Chapter Thirty Six

Carrying a tin lantern in one hand and moving with a swift gait, eager to complete this mission, Aramis walked up to the heavy door of the Bastille and with the other hand, grasped the huge knocker and banged it several times. The sound resonated chillingly inside that miserable place before finally fading away.

It was well after midnight. Most of the people of Paris were asleep in their beds, and therefore completely unaware of the priest's covert operation. Standing beside him, carrying several lengths of chains, Porthos glanced over his shoulder, verifying that no one was nearby to witness the event that was about to occur. Not that he was particularly worried, for he was a formidable opponent, but during this mission, total secrecy was desirable.

"Do they not have guards on duty all night?" Aramis asked impatiently, feeling very conspicuous in the moonlight. Grasping the knocker, he banged again, more loudly this time.

After considerable time, they heard the bolt being unlatched and the door swung open to reveal a harsh-eyed, grizzled-faced guard. "I heard you the first time," he grumbled, irritably. "Give me time to get here." His gaze worked its up and down the well-dressed visitors, observing that both appeared to be men of status. "Who are you and what do you want?"

Aramis presented him with the document, but did not offer his or Porthos's names. "These orders come directly from the king. We have been instructed by his majesty to remove the prisoner listed on the document."

The man reached for the document and turned it over to verify the king's personal seal. Recognizing it as authentic, he broke the seal, unfolded it, and scanned the orders. "This is the prisoner in the tower room. The one no one is supposed to see."

"The very same," Aramis answered, brusquely. "Now, if you don't mind, we are in a bit of a hurry. We have a long ride ahead of us, and the hour is quite late."

"Yes, all right."

The guard stepped back, allowing the two men to enter. "Seems a bit odd, if you ask me," the man said as they stepped past him. He closed the door behind them and bolted it.

"What seems odd?" Aramis asked. "Moving him in the middle of the night? Political prisoners are often transferred in the dark. It is safer for everyone."

"No, not that. No one except that deaf mute is allowed to see him. We are all curious about that. He must be an important prisoner to be guarded with so much secrecy. The captain on duty during the day was here when the prisoner arrived, but he has said nothing to no one about who he is. He doesn't even have a name; he's always referred to by a number too long to remember."

"That is how it was ordered," Aramis told him. "The orders come directly from the king, and that is as much as any of us needs to know. I am here to carry out my orders, as should you," he added, meaningfully.

"Very well. Want I should go up with you?" he asked, hoping to see this mysteriously secret prisoner. "I see you have shackles. You may need help securing them."

"That will not be necessary," Aramis replied. "As the king's order states, you are to provide me with the key. We will secure the prisoner, and then we will soon be out of here. You may return to what you were doing."

"Very well." The disappointment in the man's voice was audible, but he made no further comment as he selected the key and offered it to the priest.

"Thank you. I will return this shortly."

The guard watched in silence as the two men proceeded up the narrow, winding stairs to the floor in which the mysterious prisoner was housed.

"Which cell?" Porthos asked as they hurried down the corridor.

"The tower room. This way."

The two men proceeded quietly down the corridor, passing many cells in which prisoners were sleeping on straw covered floors. The stench was almost overpowering, a disgusting mixture of human waste, sweat, moldy straw, stagnant water, and unwashed bodies.

"The smell is enough to gag a sow!" Porthos muttered.

An iron gate blocked entrance to the tower, and Aramis inserted a key into the lock. The hinges were rusty and squealed noisily as he pulled it open. Several of the men farther down the block stirred in the sleep, others lifted their heads to peer toward the lantern light at the end of the corridor. Presuming it to be one of the guards, they lay back down in an attempt to capture the oblivion of sleep, the only time they actually felt free from the misery of the prison.

The two men passed through the gate, then Porthos pulled it closed behind them, and they moved toward the tower room in which Louis was being kept.

When they reached it, Aramis slid back the panel that covered the window and peered inside, searching for the deposed king. Louis was lying on the cot against the far corner, but he raised his head and looked toward the door when he heard the panel open.

Realizing it was not the deaf mute, he asked, "Who is there?"

