Unmasked
Anton Giroux looked at the stone walls of the four-hundred-year-old stronghold and tried to imagine what the Bastille Saint-Antoine had been like in the fourteenth century when it was a newly built fortress to defend Paris against the British. Seen from the outside, the now infamous prison was still a formidable sight, a symbol of authority and oppression of the French monarchy; but Anton, the jailer, knew the Bastille currently housed only seven prisoners.
I suppose I ought to be thankful that there aren't more men here, he thought as he made his rounds, checking to see that no one had escaped. It makes my job that much easier. Besides, the way things are nowadays, what would we do with more people behind bars? We barely have enough food to feed the poor buggers we already have.
No doubt there were many people who believed that with honest, hardworking citizens on the verge of starvation in Paris, it was shameful to waste bread on incarcerated men. Anton, however, had assumed the responsibility of caring for the inmates and, as an honest, decent man, he performed his duties to the best of his ability.
Once he completed his rounds, Giroux headed toward his quarters. Above the sound of his echoing footsteps, he heard the drawbridge lowering.
What's all that about? he wondered, abruptly changing his course.
He arrived at the front gate in time to greet a visitor to the jail. When he saw the fine clothing and regal manner of the man, Anton immediately assumed he was of noble birth, perhaps even a distant member of the royal family. As such, the jailer immediately lowered his head and bowed in respect.
"To what do we owe the honor of this visit, Monsieur?"
"You are Anton Giroux, a jailer here for the past ten years?" the well-dressed stranger asked.
"I am, Monsieur."
"You needn't bow down to me. I'm no aristocrat. Come, let us find someplace private we can talk."
"Will this do, Monsieur?" Anton asked after showing the stranger into an empty guardroom.
"Yes, yes, this will be fine. I've come here because you've got a reputation for being an honest man and, above all, one who can be trusted."
"I try to be."
"There is a prisoner who needs to be watched very carefully. It's been decided that you're the best man for the task. If you agree, I'll have him brought here at once."
"Monsieur, I'm not in a position to agree or disagree. I'm just a jailer. I look after who I'm told to look after."
"This is no ordinary prisoner," the stranger explained, "but you're not to know his identity. You will see that he remains in his cell under lock and key, receives no visitors and has no communication with anyone, not even his fellow prisoners."
"I understand, and I'm quite willing to work under those terms."
The stranger looked straight into Anton's eyes, and the jailer was disturbed by the depth of sadness he saw in the man's countenance.
"I must repeat: the prisoner is not to be permitted to communicate with anyone. You, yourself, must refrain from speaking to him except for simple commands. You are not, under any circumstances, to casually converse with him or answer any of his questions."
Giroux was astonished by the stranger's instructions. The prisoner must surely be someone of great importance, a serious threat to the king, but who was he and what crime had he committed?
"Are you sure you can follow these instructions?" the stranger asked. "If you have the slightest doubt, then speak up. There is a great deal at stake here if you fail."
"I'll not fail, Monsieur. I'll guard the prisoner and turn a deaf ear to anything he might say."
While he awaited the arrival of the new prisoner, Anton took the opportunity to eat his lunch. As jailer at the Bastille, he ate better than most of the people of Paris, but his meal still left a lot to be desired. Regardless of the bland taste, he quickly gobbled up his bread and cheese.
His appetite somewhat sated, he decided to wash his hands and face and make himself more presentable. After all, the new prisoner was obviously a person of some importance, and given the volatile nature of the political situation in France, he did not want to make any enemies. The man who is a prisoner today may be involved in running the country tomorrow.
The soldiers who escorted the new prisoner to the jail were not recognizable to Anton. Their uniforms, although clearly military in fashion, did not belong to any of King Louis's armies.
"Where are we to put him?" one of the soldiers asked in an accent as unfamiliar to the jailer as his uniform was.
The man they held between them walked tall and proud, but Anton could not see his face beneath the hood of his cloak.
"Follow me," the jailer replied and led the group to an empty cell set apart from the others, one reserved for more influential prisoners.
Once the cell door was slammed shut and the lock fastened, one of the soldiers addressed Anton.
"Remember, the prisoner is not to communicate with anyone, under any circumstances whatsoever. Have you got that straight?"
