seem to forget what you ought most to remember."

"What do you mean?"

"You know upon what I laid the greatest stress at the beginning of our
conversation?"

"Yes, his majesty's hate, invincible hate for me; yes, but what feeling
of hate could resist the threat of such a revelation?"

"Such a revelation, do you say? that is the very point where your logic
fails you. What! do you suppose that if I had made such a revelation to
the king, I should have been alive now?"

"It is not ten minutes ago that you were with the king."

"That may be. He might not have had the time to get me killed outright,
but he would have had the time to get me gagged and thrown in a dungeon.
Come, come, show a little consistency in your reasoning, _mordieu!_"

And by the mere use of this word, which was so thoroughly his old
musketeer's expression, forgotten by one who never seemed to forget
anything, Fouquet could not but understand to what a pitch of exaltation
the calm, impenetrable bishop of Vannes had wrought himself. He
shuddered.

"And then," replied the latter, after having mastered his feelings,
"should I be the man I really am, should I be the true friend you believe
me, if I were to expose you, whom the king already hates so bitterly, to
a feeling more than ever to be dreaded in that young man? To have robbed
him, is nothing; to have addressed the woman he loves, is not much; but
to hold in your keeping both his crown and his honor, why, he would pluck
out your heart with his own hands."

"You have not allowed him to penetrate your secret, then?"

"I would sooner, far sooner, have swallowed at one draught all the
poisons that Mithridates drank in twenty years, in order to try and avoid
death, than have betrayed my secret to the king."

"What have you done, then?"

"Ah! now we are coming to the point, monseigneur. I think I shall not
fail to excite in you a little interest. You are listening, I hope."

"How can you ask me if I am listening? Go on."

Aramis walked softly all round the room, satisfied himself that they were
alone, and that all was silent, and then returned and placed himself
close to the armchair in which Fouquet was seated, awaiting with the
deepest anxiety the revelation he had to make.

"I forgot to tell you," resumed Aramis, addressing himself to Fouquet,
who listened to him with the most absorbed attention - "I forgot to
mention a most remarkable circumstance respecting these twins, namely,
that God had formed them so startlingly, so miraculously, like each
other, that it would be utterly impossible to distinguish the one from
the other. Their own mother would not be able to distinguish them."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed Fouquet.

"The same noble character in their features, the same carriage, the same
stature, the same voice."

"But their thoughts? degree of intelligence? their knowledge of human
life?"

"There is inequality there, I admit, monseigneur. Yes; for the prisoner
of the Bastile is, most incontestably, superior in every way to his
brother; and if, from his prison, this unhappy victim were to pass to the
throne, France would not, from the earliest period of its history,
perhaps, have had a master more powerful in genius and nobility of
character."

Fouquet buried his face in his hands, as if he were overwhelmed by the
weight of this immense secret. Aramis approached him.

"There is a further inequality," he said, continuing his work of
temptation, "an inequality which concerns yourself, monseigneur, between
the twins, both sons of Louis XIII., namely, the last comer does not know
M. Colbert."

Fouquet raised his head immediately - his features were pale and
distorted. The bolt had hit its mark - not his heart, but his mind and
comprehension.

"I understand you," he said to Aramis; "you are proposing a conspiracy to
me?"

"Something like it."

"One of those attempts which, as you said at the beginning of this
conversation, alters the fate of empires?"

"And of superintendents, too; yes, monseigneur."

"In a word, you propose that I should agree to the substitution of the
son of Louis XIII., who is now a prisoner in the Bastile, for the son of
Louis XIII., who is at this moment asleep in the Chamber of Morpheus?"

Aramis smiled with the sinister expression of the sinister thought which
was passing through his brain. "Exactly," he said.

"Have you thought," continued Fouquet, becoming animated with that
strength of talent which in a few seconds originates, and matures the
conception of a plan, and with that largeness of view which foresees all
consequences, and embraces every result at a glance - "have you thought
that we must assemble the nobility, the clergy, and the third estate of
the realm; that we shall have to depose the reigning sovereign, to
disturb by so frightful a scandal the tomb of their dead father, to
sacrifice the life, the honor of a woman, Anne of Austria, the life and
peace of mind and heart of another woman, Maria Theresa; and suppose that
it were all done, if we were to succeed in doing it - "

"I do not understand you," continued Aramis, coldly. "There is not a
single syllable of sense in all you have just said."

"What!" said the superintendent, surprised, "a man like you refuse to
view the practical bearing of the case! Do you confine yourself to the
childish delight of a political illusion, and neglect the chances of its
being carried into execution; in other words, the reality itself, is it
possible?"

"My friend," said Aramis, emphasizing the word with a kind of disdainful
familiarity, "what does Heaven do in order to substitute one king for
another?"

