There was nothing singular—for the France of that day—in the man himself, his offence, or his punishment; but the mask and the mystery—chiefly of Voltaire’s creation—fascinated the public, as the veil of Mokanna fascinated his worshippers. Here are some of the Voltairean myths about this mysterious prisoner: One day he wrote something with his knife on a silver plate and threw it down to a fisherman, who took it to the governor of the prison. “Have you read it?” asked the governor, sternly. “I cannot read,” replied the fisherman. “That has saved your life,” rejoined the governor. Another day a young lad found beneath the prison tower a shirt written closely all over. He took it to the governor, who asked, anxiously. “Have you read it?” The boy again and again assured him that he had not. Nevertheless, two days later the boy was found dead in his bed. When the Iron Mask went to mass he was forbidden to speak or unmask himself on pain of being then and there shot down by the invalids, who stood by with loaded carbines to carry out the threat. Here are some of the personages the Iron Mask was supposed to be: An illegitimate son of Anne of Austria; a twin brother of Louis XIV., put out of the way by Cardinal Richelieu to avoid the risk of a disputed succession; the Count of Vermandois, an illegitimate son of Louis XIV.; Fouquet, Louis’ minister; the Duke of Beaufort, a hero of the Fronde; the Duke of Monmouth, the English pretender; Avedick, the Armenian patriarch; and of late it has almost come to be accepted that he was Mattioli, a Piedmontese political prisoner, who died in 1703.
Dumas, at any rate, took the plausible and acceptable popular solution; and it certainly furnished him with a highly fascinating theme for a romance, which, however, never apparently achieved any great popularity.
“The clock was striking seven as Aramis passed before the Rue du Petit Muse and stopped at the Rue Tourelles, at the gateway of the Bastille....
“Of the governor of the prison Aramis—now Bishop of Vannes—asked, ‘How many prisoners have you? Sixty?’...
“‘For a prince of the blood I have fifty francs a day, ... thirty-six for a marechal de France, lieutenant-generals and brigadiers pay twenty-six francs, and councillors of parliament fifteen, but for an ordinary judge, or an ecclesiastic, I receive only ten francs.’”
Here Dumas’ knowledge and love of good eating again crops out. Continuing the dialogue between the bishop and the governor, he says:
“‘A tolerably sized fowl costs a franc and a half, and a good-sized fish four or five francs. Three meals a day are served, and, as the prisoners have nothing to do, they are always eating. A prisoner from whom I get ten francs costs me seven francs and a half.’
“‘Have you no prisoners, then, at less than ten francs?’ queried Aramis.
“‘Oh, yes,’ said the governor, ‘citizens and lawyers.’
“‘But do they not eat, too?... Do not the prisoners leave some scraps?’ continued Aramis.