"I do," the jailer replied, taking umbrage at the soldier's treating him like a common lackey without the intelligence to get out of the rain. "No need for anyone to fear. I'm quite capable of doing my job."
"That remains to be seen!"
Anton bit his lip, holding back the angry retort that begged to be spoken.
* * *
After seeing the soldiers out of the prison, the jailer ordered the drawbridge raised.
Good riddance to the lot of you! Anton thought. Now to go see to the new prisoner.
There was an opening in each cell door through which the jailer could either feed or observe the occupant without unlocking the door and running the risk of being overpowered by a prisoner hell-bent on escaping. When Anton looked through the opening at the new prisoner, he saw the man had not yet removed the hooded cape he wore.
"Take that off." The jailer ordered, believing the three-word command could not be construed as conversation.
The prisoner, who had his back to the door, reached up his hands and removed the cloak.
"The helmet, too."
The prisoner then turned toward Anton, and the jailer saw that the helmet was Medieval in style, covering the entire face.
"I'm afraid I can't."
The voice echoed in the metal helmet, and Anton felt a chill of apprehension when the prisoner spoke.
"This iron mask is part of my penance. I'm not allowed to remove it. I'm surprised they didn't tell you."
"How are you to eat then?" the jailer asked, realizing he was probably dangerously close to breaking the no-conversation rule—and on his first encounter with the prisoner no less!
"No need for you to worry. I won't starve to death in my cell."
There being nothing further to say, Anton turned to leave, but the prisoner called to him.
"When will my meals be served?"
Believing the prisoner was deliberately trying to engage him in conversation, the jailer rudely replied, "When I get around to it!"
That said, he walked away, ignoring the prisoner's efforts to lure him back.
* * *
In the months that followed his incarceration in the Bastille, the masked man made daily attempts to break through his jailer's silence.
"Have you no heart?" the prisoner cried pitiably. "Are you made of stone?"
"I'm just doing my job," the jailer gruffly replied.
"Dear God," the incarcerated man cried, his masked face pointed toward the heavens. "Why am I to be tortured so? What terrible sin have I committed that I must be cut off from all human interaction?"
The same question occurred to Anton. Exactly what deed had warranted such bizarre and inhuman treatment? If the man was that dangerous, why not simply execute him?
"Don't you know what crime brought you to this prison?" the jailer asked, almost in a whisper, although no one could overhear him.
"Did you say something?" the prisoner asked, his voice full of hope.
Anton stood closer to the opening in the door and repeated his question.
"No, I don't know why I'm here or why I was arrested. I can only assume someone in power sees me as a threat."
"Are you a member of a noble family?"
"You could say that I'm from one of the oldest families in Europe—in all the world, in fact."
"Can't they help you win your freedom?"
"I don't believe they know where I am. I was taken away in the middle of the night. This mask was placed over my face, and I was brought here. I was not given a trial nor was I charged with any crime."
"Sounds to me like you were kidnapped," the jailer said.
"That's precisely what it was! Do you know the man who had me brought here?"
"No. I never saw him before. But the men who escorted you were not wearing French army uniforms, and their leader spoke with a strange accent."
"Then how do you know my imprisonment is legitimate? Did you speak to the governor of the prison?"
"No," Anton admitted sheepishly. "I naturally assumed the man was acting on behalf of his majesty, the king."
"What better way to make a man disappear!" the prisoner said angrily. "Lock him away in this fortress of a prison where no one but the jailer knows that he's incarcerated."
Not only was Anton an honest and decent man, but he was a compassionate one as well.
"I can make a few inquiries," he offered. "See whether the prison governor was told about you."
"Would you?" the prisoner eagerly asked, not believing his good fortune.
"I'll speak to him the first opportunity I get."
* * *
The following day when Anton Giroux brought the prisoner his meal, the masked man was in good spirits.
"Did you have a chance to speak to the governor yet?" he asked.
"Sorry, no. The governor only comes here when he's needed."
"Oh, well," the prisoner said, maintaining his cheerfulness. "It's not as though I haven't got the time to wait."
The jailer passed a plate of food through the opening in the door and then turned to leave.
