Chapter 20

Chapter XX
The Morning
In contrast with the sad and terrible destiny of the King imprisoned in the Bastille, and tearing, in sheer despair, the bolts and bars of his dungeon, the rhetoric of the chroniclers of old would not fail to present the antithesis of Philippe lying asleep beneath the royal canopy. We do not pretend to say that such rhetoric is always bad, and always scatters in places it should not the flowers with which it embellishes history. But we shall not dwell on the antithesis, but shall proceed to draw with interest another picture to serve as a companion to the one we have drawn in the last chapter.

The young Prince descended from Aramis’s room in the same way the King had descended from the apartment dedicated to Morpheus. The dome gradually and slowly sank down under Aramis’s pressure, and Philippe stood beside the royal bed, which had ascended again, after having deposited its prisoner in the secret depths of the subterranean passage. Alone, in the presence of all the luxury which surrounded him; alone, in the presence of his power; alone, with the part he was about to be forced to act, Philippe’s soul for the first time opened to the thousand varied emotions which are the vital throbs of a royal heart. But he could not help changing color when he looked upon the empty bed, still tumbled by his brother’s body. This mute accomplice had returned, after having served in the consummation of the enterprise, it returned with the traces of the crime; it spoke to the guilty author of that crime, with the frank and unreserved language which an accomplice never fears to use towards his companion in guilt,- it spoke the truth. Philippe bent over the bed, and perceived a pocket-handkerchief lying on it which was still damp with the cold sweat that had poured from Louis XIV’s face. This sweat-bestained handkerchief terrified Philippe, as the blood of Abel terrified Cain.

“I am now face to face with my destiny,” said Philippe, with his eyes on fire and his face livid. “Will it be more terrifying than my captivity has been sad and gloomy? Forced to pursue at every moment the usurpations of thought, shall I never cease to listen to the scruples of my heart? Yes; the King has lain on this bed. It is indeed his head that has left its impression on this pillow, his bitter tears that have stained this handkerchief; and yet I hesitate to throw myself on the bed, or to press in my hand the handkerchief which is embroidered with my brother’s arms. Away with this weakness! Let me imitate M. d’Herblay, who asserts that a man’s actions should be always one degree above his thought; let me imitate M. d’Herblay, whose thoughts are of and for himself alone, who regards himself as a man of honor, so long as he injures or betrays his enemies only. I, I alone should have occupied this bed, if Louis XIV had not, owing to my mother’s