"It is I. Aramis."

"Aramis?"

"We're taking you out of here."

At last! Hope surged as Louis sat up abruptly, swinging his legs off the cot as he started to rise.

"Stay there on the cot," the priest instructed as he inserted the key in the lock and opened the door.

Louis remained seated on the bunk as instructed, but his heart was pounding eagerly in anticipation of getting out of that terrible place. "I thought perhaps you had lied about the Bastille being only temporary."

"I am a man of my word," Aramis told him. "As is D'Artagnan. You should know that."

"But it has been so long. I do not think I could have held out much longer without going completely mad."

"We are actually here in good time. It has only been five weeks."

Louis fell silent, thinking about that, and if they had been able to see his face they would have seen the astonishment there. "Five weeks?" he asked quietly, his voice weak with disbelief. "It seemed like so much longer."

Aramis nodded, sympathetically. "I know." He moved toward the prisoner and held up the lantern to better view him. The sight of the mask still made him shudder with revulsion. "I loathe doing it, but we must follow protocol. It will be necessary to place you in irons before taking you out of here."

Looking beyond the priest, Louis saw Porthos standing there holding wrist and leg shackles. A moment of panic ensued. He had never in his life been placed in chains! When they had brought him to the Bastille, his hands had been tied with a rope, but he had not suffered the indignity of chains and shackles. For a brief moment, he considered bolting for the open door, then remembered the mask. Even if he managed to escape, he had no method by which to free himself from it. He was totally dependent upon them to unlock it.

With a deep sigh, resigned to his dependency upon them, he asked, "Is that truly necessary? You know I will not attempt to escape as long as I am in the mask, for I have no way to remove it."

Aramis replied, "Regrettably, the chains are necessary. By your own orders, prisoners are to be transferred with chains and shackles. They will come off once we reach our destination, as will the mask. Hold on to that thought. Your ordeal will be over soon."

The priest's voice was kind, almost gentle, and feeling reassured by it Louis nodded his acceptance.

Porthos knelt down in front of him and placed the shackles around his ankles while Aramis held the lantern close so that he could see. When that was completed, Louis held out his hands and allowed the wrist irons to be secured. "They are not too tight, are they?" Porthos asked, genuinely concerned about the comfort of D'Artagnan's son.

Louis shook his head. "No. May we just go?"

Taking his arm, Porthos helped him to stand, then placed a cloak around his shoulders and pulled up the hood to cover the mask. "Just like when we first arrived," he said. "We do not want people talking about the mask and what it conceals, so the fewer people who see it, the better."

Louis nodded and started toward the door, but the priest placed a restraining hand on his shoulder, stopping him

"One last thing before we leave," Aramis cautioned. "There are a few guards on duty, one inside the main level and a uniformed patrol at the outer perimeter of the property. They are most curious about you. Keep your head bowed to conceal the mask, and make no attempts to communicate with them, or there will be dire consequences. Is that understood?"

So eager was he to be out of that place, Louis readily agreed. "Yes."

Aramis took one arm and Porthos took the other, and they guided Louis through the door and into the corridor. Once they were through the iron gate, they moved swiftly to the stairs and started down. Louis stumbled once, for his vision was somewhat impaired by the mask, but he was steadied by each of the former Musketeers at his side, and they reached the ground floor without incident.

As soon as they stepped off the stone stairs, Louis bowed his head to conceal the mask as he had been instructed. He was unaccustomed to following orders issued by others, but he had only one thought in his mind, and that was getting away from the Bastille and out of the mask. At that moment, it was the only thing that mattered.

The guard watched carefully as they guided the prisoner toward the door, longing to see beneath the cloak, to see for himself why the man's identity was such a carefully guarded secret, but a warning look and a raised hand from Aramis advised him to keep his distance. Porthos only looked at him, but something about the bigger of the two men left the guard with the distinct impression that he would thoroughly thumped on if he got too near.

Once they were out the door, the guard watched as they ushered the prisoner into a waiting coach. From the door to the coach, Aramis tossed the keys back to him, then climbed into the vehicle and settled in one of the seats. As soon as the door was closed, the driver set the horses in motion, and the coach disappeared into the night.