"Won't you stay and talk with me awhile?"
"You know that's against the rules."
"That rule has already been broken, so what harm will it do? Besides, who's to know?"
Anton supposed the prisoner's argument was valid. He had spoken to him yesterday, and what harm had it caused? Why shouldn't he speak with him again?
"What do you want to talk about?"
"Well, how are things going in America now that the rebels have won their independence from Great Britain?"
"I'm afraid I don't know much about what's going on around the world," Anton confessed.
"Paris, then. What's the political climate like these days?"
"There's talk of convening the Estates-General."
"Good," the prisoner said. "That's the first step toward progress in France."
The two men talked for over an hour before Anton insisted he had to get back to work.
"Perhaps we can talk again later?" the prisoner asked hopefully. "Or if not later, then tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," replied Anton who no longer saw any harm in conversing with the masked man.
* * *
As the days turned to weeks, the jailer found himself looking forward to his chats with the prisoner. The unknown man, who claimed to be from an old European family, was refined, educated and witty. He could talk intelligently about any subject from history and religion to science and the arts. Additionally, the masked man had the gift of making a conversation about women's fashion or advancements in animal husbandry as interesting as the latest gossip about Queen Marie Antoinette.
It was while they were discussing the writings of Nostradamus—to be precise, the prisoner was doing the talking and the jailer listening—that Anton began to wonder what the man looked like without his iron mask. The voice, although somewhat muffled, clearly belonged to a young man. Was he fair of face, plain or unpleasant to gaze upon?
"Anton? Anton, are you listening to me?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was deep in thought," Giroux apologized. "What was it you were saying?"
"I was telling you about my brothers."
"Ah, yes. You have two brothers, don't you?"
"Three," the prisoner corrected the jailer.
"What do your brothers do?"
"One of them makes his livelihood from food production, another one is in medicine and the third is a man who sees to people's eternal souls."
"And what about you?"
"Before I was imprisoned, I was a military man."
"With the king's army?"
"No. I'm more of a soldier of fortune," the prisoner said with a laugh. "I go where the opportunities are. And right now, the opportunities are in France."
"What makes you say that?"
"I'm an excellent judge of political situations. I know fertile ground when I see it."
Anton felt uneasy about the prisoner's sudden change of demeanor. He was no longer behaving like an innocent man, kidnapped by a powerful enemy. His self-assurance and impudence were reminiscent of dangerous criminals the jailer had encountered in the past.
"That may be so," Anton said, "but you're not in a position to take advantage of those opportunities; you're behind bars."
"I'll get out," the prisoner declared confidently. "I always do."
"You've been in prison before?" the jailer asked with surprise.
"Yes, many times. So many I've lost count."
"Then you're not an innocent man who's been unjustly imprisoned."
"That's true. I lied to you so I could gain your confidence and you would then talk to me. And it worked!"
"What do you hope to achieve by our talks?"
"My freedom, of course!"
"How?"
"You will release me and take this blasted mask off my face."
"I may have broken the rules by talking to you, but there's no way in hell I'll help you escape!"
"You'll be rewarded most handsomely."
"Don't think you can bribe me. I'm an honest man. I can't be bought."
"Everyone can be bought!" the prisoner insisted. "I just have to find the right price."
* * *
As the financial crisis in Paris worsened, Anton found it increasingly difficult to hold out against the prisoner's inducements. It took all his will power to fight the temptation to free the man in exchange for security during the troubled times.
One hot July day in 1789, the prisoner once again sweetened his offer.
"You'll have riches beyond your wildest dreams; you'll have a fine home—in England, where you'll be far from the problems of Paris. Just imagine it: you can have a beautiful wife and children. And I'll even throw in a title, if it pleases you."
"I can't!" the jailer cried. "Don't you understand? There are things that are more important than money."
"Such as?"
"Duty. Honor. Self-respect. If I set you free, I'd be a criminal, no better than ...."
Suddenly, there came the sound of shouting and gunfire.
"What's that?" the jailer asked, rhetorically.
"That, my good man, is freedom coming for me."
* * *
"What's going on?" Anton asked one of the military guards stationed at the main gate.
"A mob of peasants," the soldier replied. "They're attacking the Bastille."
