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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 13, Issue 7 (October 1, 1938)

Dream Places

page 44

Dream Places

“I advanced towards him, drawing my sword as I did so.”

You must learn, my friends, that not all dream places are pleasant places, and not all of the stories brought back from the shadowy kingdom are of a kind to tell when the fire burns low and the wind stirs into fearsome shapes the death black clouds of the winter sky. Some there are who say that what a man does in his dreams he would not hesitate to do in his waking life if he had the chance and were brave enough or base enough. For such opinions I care nought. I only know that the story. I have to tell you now is one of black treachery and murder, and that the man responsible who still walks abroad respected by men, was none other than myself!

You know, do you not, that I am a great reader of Dumas? On the night I wish to tell you about—and a bitter, cold night it was—I was seated alone at my fireside reading one of his romances. It was the one concerning the attempt of Monsieur d'Herblay to carry off Louis XIV, King of France, and put in his place His Majesty's twin brother, who bore him a remarkable likeness. On account of this likeness the Prince had been cruelly imprisoned in the Bastille for many years. It was a masterful plot. None knew of the existence of this twin brother of the King, and Monsieur Baisemeaux, Governor of the Bastille, although strictly charged to treat the young Prince well, never at any time suspected his identity. The secret had been well kept, and of the few who had discovered it, all but Monsieur d'Herblay were sleeping the long sleep from which there is no awakening.

It was the night when the King was to be seized forcibly and put in the Bastille in his brother's place. All had gone well with the plotters. His Majesty was peacefully sleeping at the Chateau de Vaux-le-Vicomte, the palatial residence of Monsieur Fouquet, his First Minister. As Dumas tells the story the plot had all but succeeded when d'Herblay decided to take Fouquet into his confidence. This was a rash decision, for the Minister was a man of honour and would not permit such a dastardly crime, as he called it, to take place. Thus a plot which had cost d'Herblay enormous sums to bring so near to an issue was ruined when about to be crowned with success.

On the night of which I speak, I arrived at this particular point in the story and wished, as I always wish when reading it, that d'Herblay would on this occasion prove more cautious. My fire was low and I was about to go for logs when a strange thing happened. I rose from my chair, but it was not I who rose, it was Monsieur the Chevalier d'Herblay! I walked, it is true, but not in my own house, it was down one of the long corridors of the Chateau of Vaux that I walked!

It was to Fouquet's room that I went, conscious that my hour was upon me, knowing full well that what I did that night, as a result of months of laborious preparation, would make me the most powerful man in France, or bring me to an end I shuddered to contemplate. Fouquet was in his room writing late into the night as was his habit. I reasoned that such a brilliant mind could not fail to grasp the significance of such a master stroke as I proposed, so I told him all. I was excited, feverish, restless, and verily believe that I was drunk with the thoughts of future power. Fouquet listened eagerly, and not once during the long recital did his expression change, nor did his dark eyes leave mine for an instant of time. When I had finished he looked at me with an expression I could not read. For a time his eyes seemed to be seeking out my very soul, then at last he spoke. “Monsieur,” he said, “I thank you for telling me of this. You have been my friend, and it saddens me to tell you what now I must. His Majesty is my guest. He is under my roof and as my King and my guest, he is doubly sacred to me. Monsieur, I give you men and horses, I give you an hour to leave France, and, because we have been friends, I give you my Chateau of Belle-Isle as a sanctuary. Go. Monsieur.”

This was very similar to what Fouquet had said in the book, but by page 45 thunder, I was d'Herblay now! The plot was in my hands and must go on to success. I turned on Fouquet with flashing eyes. “Monsieur,” I said, “you are mad. You know well that the King hates you and is even now plotting your downfall. You know that with Philippe, his brother, on the throne we could rule France together. We could make alliances, make war, make peace. We could make France the greatest nation on earth. What do you say, Monsieur? Shall we turn back at such a scruple when all these things are before us?”

“I say that the King is under my roof, my guest, and sacred to me,” said Fouquet quietly.

“Is that your final word,” I asked in despair. “Is that all you would say, Monsieur?”

“d'Herblay, you know me well. You know, and France knows, that once Fouquet has spoken, he speaks no more on the same subject.”

Then it was that a towering, ungovernable rage came upon me. See this plot come to nothing I could not. Fouquet stood in the way—well, Fouquet must get out of the way. In a fever of perspiration I advanced towards him, drawing my sword as I did so.

“But, Monsieur, what is this on your sleeve?”

“But, Monsieur, what is this on your sleeve?”

“Heaven help me and pardon what I am about to do,” I said in a terrible voice, “but unless you swear neither to hinder me nor reveal what I shall do this night, I must kill you Monsieur.”