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Seated beside Aramis in the coach, with Porthos directly across from him, Louis gazed out at the streets of Paris as they made their way toward the edge of town. The coach rocked and swayed on the road, and the horses' hooves clopped noisily on the cobblestone paving. He realized that this was probably the last time he would ever see the city. It was a strange feeling to know that he was leaving it forever.

Aramis and Porthos did not converse during the trip. Both were alert and kept their attention riveted upon him. Even when they were looking out the window at the dark landscape or at some other insignificant point inside the coach, he sensed that they were totally attentive to any movement he might make.

Soon, Paris was behind them and they were in the countryside, driving toward the estate home in which he would live out his life. Life as he had once known it had changed forever. There would be no more parties to enjoy, and no more mistresses with whom to pass his time. There would be no more responsibility for the welfare of the country, and no decisions to be made regarding the people of France. Never again would he go on a hunt or even take a leisurely ride through the palace grounds. For the rest of his days, he would be confined, unable to control his own destiny.

A tear spilled from his eye, and he reached up to wipe it away. The chain that was attached to the iron cuff rattled as he moved his hand, emphasizing his prisoner status, and he could not touch his face because of the mask. The tear tickled annoyingly down his cheek, but he had no choice but to tolerate it. As Philippe had been forced to tolerate it.

For the first time, he allowed thoughts of his brother's existence in the mask to enter his mind. How many years had he been forced to endure the discomfort of the heavy iron mask? He was certain it had been at least five or six years since the day he had ordered Aramis to place the contraption on Philippe's head. After five weeks, Louis had found it nearly intolerable; how had Philippe managed to survive for so long?

The iron shackle on one wrist was beginning to chafe, so he turned it with his other hand, seeking a more comfortable position.

Aramis immediately noticed. "Are they causing you discomfort?"

"They are heavy and they are rubbing the skin," he retorted, irritably, the first hint of defiance that he had expressed all evening. "Of course, they are causing discomfort. Why do you bother asking? Why should you care?"

Aramis gazed at him in the flickering light of the coach lantern, knowing that he could never reveal the full truth about why he was attempting to treat the former king with compassion, so he merely said, "Let us just say that it is out of respect for your father that I want you to be reasonably comfortable."

"If you had any respect for my father, you would not be treating his son this way!" Louis countered. "As firstborn, I am the rightful king!"

Again there was a distinguishable pause before Aramis answered. "I do have respect for your father, and I am certain he would want the more capable of his sons to govern the country. I can speak with confidence when I say that your father would never have allowed you to place your brother in the mask, nor would he have approved of the way you abused your office. Now, we will see if your brother can repair the damage you have done. As for the shackles, I apologize for that, but they will remain until you are settled in your chambers."

Frustrated, Louis leaned his shoulder against the side of the coach and gazed out at the dark landscape. He was tired, hungry, and discouraged. Never in his entire life had he been forced to submit to the will of others. Others submitted to him.

Finally, after an indistinguishable amount of time, the coach turned off the main road and proceeded deeper into the countryside on a narrow access road.

"We are nearly there," Aramis announced. "When we arrive, you will have the cloak and hood in place, as there are a few servants on hand. They are likely in bed asleep, but we will use precaution in case one happens to be up. You will have a personal guard who will tend to you needs. His name is Herve. Do not attempt to offer bribes or threats, for it will do you no good. He is being well paid to look after you. Oh, and just so you know, he already knows your identity and he and his wife will be the only people permitted to see your face. A year ago, you ordered his tongue to be cut out for speaking against you, so you might say that you are not his favorite person."

"He hates you," Porthos said, bluntly.

Aramis gave him a look, then agreed, "Porthos may be brusque, but he is correct. Herve is a member of the Jesuit Order, and he totally supportive of Philippe taking control of the crown. He will take great pleasure in seeing you confined, so do not expect him to be sympathetic to your plight. What you have done to him is much worse."

