The monk's eyes glittered.
"Anne de Bueil," murmured the wounded man.
"Anne de Bueil!" cried the monk, standing up and lifting his
hands to Heaven. "Anne de Bueil! You said Anne de Bueil, did
you not?"
"Yes, yes, that was her name; and now absolve me, for I am
dying."
"I, absolve you!" cried the priest, with a laugh which made
the dying man's hair stand on end; "I, absolve you? I am not
a priest."
"You are not a priest!" cried the executioner. "What, then,
are you?"
"I am about to tell you, wretched man."
"Oh, mon Dieu!"
"I am John Francis de Winter."
"I do not know you," said the executioner.
"Wait, wait; you are going to know me. I am John Francis de
Winter," he repeated, "and that woman ---- "
"Well, that woman?"
"Was my mother!"
The executioner uttered the first cry, that terrible cry
which had been first heard.
"Oh, pardon me, pardon me!" he murmured; "if not in the name
of God, at least in your own name; if not as priest, then as
son."
"Pardon you!" cried the pretended monk, "pardon you! Perhaps
God will pardon you, but I, never!"
"For pity's sake," said the executioner, extending his arms.
"No pity for him who had no pity! Die, impenitent, die in
despair, die and be damned!" And drawing a poniard from
beneath his robe he thrust it into the breast of the wounded
man, saying, "Here is my absolution!"
Then was heard that second cry, not so loud as the first and
followed by a long groan.
The executioner, who had lifted himself up, fell back upon
his bed. As to the monk, without withdrawing the poniard
from the wound, he ran to the window, opened it, leaped out
into the flowers of a small garden, glided onward to the
stable, took out his mule, went out by a back gate, ran to a
neighbouring thicket, threw off his monkish garb, took from
his valise the complete habiliment of a cavalier, clothed
himself in it, went on foot to the first post, secured there
a horse and continued with a loose rein his journey to
Paris.
33
Grimaud Speaks.
Grimaud was left alone with the executioner, who in a few
moments opened his eyes.
"Help, help," he murmured; "oh, God! have I not a single
friend in the world who will aid me either to live or to
die?"
"Take courage," said Grimaud; "they are gone to find
assistance."
"Who are you?" asked the wounded man, fixing his half opened
eyes on Grimaud.
"An old acquaintance," replied Grimaud.
"You?" and the wounded man sought to recall the features of
the person now before him.
"Under what circumstances did we meet?" he asked again.
"One night, twenty years ago, my master fetched you from
Bethune and conducted you to Armentieres."
"I know you well now," said the executioner; "you were one
of the four grooms."
"Just so."
"Where do you come from now?"
"I was passing by and drew up at this inn to rest my horse.
They told me the executioner of Bethune was here and
wounded, when you uttered two piercing cries. At the first
we ran to the door and at the second forced it open."
"And the monk?" exclaimed the executioner, "did you see the
monk?"
"What monk?"
"The monk that was shut in with me."
"No, he was no longer here; he appears to have fled by the
window. Was he the man that stabbed you?"
"Yes," said the executioner.
Grimaud moved as if to leave the room.
"What are you going to do?" asked the wounded man.
"He must be apprehended."
"Do not attempt it; he has revenged himself and has done
well. Now I may hope that God will forgive me, since my
crime is expiated."
"Explain yourself." said Grimaud.
"The woman whom you and your masters commanded me to kill
---- "
"Milady?"
"Yes, Milady; it is true you called her thus."
"What has the monk to do with this Milady?"
"She was his mother."
Grimaud trembled and stared at the dying man in a dull and
leaden manner.
"His mother!" he repeated.
"Yes, his mother."
"But does he know this secret, then?"
"I mistook him for a monk and revealed it to him in
confession."
"Unhappy man!" cried Grimaud, whose face was covered with
sweat at the bare idea of the evil results such a revelation
might cause; "unhappy man, you named no one, I hope?"
"I pronounced no name, for I knew none, except his mother's,
as a young girl, and it was by this name that he recognized
her, but he knows that his uncle was among her judges."
Thus speaking, he fell back exhausted. Grimaud, wishing to
relieve him, advanced his hand toward the hilt of the
dagger.
"Touch me not!" said the executioner; "if this dagger is
withdrawn I shall die."
Grimaud remained with his hand extended; then, striking his
forehead, he exclaimed:
"Oh! if this man should ever discover the names of the
others, my master is lost."
"Haste! haste to him and warn him," cried the wounded man,
"if he still lives; warn his friends, too. My death, believe
me, will not be the end of this atrocious misadventure."
"Where was the monk going?" asked Grimaud.
"Toward Paris."
"Who stopped him?"
"Two young gentlemen, who were on their way to join the army
and the name of one of whom I heard his companion mention --
the Viscount de Bragelonne."
"And it was this young man who brought the monk to you? Then
it was the will of God that it should be so and this it is
which makes it all so awful," continued Grimaud. "And yet
that woman deserved her fate; do you not think so?"
"On one's death-bed the crimes of others appear very small
in comparison with one's own," said the executioner; and
falling back exhausted he closed his eyes.
Grimaud was reluctant to leave the man alone and yet he
perceived the necessity of starting at once to bear these
tidings to the Comte de la Fere. Whilst he thus hesitated
the host re-entered the room, followed not only by a
surgeon, but by many other persons, whom curiosity had
attracted to the spot. The surgeon approached the dying man,
who seemed to have fainted.
"We must first extract the steel from the side," said he,
shaking his head in a significant manner.
The prophecy which the wounded man had just uttered recurred
to Grimaud, who turned away his head. The weapon, as we have
already stated, was plunged into the body to the hilt, and
as the surgeon, taking it by the end, drew it forth, the
wounded man opened his eyes and fixed them on him in a
manner truly frightful. When at last the blade had been
entirely withdrawn, a red froth issued from the mouth of the
wounded man and a stream of blood spouted afresh from the
wound when he at length drew breath; then, fixing his eyes
upon Grimaud with a singular expression, the dying man
uttered the last death-rattle and expired.