"Heaven!" exclaimed Fouquet - "Heaven gives directions to its agent, who
seizes upon the doomed victim, hurries him away, and seats the triumphant
rival on the empty throne. But you forget that this agent is called
death. Oh! Monsieur d'Herblay, in Heaven's name, tell me if you have
had the idea - "

"There is no question of that, monseigneur; you are going beyond the
object in view. Who spoke of Louis XIV.'s death? who spoke of adopting
the example which Heaven sets in following out the strict execution of
its decrees? No, I wish you to understand that Heaven effects its
purposes without confusion or disturbance, without exciting comment or
remark, without difficulty or exertion; and that men, inspired by Heaven,
succeed like Heaven itself, in all their undertakings, in all they
attempt, in all they do."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, my _friend_," returned Aramis, with the same intonation on the
word friend that he had applied to it the first time - "I mean that if
there has been any confusion, scandal, and even effort in the
substitution of the prisoner for the king, I defy you to prove it."

"What!" cried Fouquet, whiter than the handkerchief with which he wiped
his temples, "what do you say?"

"Go to the king's apartment," continued Aramis, tranquilly, "and you who
know the mystery, I defy even you to perceive that the prisoner of the
Bastile is lying in his brother's bed."

"But the king," stammered Fouquet, seized with horror at the intelligence.

"What king?" said Aramis, in his gentlest tone; "the one who hates you,
or the one who likes you?"

"The king - of - _yesterday_."

"The king of yesterday! be quite easy on that score; he has gone to take
the place in the Bastile which his victim occupied for so many years."

"Great God! And who took him there?"

"I."

"You?"

"Yes, and in the simplest way. I carried him away last night. While he
was descending into midnight, the other was ascending into day. I do not
think there has been any disturbance whatever. A flash of lightning
without thunder awakens nobody."

Fouquet uttered a thick, smothered cry, as if he had been struck by some
invisible blow, and clasping his head between his clenched hands, he
murmured: "You did that?"

"Cleverly enough, too; what do you think of it?"

"You dethroned the king? imprisoned him, too?"

"Yes, that has been done."

"And such an action was committed _here_, at Vaux?"

"Yes, here, at Vaux, in the Chamber of Morpheus. It would almost seem
that it had been built in anticipation of such an act."

"And at what time did it occur?"

"Last night, between twelve and one o'clock."

Fouquet made a movement as if he were on the point of springing upon
Aramis; he restrained himself. "At Vaux; under my roof!" he said, in a
half-strangled voice.

"I believe so! for it is still your house, and it is likely to continue
so, since M. Colbert cannot rob you of it now."

"It was under my roof, then, monsieur, that you committed this crime?"

"This crime?" said Aramis, stupefied.

"This abominable crime!" pursued Fouquet, becoming more and more excited;
"this crime more execrable than an assassination! this crime which
dishonors my name forever, and entails upon me the horror of posterity."

"You are not in your senses, monsieur," replied Aramis, in an irresolute
tone of voice; "you are speaking too loudly; take care!"

"I will call out so loudly, that the whole world shall hear me."

"Monsieur Fouquet, take care!"

Fouquet turned round towards the prelate, whom he looked at full in the
face. "You have dishonored me," he said, "in committing so foul an act
of treason, so heinous a crime upon my guest, upon one who was peacefully
reposing beneath my roof. Oh! woe, woe is me!"

"Woe to the man, rather, who beneath your roof meditated the ruin of your
fortune, your life. Do you forget that?"

"He was my guest, my sovereign."

Aramis rose, his eyes literally bloodshot, his mouth trembling
convulsively. "Have I a man out of his senses to deal with?" he said.

"You have an honorable man to deal with."

"You are mad."

"A man who will prevent you consummating your crime."

"You are mad, I say."

"A man who would sooner, oh! far sooner, die; who would kill you even,
rather than allow you to complete his dishonor."

And Fouquet snatched up his sword, which D'Artagnan had placed at the
head of his bed, and clenched it resolutely in his hand. Aramis frowned,
and thrust his hand into his breast as if in search of a weapon. This
movement did not escape Fouquet, who, full of nobleness and pride in his
magnanimity, threw his sword to a distance from him, and approached
Aramis so close as to touch his shoulder with his disarmed hand.
"Monsieur," he said, "I would sooner die here on the spot than survive
this terrible disgrace; and if you have any pity left for me, I entreat
you to take my life."

Aramis remained silent and motionless.

"You do not reply?" said Fouquet.

Aramis raised his head gently, and a glimmer of hope might be seen once
more to animate his eyes. "Reflect, monseigneur," he said, "upon
everything we have to expect. As the matter now stands, the king is
still alive, and his imprisonment saves your life."