Louis felt his heart lurch with concern. "You are leaving me in the care of a man who hates me? What if he takes it upon himself to harm me?"

"He is under orders not to lay a hand on you. Unless you try to escape, of course."

"Then he may do whatever he wishes with you," Porthos added. He did not add that Herve had been ordered, no matter what, to keep Louis alive, deciding it was better that the deposed king was unaware of that detail.

Ignoring Porthos's remark, Aramis said, "Now, we have some rules that we must go over before we arrive. To make matters easier and less complicated, his wife, Marie, will act as housekeeper, and she will come in weekly to change your bedding and clean up a bit in your rooms. Just so you know, she despises you as much as her husband. You will also have a personal cook, but unlike Herve and Marie, she does not know your identity and will not be permitted to enter your room."

Aramis paused briefly to allow the young man time to respond, but he remained silent. In fact, it seemed that all the fight had gone out of him, and he wondered if his stay in the Bastille had broken him. On the other hand, he knew that Louis was unpredictable, and that they could not let down their guard with him. He might only be pretending to be docile.

He continued, "Inside your dining room, you will find a cupboard against the wall. It has two doors, one on the front and one in the back, which opens through the wall into the corridor beyond. Marie will open the small door that has been cut in the wall and place your tray inside the cupboard. She will then ring a bell to alert you that your meal is ready. You may then open the cupboard on your side and remove your tray. Do not get the idea of attempting to crawl through the door in the cupboard to reach the corridor. The door will be kept securely locked and under Marie's direct supervision. Even though we will remove the iron mask, we have provided a cloth mask which you must wear on certain occasions, such as in the event that Marie is ill and cannot clean your rooms. No one except Herve and his wife must ever see your face. Is that clear?"

Louis stared at him through the eyeholes in the mask, but did not immediately answer. He had been listening to the rules with mounting resentment, and he wished he could strangle the priest with the chains, but a quick glance at Porthos reminded him that the larger ex-Musketeer would be on him in seconds if he made such an attempt.

"Is that clear?" Aramis repeated, more sternly than before.

Reaching forward, Porthos grasped the chain that bound his wrists and gave it a yank. "He asked you a question."

Pain shot through Louis' wrists. "Yes! I understand," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Porthos released him, and Louis rubbed his painful wrists.

"Good," Aramis continued. "You will have unlimited access to the courtyard gardens through a private stairway. You may pass your time either walking there or your may tend to the plants and flowers, if you desire. With the exception of your own windows, we have sealed the shutters on every window which overlooks the courtyard. This will prevent any of the other servants from glancing outside and seeing you there. The wall is much too high for you to go over, so do not even think about that. The door is very narrow, as is the stairway, so that you will not be tempted to carry any of the furniture out in an escape attempt. Do you have any questions?"

"No." After a brief pause, he asked, "What of my mother?"

"She will visit you weekly. If you need to get a message to her, you may write it down and give it to Herve. He will send your message with a courier. You are allowed to correspond only with her, but you may direct a message to either me or D'Artagnan if there is anything you need for your comfort. No one else. I believe that just about covers it. We will deal with other situations as they arrive. Herve will be sending me a weekly report on your conduct, so I would advise that you remain on your best behavior, or you may find yourself back in the Bastille. On your brother's orders, we have taken great care to see to your comfort, which is far more consideration than you gave him. Remember that."

Following the winding road toward the house, the coach was occasionally at an angle where Louis was able to see the huge stone mansion looming against the night sky. Several windows were brightened by candlelight, and once he saw a shadowy figure pass through the light; one of the servants assigned to care for him, he realized. The courtyard that Aramis had spoken of must have been at the rear of the house, for he saw no indication of it or the containing wall. Which meant that his rooms were also at the rear.

The coach pulled up to the front stoop, and Aramis positioned the cloak and the hood on the prisoner before opening the coach door and stepping outside. He and Porthos assisted Louis as he stepped from the coach, moving carefully with the chains on his ankles to avoid tripping and falling. When he was safely on the ground, they moved to the front doors.

The door opened from the inside, and a man and woman stood there. The woman carried a candleholder, and both of them scowled at the deposed king with great contempt.