"To free seven prisoners?"
"No, they're demanding the ammunition we have here."
The mob charged, and a violent battle ensued. Eventually, the revolutionaries took possession of the fortress. They seized and executed the governor, and would later victoriously carry his head through the streets on a spike. Once the peasants were in charge of the Bastille, the seven official prisoners were let out of their cells. Only Anton knew about the man in the mask who was held in a cell in another part of the prison.
He'll die if I leave him here, the jailer suddenly thought as he prepared to vacate the Bastille. He'll either starve or die of thirst.
It was thus compassion and not greed that led Anton Giroux to seek out the prisoner, unlock his cell and set him free.
"You can go," the jailer explained, holding open the door. "A mob of peasants has taken over the Bastille and released the other prisoners."
A sudden sound from behind, frightened Anton who suspected the revolutionaries had come to kill him.
"Brothers, you've come for me!" the prisoner cried with joy. "Help me get this damned mask off!"
Three large men, their features covered by hooded cloaks, surrounded the prisoner. There was a loud clang, and Anton saw the iron mask had fallen to the floor. The four brothers turned in his direction, and the jailer clearly saw all their faces: Death, who was nothing more than an animated skeleton; Famine, who was so emaciated that every one of his bones could be seen beneath his skin; Pestilence, whose features were hideously transformed by all manner of disease; and lastly War, now unmasked by his siblings, whose devilishly handsome face both attracted and repulsed Anton.
"Come, brothers," the former prisoner said. "Let us wreak havoc on this land."
The four men crossed the threshold of the cell and instantly vanished.
* * *
Anton stumbled out of the prison, trying to comprehend what had occurred in the cell. Outside, the crowd was rejoicing at their capture of the Bastille.
"What's the world coming to?" he asked when he saw a young girl carrying a bloody cudgel in her hand.
"If you think this is bad, just wait. Things are going to get a lot worse."
Anton spun around and saw a familiar face.
"I told you not to talk to him, didn't I?" said the finely dressed man who had charged the jailer with guarding the masked prisoner in the Bastille.
"You didn't tell me who he was."
"If I had told you that War was your prisoner, would you have believed me?"
"I doubt it. But who are you?"
"A troubled soul. I was once a man, much like you, who set one of the brothers free. Did you think you were alone? There have been many of us over the centuries. I set Pestilence free, and the result was the Black Death that nearly decimated the population of Europe. My only hope of salvation for this deed was to search out the Four Horsemen and return them to prison. I managed to capture War; however, ...."
"And what's to become of me?" Anton asked.
"You're a good man, and no doubt you will bitterly regret the blood that will run in the streets of France now that War is on the loose. If you hope to find any peace with yourself, you will join us."
Anton could not deny that he had disregarded the warning and first spoke with War and then released him from captivity.
"I will dedicate my life to hunting down the prisoner," he swore.
"Not your life," the angel said, pointing to the jailer's dead body at the gate of the Bastille. "It is your eternal soul that will join us in the mighty army against the Four Horsemen."
* * *
The angel of Anton Giroux sought out his former prisoner during the bloody Reign of Terror that was the French Revolution. Unable to capture him, he then followed in the wake of Napoleon's army. At times War would be detained temporarily, but he would always manage to regain his freedom. In 1812, War rekindled the flames of battle between America and Great Britain. No sooner did the Crimean War end, than the American Civil War began. The First World War was still raging when the Russian Revolution commenced. Even after the end of the War to End All Wars, fighting erupted in Russia, Ireland, China, Turkey and Spain. A Second World War followed.
"Will it never end?" a weary Anton asked as he and his fellow angels watched helplessly as atom bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. "Will we never succeed in putting an end to these evils wrought by War and his brothers?"
His fellow angels, as disheartened as the former Bastille jailer, could only guess at the answer to his question.
This story was inspired by the account of a man named Eustache Dauger who was arrested in 1669-70 and incarcerated in a number of prisons including the Bastille. Dauger inspired Alexandre Dumas to write The Vicomte of Bragelonne: Ten Years Later, the third part of which is called The Man in the Iron Mask.
That's not exactly the iron mask I had in mind, Salem!
