minutes to find the hole by which he has escaped. In those
ten minutes we shall have gained the road and the king will
be saved."
"Everything shall be done as you say, Athos. Your hand, for
perhaps we shall not see each other again."
Athos put his arm around Aramis's neck and embraced him.
"For you," he said. "Now if I die, say to D'Artagnan that I
love him as a son, and embrace him for me. Embrace also our
good and brave Porthos. Adieu."
"Adieu," said Aramis. "I am as sure now that the king will
be saved as I am sure that I clasp the most loyal hand in
the world."
Aramis parted from Athos, went down from the scaffold in his
turn and took his way to the hotel, whistling the air of a
song in praise of Cromwell. He found the other two friends
sitting at table before a good fire, drinking a bottle of
port and devouring a cold chicken. Porthos was cursing the
infamous parliamentarians; D'Artagnan ate in silence,
revolving in his mind the most audacious plans.
Aramis related what had been agreed upon. D'Artagnan
approved with a movement of the head and Porthos with his
voice.
"Bravo!" he said; "besides, we shall be there at the time of
the flight. What with D'Artagnan, Grimaud and Musqueton, we
can manage to dispatch eight of them. I say nothing about
Blaisois, for he is only fit to hold the horses. Two minutes
a man makes four minutes. Musqueton will lose another,
that's five; and in five minutes we shall have galloped a
quarter of a league."
Aramis swallowed a hasty mouthful, gulped a glass of wine
and changed his clothes.
"Now," said he, "I'm off to the bishop's. Take care of the
executioner, D'Artagnan."
"All right. Grimaud has relieved Musqueton and has his foot
on the cellar door."
"Well, don't be inactive."
"Inactive, my dear fellow! Ask Porthos. I pass my life upon
my legs."
Aramis again presented himself at the bishop's. Juxon
consented the more readily to take him with him, as he would
require an assistant priest in case the king should wish to
communicate. Dressed as Aramis had been the night before,
the bishop got into his carriage, and the former, more
disguised by his pallor and sad countenance than his
deacon's dress, got in by his side. The carriage stopped at
the door of the palace.
It was about nine o'clock in the morning.
Nothing was changed. The ante-rooms were still full of
soldiers, the passages still lined by guards. The king was
already sanguine, but when he perceived Aramis his hope
turned to joy. He embraced Juxon and pressed the hand of
Aramis. The bishop affected to speak in a loud voice, before
every one, of their previous interview. The king replied
that the words spoken in that interview had borne their
fruit, and that he desired another under the same
conditions. Juxon turned to those present and begged them to
leave him and his assistant alone with the king. Every one
withdrew. As soon as the door was closed:
"Sire," said Aramis, speaking rapidly, "you are saved; the
London executioner has vanished. His assistant broke his leg
last night beneath your majesty's window -- the cry we heard
was his -- and there is no executioner nearer at hand than
Bristol."
"But the Comte de la Fere?" asked the king.
"Two feet below you; take the poker from the fireplace and
strike three times on the floor. He will answer you."
The king did so, and the moment after, three muffled knocks,
answering the given signal, sounded beneath the floor.
"So," said Charles, "he who knocks down there ---- "
"Is the Comte de la Fere, sire," said Aramis. "He is
preparing a way for your majesty to escape. Parry, for his
part, will raise this slab of marble and a passage will be
opened."
"Oh, Juxon," said the king, seizing the bishop's two hands
in his own, "promise that you will pray all your life for
this gentleman and for the other that you hear beneath your
feet, and for two others also, who, wherever they may be,
are on the watch for my safety."
"Sire," replied Juxon, "you shall be obeyed."
Meanwhile, the miner underneath was heard working away
incessantly, when suddenly an unexpected noise resounded in
the passage. Aramis seized the poker and gave the signal to
stop; the noise came nearer and nearer. It was that of a
number of men steadily approaching. The four men stood
motionless. All eyes were fixed on the door, which opened
slowly and with a kind of solemnity.
A parliamentary officer, clothed in black and with a gravity
that augured ill, entered, bowed to the king, and unfolding
a parchment, read the sentence, as is usually done to
criminals before their execution.
"What is this?" said Aramis to Juxon.
Juxon replied with a sign which meant that he knew no more
than Aramis about it.
"Then it is for to-day?" asked the king.
"Was not your majesty warned that it was to take place this
morning?"
"Then I must die like a common criminal by the hand of the
London executioner?"
"The London executioner has disappeared, your majesty, but a
man has offered his services instead. The execution will
therefore only be delayed long enough for you to arrange
your spiritual and temporal affairs."
A slight moisture on his brow was the only trace of emotion
that Charles evinced, as he learned these tidings. But
Aramis was livid. His heart ceased beating, he closed his
eyes and leaned upon the table. Charles perceived it and
took his hand.
"Come, my friend," said he, "courage." Then he turned to the
officer. "Sir, I am ready. There is but little reason why I
should delay you. Firstly, I wish to communicate; secondly,
to embrace my children and bid them farewell for the last
time. Will this be permitted me?"
"Certainly," replied the officer, and left the room.
Aramis dug his nails into his flesh and groaned aloud.
"Oh! my lord bishop," he cried, seizing Juxon's hands,
"where is Providence? where is Providence?"
"My son," replied the bishop, with firmness, "you see Him
not, because the passions of the world conceal Him."
"My son," said the king to Aramis, "do not take it so to
heart. You ask what God is doing. God beholds your devotion
and my martyrdom, and believe me, both will have their
reward. Ascribe to men, then, what is happening, and not to
God. It is men who drive me to death; it is men who make you
weep."
"Yes, sire," said Aramis, "yes, you are right. It is men
whom I should hold responsible, and I will hold them
responsible."
