II
ROSESIf this is a mixed-up sort of story, it is because I must tell it in a roundabout way. There is a certain amount of coincidence in it; but, were it not for coincidence, there could be no drama of life. For its accuracy of detail I have mainly the word of my friend, Tombarel, Mayor of Creille. There is also the potential voucher of Brother Sylvain, of the Cistercian Monastery on the Island of St. Honorat, which lies in the Bay of Cannes, hidden behind the Island of Ste. Marguerite, where the Man in the Iron Mask languished for so many years in his bastioned cell.
I exhibited Tombarel’s portrait in the Royal Academy—I am, as I have told you, an Associate of that whatever-you-like-to-call-it body—and sold it; for painters have to live, just like plumbers and politicians and bookmake