"This is Herve and his wife, Marie," Aramis said. "They will treat you as well as you treat them."

Louis looked at them through the eye slits, noticing that neither of them appeared disturbed by the sight of the mask. In fact, they seemed quite satisfied that the king had been so thoroughly humiliated.

"The rooms have been prepared, Father," Marie said. "I drew a bath in case he wishes to clean up, and I turned down his bed for him."

"Excellent," Aramis said, approvingly as they entered the foyer. "Did the clothing arrive?"

"They did indeed," she replied. "Herve and I unpacked them and hung them in the wardrobe."

"We took the liberty of ordering new clothes for you," Aramis explained. "I am certain you wish to get out of those rags you are wearing." He gestured toward the staircase. "This way."

Louis followed the priest up the elaborate staircase to the second floor, looking curiously at the décor. It was not comparable to the palace, but it was a huge improvement over the place he had just left. The floors had been suitably polished, the banisters were smooth and shiny, and the paintings and tapestries on the wall were clean and bright.

Aramis saw him looking around, and explained, "It was in a bit of disrepair, since it had not been lived in since your relatives passed away, but my Jesuit friends were able to ready everything for you much faster than I had anticipated. They were paid out of your personal coffers, by the way."

They passed no other servants as they made their way up the stairs and down the corridor to the door which led into his quarters. Aramis opened the door and stood back for the former king to enter first.

Louis paused briefly to look behind him at the long corridor, the paintings on the walls, and the staircase they had just ascended, knowing that he would likely never see them again, then he moved through the door, noticing that it had a sturdy slide bar which would be used to lock him inside. The room was ready for him, with the candles in the wall sconces illuminating the chamber.

The main room was a spacious sitting room decorated with fine furniture, tapestries, and paintings. A window was located directly across from the door, and he was somewhat surprised to find that there were no bars on it. He knew that it would open into the courtyard from which he could not escape, so apparently bars had been deemed unnecessary.

Porthos knelt down in front of him and began removing the shackles while Aramis withdrew a smaller key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock on the mask. A moment later, Louis heard the "click" as the latch opened, and he felt the heaviness lift from his head as the mask was removed.

Cool air caressed his face with blessed relief, and his hands reached up to touch his cheeks. They were covered with the beard that had not been shaved in five weeks. His long hair was a greasy, tangled, matted mess.

He was so overcome with relief that he offered the words that he had rarely spoken his entire life. "Thank you," he said, gratefully.

If Aramis was surprised by the expression of gratitude, he did not show it. "Marie has drawn a bath in your dressing room and she will come in daily to shave you, starting tomorrow morning. I am sorry, but we cannot allow you to have a razor." He gestured to the left. "The dressing room and your bedchamber are around the corner to the left. A dining room has been set up for you to the right, and a library is just beyond that. I had a staircase installed in the dining room that leads down to the courtyard which you may visit at any time, day or night." He picked up a piece of cloth that was lying on a table near the door, and Louis saw that it was a hood with eye-holes in it. "As I explained before, if for any reason Marie is unable to clean your rooms, you must wear this in front of her replacement. Herve will accompany her to make certain that you do."

Louis looked at the hood without touching it, and made no comment.

Aramis continued, "Just so you know, the original plan was for you to wear the cloth mask while outside and for Herve to stand guard over you in the courtyard, which meant that you would only be allowed outside at times which was convenient for him. D'Artagnan came up with the idea of sealing the shutters on this side of the house, which prevents the servants from seeing you from the windows. You have him to thank for this additional freedom of coming and going as you please." He observed the haggard-looking young man carefully in the candlelight, and his expression softened. "You appear rather thin. Have you not been well-fed?"

"It was difficult to eat in the mask," he explained. "The food was not of the quality to which I am accustomed. And there were rats and insects in there."

"I see. Well, you need not worry about that any longer, unless you misbehave. We will make every attempt to keep you comfortable, your majesty, but we must have your cooperation. If you follow directions and conduct yourself properly, you will remain here where you can have a clean living space, good food, and a certain amount of freedom. A wrong move will land you back in the mask and back in the Bastille."