"Yes," replied Fouquet, "you may have been acting on my behalf, but I
will not, do not, accept your services. But, first of all, I do not wish
your ruin. You will leave this house."

Aramis stifled the exclamation which almost escaped his broken heart.

"I am hospitable towards all who are dwellers beneath my roof," continued
Fouquet, with an air of inexpressible majesty; "you will not be more
fatally lost than he whose ruin you have consummated."

"You will be so," said Aramis, in a hoarse, prophetic voice, "you will be
so, believe me."

"I accept the augury, Monsieur d'Herblay; but nothing shall prevent me,
nothing shall stop me. You will leave Vaux - you must leave France; I
give you four hours to place yourself out of the king's reach."

"Four hours?" said Aramis, scornfully and incredulously.

"Upon the word of Fouquet, no one shall follow you before the expiration
of that time. You will therefore have four hours' advance of those whom
the king may wish to dispatch after you."

Four hours!" repeated Aramis, in a thick, smothered voice.

"It is more than you will need to get on board a vessel and flee to Belle-
Isle, which I give you as a place of refuge."

"Ah!" murmured Aramis.

"Belle-Isle is as much mine for you, as Vaux is mine for the king. Go,
D'Herblay, go! as long as I live, not a hair of your head shall be
injured."

"Thank you," said Aramis, with a cold irony of manner.

"Go at once, then, and give me your hand, before we both hasten away; you
to save your life, I to save my honor."

Aramis withdrew from his breast the hand he had concealed there; it was
stained with his blood. He had dug his nails into his flesh, as if in
punishment for having nursed so many projects, more vain, insensate, and
fleeting than the life of the man himself. Fouquet was horror-stricken,
and then his heart smote him with pity. He threw open his arms as if to
embrace him.

"I had no arms," murmured Aramis, as wild and terrible in his wrath as
the shade of Dido. And then, without touching Fouquet's hand, he turned
his head aside, and stepped back a pace or two. His last word was an
imprecation, his last gesture a curse, which his blood-stained hand
seemed to invoke, as it sprinkled on Fouquet's face a few drops of blood
which flowed from his breast. And both of them darted out of the room by
the secret staircase which led down to the inner courtyard. Fouquet
ordered his best horses, while Aramis paused at the foot of the staircase
which led to Porthos's apartment. He reflected profoundly and for some
time, while Fouquet's carriage left the courtyard at full gallop.

"Shall I go alone?" said Aramis to himself, "or warn the prince? Oh!
fury! Warn the prince, and then - do what? Take him with me? To carry
this accusing witness about with me everywhere? War, too, would follow -
civil war, implacable in its nature! And without any resource save
myself - it is impossible! What could he do without me? Oh! without me
he will be utterly destroyed. Yet who knows - let destiny be fulfilled -
condemned he was, let him remain so then! Good or evil Spirit - gloomy
and scornful Power, whom men call the genius of humanity, thou art a
power more restlessly uncertain, more baselessly useless, than wild
mountain wind! Chance, thou term'st thyself, but thou art nothing; thou
inflamest everything with thy breath, crumblest mountains at thy
approach, and suddenly art thyself destroyed at the presence of the Cross
of dead wood behind which stand another Power invisible like thyself -
whom thou deniest, perhaps, but whose avenging hand is on thee, and hurls
thee in the dust dishonored and unnamed! Lost! - I am lost! What can be
done? Flee to Belle-Isle? Yes, and leave Porthos behind me, to talk and
relate the whole affair to every one! Porthos, too, who will have to
suffer for what he has done. I will not let poor Porthos suffer. He
seems like one of the members of my own frame; and his grief or
misfortune would be mine as well. Porthos shall leave with me, and shall
follow my destiny. It must be so."

And Aramis, apprehensive of meeting any one to whom his hurried movements
might appear suspicious, ascended the staircase without being perceived.
Porthos, so recently returned from Paris, was already in a profound
sleep; his huge body forgot its fatigue, as his mind forgot its
thoughts. Aramis entered, light as a shadow, and placed his nervous
grasp on the giant's shoulder. "Come, Porthos," he cried, "come."

Porthos obeyed, rose from his bed, opened his eyes, even before his
intelligence seemed to be aroused.

"We leave immediately," said Aramis.

"Ah!" returned Porthos.

"We shall go mounted, and faster than we have ever gone in our lives."

"Ah!" repeated Porthos.

"Dress yourself, my friend."

And he helped the giant to dress himself, and thrust his gold and
diamonds into his pocket. Whilst he was thus engaged, a slight noise
attracted his attention, and on looking up, he saw D'Artagnan watching
them through the half-opened door. Aramis started.

"What the devil are you doing there in such an agitated manner?" said the
musketeer.

"Hush!" said Porthos.

"We are going off on a mission of great importance," added the bishop.

"You are very fortunate," said the musketeer.

