The Sixth Key(110)

‘When you put it like that, I have to say yes. But when the audience walks out of the theatre they return to the true reality. As I will do, when I leave here,’ I ventured to say.

‘Ah, but will you return to reality or just the allusion, an insinuation of reality?’

I was confused. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, perhaps this has to do with the riddle: body and tomb are the same. Have you worked it out yet?’

‘I think you’re insinuating that I’m dead,’ I said.

He paused. ‘On the contrary! Perhaps I’m alluding to the reality of your life.’ He grinned without humour. ‘We are very close to unveiling the reality. In metatheatre an unveiling usually precedes the final act of a catastrophe.’

I felt suddenly cold. Catastrophe?

‘I want to show you something. Will you follow me once more?’

‘Into that labyrinth of galleries – which one this time?’

‘No doubt you know of Alexandre Dumas’s work The Man in the Iron Mask?’

‘Yes, of course.’

He paused. His face was more concentrated than I had seen it before. ‘Well, you know, Dumas belonged to the Freemasons and in his books he was doing what many writers, painters and poets did in those days – he hid the truth behind allegory and colour. He wanted to show King Louis’s duplicity, his double face; and so he depicted the man in the iron mask as Louis’s twin brother. I will now reveal the true identity of the masked man and the secret that he held. A secret that a king was willing to do anything to gain.’





39


More than Meets the Eye

‘The devil, devil, devil!’ repeated La Fontaine; ‘what can I do?’ Alexandre Dumas, The Man in the Iron Mask


Fortress of Pignerol, Italy, 1666

The bishop carried the lantern before him into the dungeons of the old jail. The night was silent. The sound of his own steps on the stone flags and the metallic clink of the keys that were held tightly in the jailer’s calloused hands reverberated loudly in his ears. When the jailer came to a halt before a heavy oak door he seemed disconcerted and uncertain. He fumbled with those hands to find the one key among a score of identical keys that opened its lock. When the door finally came open with a screeching of rusty hinges, the Jesuit said to the jailer: ‘You may not be present during a prisoner’s confession.’

The man began to argue but he was silenced when the bishop raised a hand.

The Bishop said, ‘Go!’

Chided the jailer nodded, allowing the Jesuit to enter the cell alone.

He closed the door and waited a time to hear the dying sound of the man’s footsteps, ensuring that whatever passed between him and the prisoner would not be overheard. He turned his attention then to the man on the bed. He couldn’t tell if he was asleep or awake. The man lay on his back unmoving. The Jesuit observed what he had already been told but it was still a shock to see the mask made of riveted iron.

It was said to be padded with silk but despite the assurances that it had been designed to fit the prisoner perfectly, the Jesuit didn’t imagine that such a thing could be comfortable. The mask covered the prisoner’s head rather like a helmet and was clasped at the neck with a large lock, the key to which was kept on the governor’s key-ring. To attempt to remove the mask would doubtless cause injury to the skull, perhaps even death from a dislocation of the neck. There was sweat on the Jesuit’s brow; he did not feel as calm as the man in the mask appeared to be.

The prisoner stirred. ‘Confessor, is that you?’

‘It is I, Aramis, Bishop of Vannes, at your service.’

‘Please, make yourself comfortable. I have only meagre furnishings, but they will do to rest your legs.’

The bishop nodded, bowed and, placing the lantern on a table, sat in an old leather armchair near the bed. The mask reflected the light of the lantern in a glint of greys and yellows and oranges.

‘Firstly, I want to say that I have no regrets,’ the muffled voice said.

‘Nothing at all?’ Aramis was surprised.

The man sat up to cough, allowing his head to take the weight of the mask. ‘No. I regret nothing,’ he said finally. ‘You will tell your friend D’Artagnan?’

‘Yes.’

‘He was a gentleman in his treatment of me.’

‘Well.’ The Bishop wiped absently at nothing on his regal lap. ‘He was not happy to arrest you.’

‘No,’ the other man said. ‘He graciously allowed me to burn papers that would have further incriminated our order. Pity my brother’s letter did not burn as well!’

‘Do you regret the loss of your liberty?’