"Be seated, Juxon," said the king, falling upon his knees.
"I have now to confess to you. Remain, sir," he added to
Aramis, who had moved to leave the room. "Remain, Parry. I
have nothing to say that cannot be said before all."
Juxon sat down, and the king, kneeling humbly before him,
began his confession.
66
Remember!
The mob had already assembled when the confession
terminated. The king's children next arrived -- the Princess
Charlotte, a beautiful, fair-haired child, with tears in her
eyes, and the Duke of Gloucester, a boy eight or nine years
old, whose tearless eyes and curling lip revealed a growing
pride. He had wept all night long, but would not show his
grief before the people.
Charles's heart melted within him at the sight of those two
children, whom he had not seen for two years and whom he now
met at the moment of death. He turned to brush away a tear,
and then, summoning up all his firmness, drew his daughter
toward him, recommending her to be pious and resigned. Then
he took the boy upon his knee.
"My son," he said to him, "you saw a great number of people
in the streets as you came here. These men are going to
behead your father. Do not forget that. Perhaps some day
they will want to make you king, instead of the Prince of
Wales, or the Duke of York, your elder brothers. But you are
not the king, my son, and can never be so while they are
alive. Swear to me, then, never to let them put a crown upon
your head unless you have a legal right to the crown. For
one day -- listen, my son -- one day, if you do so, they
will doom you to destruction, head and crown, too, and then
you will not be able to die with a calm conscience, as I
die. Swear, my son."
The child stretched out his little hand toward that of his
father and said, "I swear to your majesty."
"Henry," said Charles, "call me your father."
"Father," replied the child, "I swear to you that they shall
kill me sooner than make me king."
"Good, my child. Now kiss me; and you, too, Charlotte. Never
forget me."
"Oh! never, never!" cried both the children, throwing their
arms around their father's neck.
"Farewell," said Charles, "farewell, my children. Take them
away, Juxon; their tears will deprive me of the courage to
die."
Juxon led them away, and this time the doors were left open.
Meanwhile, Athos, in his concealment, waited in vain the
signal to recommence his work. Two long hours he waited in
terrible inaction. A deathlike silence reigned in the room
above. At last he determined to discover the cause of this
stillness. He crept from his hole and stood, hidden by the
black drapery, beneath the scaffold. Peeping out from the
drapery, he could see the rows of halberdiers and musketeers
around the scaffold and the first ranks of the populace
swaying and groaning like the sea.
"What is the matter, then?" he asked himself, trembling more
than the wind-swayed cloth he was holding back. "The people
are hurrying on, the soldiers under arms, and among the
spectators I see D'Artagnan. What is he waiting for? What is
he looking at? Good God! have they allowed the headsman to
escape?"
Suddenly the dull beating of muffled drums filled the
square. The sound of heavy steps was heard above his head.
The next moment the very planks of the scaffold creaked with
the weight of an advancing procession, and the eager faces
of the spectators confirmed what a last hope at the bottom
of his heart had prevented him till then believing. At the
same moment a well-known voice above him pronounced these
words:
"Colonel, I want to speak to the people."
Athos shuddered from head to foot. It was the king speaking
on the scaffold.
In fact, after taking a few drops of wine and a piece of
bread, Charles, weary of waiting for death, had suddenly
decided to go to meet it and had given the signal for
movement. Then the two wings of the window facing the square
had been thrown open, and the people had seen silently
advancing from the interior of the vast chamber, first, a
masked man, who, carrying an axe in his hand, was recognized
as the executioner. He approached the block and laid his axe
upon it. Behind him, pale indeed, but marching with a firm
step, was Charles Stuart, who advanced between two priests,
followed by a few superior officers appointed to preside at
the execution and attended by two files of partisans who
took their places on opposite sides of the scaffold.
The sight of the masked man gave rise to a prolonged
sensation. Every one was full of curiosity as to who that
unknown executioner could be who presented himself so
opportunely to assure to the people the promised spectacle,
when the people believed it had been postponed until the
following day. All gazed at him searchingly.
But they could discern nothing but a man of middle height,
dressed in black, apparently of a certain age, for the end
of a gray beard peeped out from the bottom of the mask that
hid his features.
The king's request had undoubtedly been acceded to by an
affirmative sign, for in firm, sonorous accents, which
vibrated in the depths of Athos's heart, the king began his
speech, explaining his conduct and counseling the welfare of
the kingdom.
"Oh!" said Athos to himself, "is it indeed possible that I
hear what I hear and that I see what I see? Is it possible
that God has abandoned His representative on earth and left
him to die thus miserably? And I have not seen him! I have
not said adieu to him!"
A noise was heard like that the instrument of death would
make if moved upon the block.
"Do not touch the axe," said the king, and resumed his
speech.
At the end of his speech the king looked tenderly around
upon the people. Then unfastening the diamond ornament which
the queen had sent him, he placed it in the hands of the
priest who accompanied Juxon. Then he drew from his breast a
little cross set in diamonds, which, like the order, had
been the gift of Henrietta Maria.
"Sir," said he to the priest, "I shall keep this cross in my
hand till the last moment. Take it from me when I am --
dead."
"Yes, sire," said a voice, which Athos recognized as that of
Aramis.
He then took his hat from his head and threw it on the
ground. One by one he undid the buttons of his doublet, took
it off and deposited it by the side of his hat. Then, as it
was cold, he asked for his gown, which was brought to him.
All the preparations were made with a frightful calmness.
One would have thought the king was going to bed and not to
his coffin.
"Will these be in your way?" he said to the executioner,
raising his long locks; "if so, they can be tied up."
Charles accompanied these words with a look designed to
penetrate the mask of the unknown headsman. His cake, noble
gaze forced the man to turn away his head. But after the