"Think about this, also," Porthos added. "The people are beginning to experience a greater contentment under your brother. Even if you were to escape, you would not be welcomed back on the throne. We would deny everything that has happened, and declare that you were nothing more than an imposter who happens to resemble the king."

"You have thought of everything, haven't you?" Louis asked, bitterly.

"Yes, we have," Aramis replied with great confidence. "We will leave you now, but one of us will check on you from time to time. If you have any wants, merely pull the cord on the wall in your bedchamber. It connects to a bell in Herve's chamber. He will do his best to accommodate your needs." He started for the door, then stopped and turned around again. "One more thing. When you summon Herve, you must stand where he can see you when he opens the door or he will not enter, so do not get the idea of hiding behind it in ambush. Remember, you have much to lose if you misbehave."

With his instructions delivered, Aramis stepped through the door. Porthos gathered up the shackles, and followed. A moment later, Louis heard the lock slide into place.

Left standing alone in the middle of the room, he reached up to touch his head again. It felt incredibly light after carrying around the constant weight of the iron mask, and his peripheral vision was a welcomed change from looking through the restrictive eyeholes.

To acquaint himself with his new surroundings, he picked up one of the candles and moved first to the dining hall. The room was large with a medium sized table, large enough to seat six people, which he regarded with a bit of irony, since he would never be able to invite five friends to share a meal with him. A bowl of fruit had been placed in its center, and he picked up an apple and eagerly devoured it. It was delicious and juicy, the best apple he had ever tasted. When nothing was left but the core, he reached for another and ate it a bit slower as his eyes wandered around the dining hall for closer inspection.

At the wall which bordered the corridor was the cupboard that Aramis had told him about, through which his meals would be delivered. Moving to it, he opened the door and looked inside. As expected, it was currently empty. The rear panel was obviously a door, for he could see the sturdy hinges. Reaching through it, he pushed on it, not really expecting that it would open. As anticipated, it was secure.

Closing the cupboard, he turned around to view the room again. In the corner nearest the outer wall was the staircase, surrounded by a decorative railing. He moved toward it and held the candle over the railing to view the steps as they disappeared into the darkness below. As Aramis had stated, they were narrow and wound sharply in a tight circle to the lower floor.

Moving through the next door, he entered the library. In the flickering light, he observed that it was not quite as spacious as the sitting room, but still it was generous amount of room. The furnishing consisted of several chairs positioned near the window for natural light, and several small tables. The bookshelves which covered three walls from floor to ceiling were well stocked with various volumes, and he knew he would have plenty of time to read them.

Moving back through the dining room, he tossed the apple core onto the table with the first, then proceeded through the sitting room and entered the bedchamber. It was almost as large as his room at the palace, with several chairs, a small table, and a large, very inviting bed. He wanted nothing more than a good night's sleep on a soft mattress, but first, he must clean himself up, and for the first time in his life, he must do it alone.

Adjacent to the bedchamber was the dressing room, and in it was a large tub of water. He reached into it and submerged his hand to test the warmth. It was still comfortably warm. The fire was burning in the hearth for heating the water and to keep the temperature inside the room warm. Closing the door to hold in the heat, he undressed and let the old clothing fall onto the floor in a heap.

Carefully, he stepped into the tub and sank down into the hot water, feeling the wonderful warmth surround him. For a while, he just sat there, luxuriating in its cleanness. Then, he scrubbed away all the sweat and filth from the Bastille, and washed the grime from his hair. By the time he was wrapped in a clean robe, he was starting to feel good again for the first time in more than a month.

Leaving the bathwater for Herve or Marie to empty, he returned to the bedroom, drying his hair with a piece of linen. That was when he noticed that he had a window that opened onto the side of the house, providing a different view than those at the rear. Moving toward it, he attempted to open the shutters, and found that they had been nailed shut. Unlike the sitting room and the library, this room did not overlook the courtyard, from which there was no escape, so Aramis had nailed the shutters to keep him in. They were a glaring reminder that he was still a prisoner.