"Oh, dear me!" said Porthos, "I feel so wearied; I would far sooner have
been fast asleep. But the service of the king...."

"Have you seen M. Fouquet?" said Aramis to D'Artagnan.

"Yes, this very minute, in a carriage."

"What did he say to you?"

"'Adieu;' nothing more."

"Was that all?"

"What else do you think he could say? Am I worth anything now, since you
have got into such high favor?"

"Listen," said Aramis, embracing the musketeer; "your good times are
returning again. You will have no occasion to be jealous of any one."

"Ah! bah!"

"I predict that something will happen to you to-day which will increase
your importance more than ever."

"Really?"

"You know that I know all the news?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Come, Porthos, are you ready? Let us go."

"I am quite ready, Aramis."

"Let us embrace D'Artagnan first."

"Most certainly."

"But the horses?"

"Oh! there is no want of them here. Will you have mine?"

"No; Porthos has his own stud. So adieu! adieu!"

The fugitives mounted their horses beneath the very eyes of the captain
of the musketeers, who held Porthos's stirrup for him, and gazed after
them until they were out of sight.

"On any other occasion," thought the Gascon, "I should say that those
gentlemen were making their escape; but in these days politics seem so
changed that such an exit is termed going on a mission. I have no
objection; let me attend to my own affairs, that is more than enough for
_me_," - and he philosophically entered his apartments.


Chapter XXII:
Showing How the Countersign Was Respected at the Bastile.

Fouquet tore along as fast as his horses could drag him. On his way he
trembled with horror at the idea of what had just been revealed to him.

"What must have been," he thought, "the youth of those extraordinary men,
who, even as age is stealing fast upon them, are still able to conceive
such gigantic plans, and carry them through without a tremor?"

At one moment he could not resist the idea that all Aramis had just been
recounting to him was nothing more than a dream, and whether the fable
itself was not the snare; so that when Fouquet arrived at the Bastile, he
might possibly find an order of arrest, which would send him to join the
dethroned king. Strongly impressed with this idea, he gave certain
sealed orders on his route, while fresh horses were being harnessed to
his carriage. These orders were addressed to M. d'Artagnan and to
certain others whose fidelity to the king was far above suspicion.

"In this way," said Fouquet to himself, "prisoner or not, I shall have
performed the duty that I owe my honor. The orders will not reach them
until after my return, if I should return free, and consequently they
will not have been unsealed. I shall take them back again. If I am
delayed; it will be because some misfortune will have befallen me; and in
that case assistance will be sent for me as well as for the king."

Prepared in this manner, the superintendent arrived at the Bastile; he
had traveled at the rate of five leagues and a half the hour. Every
circumstance of delay which Aramis had escaped in his visit to the
Bastile befell Fouquet. It was useless giving his name, equally useless
his being recognized; he could not succeed in obtaining an entrance. By
dint of entreaties, threats, commands, he succeeded in inducing a
sentinel to speak to one of the subalterns, who went and told the major.
As for the governor they did not even dare disturb him. Fouquet sat in
his carriage, at the outer gate of the fortress, chafing with rage and
impatience, awaiting the return of the officers, who at last re-appeared
with a sufficiently sulky air.

"Well," said Fouquet, impatiently, "what did the major say?"

"Well, monsieur," replied the soldier, "the major laughed in my face. He
told me that M. Fouquet was at Vaux, and that even were he at Paris, M.
Fouquet would not get up at so early an hour as the present."

"_Mordieu!_ you are an absolute set of fools," cried the minister,
darting out of the carriage; and before the subaltern had time to shut
the gate, Fouquet sprang through it, and ran forward in spite of the
soldier, who cried out for assistance. Fouquet gained ground, regardless
of the cries of the man, who, however, having at last come up with
Fouquet, called out to the sentinel of the second gate, "Look out, look
out, sentinel!" The man crossed his pike before the minister; but the
latter, robust and active, and hurried away, too, by his passion, wrested
the pike from the soldier and struck him a violent blow on the shoulder
with it. The subaltern, who approached too closely, received a share of
the blows as well. Both of them uttered loud and furious cries, at the
sound of which the whole of the first body of the advanced guard poured
out of the guardhouse. Among them there was one, however, who recognized
the superintendent, and who called, "Monseigneur, ah! monseigneur. Stop,
stop, you fellows!" And he effectually checked the soldiers, who were on
the point of revenging their companions. Fouquet desired them to open
the gate, but they refused to do so without the countersign; he desired
them to inform the governor of his presence; but the latter had already
heard the disturbance at the gate. He ran forward, followed by his
major, and accompanied by a picket of twenty men, persuaded that an
attack was being made on the Bastile. Baisemeaux also recognized Fouquet
immediately, and dropped the sword he bravely had been brandishing.