Then Grimaud, lifting the dagger from the pool of blood
which was gliding along the room, to the horror of all
present, made a sign to the host to follow him, paid him
with a generosity worthy of his master and again mounted his
horse. Grimaud's first intention had been to return to
Paris, but he remembered the anxiety which his prolonged
absence might occasion Raoul, and reflecting that there were
now only two miles between the vicomte and himself and a
quarter of an hour's riding would unite them, and that the
going, returning and explanation would not occupy an hour,
he put spurs to his horse and a few minutes after had
reached the only inn of Mazingarbe.
Raoul was seated at table with the Count de Guiche and his
tutor, when all at once the door opened and Grimaud
presented himself, travel-stained, dirty, and sprinkled with
the blood of the unhappy executioner.
"Grimaud, my good Grimaud!" exclaimed Raoul "here you are at
last! Excuse me, sirs, this is not a servant, but a friend.
How did you leave the count?" continued he. "Does he regret
me a little? Have you seen him since I left him? Answer, for
I have many things to tell you, too; indeed, the last three
days some odd adventures have happened -- but what is the
matter? how pale you are! and blood, too! What is this?"
"It is the blood of the unfortunate man whom you left at the
inn and who died in my arms."
"In your arms? -- that man! but know you who he was?"
"He used to be the headsman of Bethune."
"You knew him? and he is dead?"
"Yes."
"Well, sir," said D'Arminges, "it is the common lot; even an
executioner is not exempted. I had a bad opinion of him the
moment I saw his wound, and since he asked for a monk you
know that it was his opinion, too, that death would follow."
At the mention of the monk, Grimaud became pale.
"Come, come," continued D'Arminges, "to dinner;" for like
most men of his age and generation he did not allow
sentiment or sensibility to interfere with a repast.
"You are right, sir," said Raoul. "Come, Grimaud, order
dinner for yourself and when you have rested a little we can
talk."
"No, sir, no," said Grimaud. "I cannot stop a moment; I must
start for Paris again immediately."
"What? You start for Paris? You are mistaken; it is Olivain
who leaves me; you are to remain."
"On the contrary, Olivain is to stay and I am to go. I have
come for nothing else but to tell you so."
"But what is the meaning of this change?"
"I cannot tell you."
"Explain yourself."
"I cannot explain myself."
"Come, tell me, what is the joke?"
"Monsieur le vicomte knows that I never joke."
"Yes, but I know also that Monsieur le Comte de la Fere
arranged that you were to remain with me and that Olivain
should return to Paris. I shall follow the count's
directions."
"Not under present circumstances, monsieur."
"Perhaps you mean to disobey me?"
"Yes, monsieur, I must."
"You persist, then?"
"Yes, I am going; may you be happy, monsieur," and Grimaud
saluted and turned toward the door to go out.
Raoul, angry and at the same time uneasy, ran after him and
seized him by the arm. "Grimaud!" he cried; "remain; I wish
it."
"Then," replied Grimaud, "you wish me to allow monsieur le
comte to be killed." He saluted and made a movement to
depart.
"Grimaud, my friend," said the viscount, "will you leave me
thus, in such anxiety? Speak, speak, in Heaven's name!" And
Raoul fell back trembling upon his chair.
"I can tell you but one thing, sir, for the secret you wish
to know is not my own. You met a monk, did you not?"
"Yes."
The young men looked at each other with an expression of
fear.
"You conducted him to the wounded man and you had time to
observe him, and perhaps you would know him again were you
to meet him."
"Yes, yes!" cried both young men.
"Very well; if ever you meet him again, wherever it may be,
whether on the high road or in the street or in a church,
anywhere that he or you may be, put your foot on his neck
and crush him without pity, without mercy, as you would
crush a viper or a scorpion! destroy him utterly and quit
him not until he is dead; the lives of five men are not
safe, in my opinion, as long as he is on the earth."
And without adding another word, Grimaud, profiting by the
astonishment and terror into which he had thrown his
auditors, rushed from the room. Two minutes later the
thunder of a horse's hoofs was heard upon the road; it was
Grimaud, on his way to Paris. When once in the saddle
Grimaud reflected on two things; first, that at the pace he
was going his horse would not carry him ten miles, and
secondly, that he had no money. But Grimaud's ingenuity was
more prolific than his speech, and therefore at the first
halt he sold his steed and with the money obtained from the
purchase took post horses.
34
On the Eve of Battle.
Raoul was aroused from his sombre reflections by his host,
who rushed into the apartment crying out, "The Spaniards!
the Spaniards!"
That cry was of such importance as to overcome all
preoccupation. The young men made inquiries and ascertained
that the enemy was advancing by way of Houdin and Bethune.
While Monsieur d'Arminges gave orders for the horses to be
made ready for departure, the two young men ascended to the
upper windows of the house and saw in the direction of
Marsin and of Lens a large body of infantry and cavalry.
This time it was not a wandering troop of partisans; it was
an entire army. There was therefore nothing for them to do
but to follow the prudent advice of Monsieur d'Arminges and
beat a retreat. They quickly went downstairs. Monsieur
d'Arminges was already mounted. Olivain had ready the horses
of the young men, and the lackeys of the Count de Guiche
guarded carefully between them the Spanish prisoner, mounted
on a pony which had been bought for his use. As a further
precaution they had bound his hands.
The little company started off at a trot on the road to
Cambrin, where they expected to find the prince. But he was
no longer there, having withdrawn on the previous evening to
La Bassee, misled by false intelligence of the enemy's