“d'Herblay, if you kill me I shall not be the first gentleman who has given his life for his King. You must know that what you ask is infamous. You must know that whatever power you gain in your lifetime through such an action, your name will in future ages be held in contempt by all honourable men. I bear a great and honoured name, Monsieur, and the swords of the men of my house have ever been used to defend the King and not to wound him.” Fouquet spoke sadly but firmly. I knew it was useless to delay further. He drew his blade, and, although I try to tell myself that what followed was a duel, I know in my heart that it was murder, no less. His face in those last dreadful moments bore the look of a man, who knew he was being assassinated, and after a few passes and thrusts, he fell, pierced to the heart.

I was on horse! I was flying through the night to release a royal prisoner and place a new King on the throne of France! I was in Philippe's cell, kneeling at the feet of the wise and noble Prince in whose name I hoped to rule. He was warned and ready. Over long and weary months I had prepared him for this moment and now at last it had come!

“Monseigneur,” I said, still on my knees before him, “the hour is at hand. I call you from this prison cell to occupy your rightful place on the throne of your ancestors.”

What a noble Prince he was! Lesser men would have fainted at the sheer joy of the moment, but his was a nature truly royal, and he gave no sign outwardly of what his feelings must have been.

“Let us go, then,” he said simply, assisting me to rise. “But, Monsieur, what is this on your sleeve. See, my hands are red with blood.”

Fool that I was! I had then to tell him all, saying that Fouquet alone had stood between him and the throne.

“I had to kill him, Monseigneur,” I said as I brazened the whole thing out. “There was no other way. One life alone stood in the way of our projects and I took it knowing full well that you were condemned never to leave this place if I hesitated. The great ones of the earth have lesser men to do such deeds for them, Monseigneur, but if they have to act alone, then—they act.”

The Prince turned pale and then, as if unable to support his body he sank into a chair and did not speak for a long time. I watched him as but an hour before I had watched Fouquet, and with as little success in divining his thoughts. When at last he spoke his voice was firm, and I knew that there could be no question made of what he said, for he had the indomitable and royal will of all his race.

“Monsieur,” he began, “you must know that as a son of France I could not ascend the throne of France after such a—forgive me, Monsieur—after such a terrible crime had been committed in my name. I know what you would say,” he went on, as he saw that I wished to speak, “you would say that in condemning my brother to what has been my fate here, I would commence my reign with an act no less criminal than yours. The comparison is not just, d'Herblay. As King, I should merely be punishing the guilty, but you, Monsieur, have killed a man innocent of all crime, and, moreover, a noble and loyal gentleman who loved his King. Monsieur, I am a Prince of the Royal House of France and worthy to reign over you. I shall prove it to you by refusing the crown you offer me and which you bring to me in hands which are covered in blood.”

Broken man that I was, I nevertheless could see plainly after this terrible speech, that my crime was past all atoning for. I had killed a man in cold blood, and must have been mad to think that the son of a King would be possessed of such a base nature as to profit from my crime. How could I raise myself up in the sight of this noble Prince, who waited for me to speak, who waited to hear me even as I had heard him, but whose firm countenance gave no sign that aught I could say would move him? I felt myself utterly crushed by his look, but presently heard myself speaking.

“Monseigneur,” I said, “I am a man of noble birth. Unlike your Royal page 46 Highness, I have lived all my life with men, in the cruel world of war and politics. I have day by day in my visits here instructed you and tried to make you understand that this would also be your world once we had secured your release and placed you securely on the throne. You know that I have spent my personal fortune and, in this attempt have pledged the vast resources of the secret order I command. Am I to go back to those I represent with this story of failure? I see, Monseigneur, without a word having fallen from your lips, that that is what I must do. With lesser men, even with such as Monsieur Fouquet, who had the blood of many on his hands, I would argue, but, accustomed as I am to command men, I see that it would be useless to argue with you. Will you forgive me, Monseigneur, and let me go my way in peace?”

“When you came to me with the knowledge of my real identity,” said Philippe, “you brought me hope. In leaving me, Monsieur, you also leave me in hope, for I know, only now do I know, that I am worthy of reigning as King in France. Fare you well, Monsieur.”

I left the Prince and went out into the night. Of a sudden I was cold, so very cold. What was upon me? The grim Bastille walls suddenly faded and I left the shadowy kingdom behind. I was back in my chair at home. My fire was all but dead and, as I rose shivering from the chair, I swear I saw the ghastly, blood-covered face of Fouquet glaring at me malevolently from the coals!

When the late Sir Jas. Barrie was asked on one occasion which smoke of the day he considered the best he replied, with a smile, “I enjoy a pipe at any time but especially after a hard spell of writing when one is feeling, perhaps, a little fagged. A smoke at such time is peculiarly soothing and refreshing.” The celebrated author, as is well-known, invented a blend of his own which was put on the market by a London tobacconist and became famous. But a really good tobacco always catches on; witness the over-bearing success of the New Zealand blends; Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold. Their super-excellence is, of course, mainly due to the splendid quality of the leaf composing them, but the toasting they undergo at the factory has also a lot to do with it, for toasting eliminates most of the injurious nicotine in them and helps to give them their delicious flavour and unequalled bouquet. All attempts to imitate them have failed utterly.*