One other change awaited the prisoner, the last before his final release. High preferment came to Saint Mars, who was offered and accepted the governorship of the Bastile. He was to bring his “ancient prisoner” with him to Paris; to make the long journey across France weighted with the terrible responsibility of conveying such a man safely in open arrest. We get a passing glimpse of the cortège in a letter published by the grandnephew of Saint Mars, M. Polteau, who describes the halt made for a night at Polteau, a country house belonging to Saint Mars.
“The Man in the Mask,” he writes, in 1768, “came in a litter which preceded that of M. de Saint Mars. They were accompanied by several men on horseback. The peasants waited to greet their lord. M. de Saint Mars took his meals with his prisoner, who was placed with his back to the windows of the dining room which overlooked the courtyard. The peasants whom I questioned could not see whether he wore his mask while eating, but they took notice of the fact that M. de Saint Mars who sat opposite to him kept a pair of pistols beside his plate. They were waited on by one manservant who fetched the dishes from the anteroom where they were brought to him, taking care to close the door of the dining room after him. When the prisoner crossed the courtyard, he always wore the black mask. The peasants noticed that his teeth and lips showed through, also that he was tall and had white hair. M. de Saint Mars slept in a bed close to that of the masked man.”
The prisoner arrived at the Bastile on the 18th of September, 1698, and the authentic record of his reception appears in the journal of the King’s lieutenant of the castle, M. du Junca, still preserved in the Arsenal Library. “M. de Saint Mars, governor of the Chateau of the Bastile, presented, for the first time, coming from his government of the Isle of Sainte-Marguerite, bringing with him a prisoner who was formerly in his keeping at Pignerol.” The entry goes on to say that the newcomer was taken to the third chamber of the Bertandière tower and lodged there alone in the charge of a gaoler who had come with him. He was nameless in the Bastile and was known only as “the prisoner from Provence” or “the ancient prisoner.”
His isolation and seclusion were strictly maintained for the first three years of his imprisonment in the Bastile and then came a curious change. He is no longer kept apart. He is associated with other prisoners, and not of the best class. One, a rascally domestic servant, who practised black magic, and a disreputable rake who had once been an army officer. Nothing is said about the mask, but there can no longer be much secrecy and the mystery might be divulged at any time. It is evident that the reasons for concealment have passed away. The old political intrigue has lost its importance. No one cared to know about Casale. Louis XIV had slaked his vindictiveness and the sun of his splendor was on the decline. Nevertheless it was not till after his death that the prisoner’s real name transpired. He died as he had lived, unknown. Du Junca enters the event in the register:—
“The prisoner unknown, masked always ... happening to be unwell yesterday on coming from mass died this day about 10 o’clock in the evening without having had any serious illness; indeed it could not have been slighter ... and this unknown prisoner confined so long a time was buried on Tuesday at four in the afternoon in the cemetery of St. Paul, our parish. On the register of burial he was given a name also unknown.” To this is added in the margin, “I have since learnt that he was named on the register M. de Marchiali.” A further entry can be seen in the parish register. “On the 19th of November, 1703, Marchioly, of the age of forty-five or thereabouts, died in the Bastile ... and was buried in the presence of the major and the surgeon of the Bastile.” “Marchioly” is curiously like “Mattioli” and it is a fair assumption that the true identity of the “Man with the Iron Mask” bursts forth on passing the verge of the silent land.
Lauzun, a third inmate of Pignerol about this period, calls for mention here as a prominent courtier whose misguided ambition and boundless impudence tempted him seriously to affront and offend the King. The penalties that overtook him were just what a bold, intemperate subject might expect from an autocratic, unforgiving master. This prisoner, the Count de Lauzun, was rightly styled by a contemporary “the most insolent little man that had been seen for a century.” He had no considerable claims to great talents, agreeable manners or personal beauty, but he was quick to establish himself in the good graces of Louis XIV. He was one of the first to offer him the grateful incense of unlimited adulation. He worshipped the sovereign as a superior being, erected him into a god, lavished the most fulsome flattery on him, declaring that Louis by his wisdom, wit, greatness and majesty took rank as a divinity. Yet he sometimes forgot himself and went to the other extreme, daring to attack and upbraid the King if he disapproved of his conduct. Once he sided with Madame de Montespan when she was first favorite and remonstrated with Louis so rudely that the King cast him at once into the Bastile. But such blunt honesty won the King’s respect and speedy forgiveness. Lauzun was soon released and advanced from post to post, each of successively greater value, so that the hypocritical courtier, who had made the most abject submission, seemed assured of high fortune. As he rose, his ambition grew and he aspired now to the hand of the King’s cousin, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, who began to look upon him with favor. This was the same “Grande Mademoiselle,” the heroine of the wars of the Fronde, who was now a wealthy heiress and who at one time came near being the King’s wife and Queen. The match was so unequal as to appear wildly impossible, but De Lauzun was strongly backed by Madame de Montespan and two nobles of high rank were induced to make a formal proposal to the King.
Louis liked De Lauzun and gave his consent without hesitation. The marriage might have been completed at once but the bold suitor, successful beyond his deserts and puffed up with conceit, put off the happy day so as to give more and more éclat to the wedding ceremony. While he procrastinated his enemies were unceasingly active. The princes of the blood and jealous fellow courtiers constantly implored the King to avoid so great a mistake, and Louis, having been weak enough to give his consent, was now so base as to withdraw it. De Lauzun retorted by persuading Mademoiselle de Montpensier to marry him privately. This reckless act, after all, might have been forgiven, but he was full of bitterness against those who had injured him with the King and desired to retaliate. He more especially hated Madame de Montespan, whom he now plotted to ruin by very unworthy means. He thus filled his cup and procured the full measure of the King’s indignation. He was arrested and consigned to Pignerol, where in company with Fouquet he languished for ten years.