Athos required no more. He arose, bowed, went out, returned by the same way he had come, re-entered the hotel, and shut himself up in his room.
At daybreak D’Artagnan came to him, and asked him what was to be done.
“Wait!” replied Athos.
Some minutes later the mother-superior of the convent sent to inform the musketeers that the funeral would take place at noon.
At the hour appointed Lord Winter and the four friends repaired to the convent. The bells were tolling solemnly, the chapel was open, the grating of the choir was closed. In the centre of the choir the body of the victim, clothed in her novitiate dress, was exposed.
At the chapel door D’Artagnan felt his courage failing him again, and turned to look for Athos, but Athos had disappeared. He had returned to the hotel and found Planchet impatiently waiting for him.
Everything was as Athos had foreseen.
Planchet took the short cut, and by seven o’clock in the morning was at Armentières.
There was but one hotel, the Post. Planchet went and presented himself as a lackey out of a place, who was in search of a job. He had not chatted ten minutes with the people of the tavern before he knew that a lady had come there about eleven o’clock the night before alone, had taken a room, had sent for the steward, and told him that she wanted to stay some time in that neighbourhood.
Planchet did not need to know any more. He hastened to the rendezvous, found the three lackeys at their posts, placed them as sentinels at all the doors of the hotel, and came to find Athos, who was just hearing the last of the report when his friends returned.
All their faces were melancholy and anxious, even Aramis’s mild face.
“What is to be done?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Wait,” replied Athos.
Each one went to his own room.
At eight o’clock in the evening Athos ordered the horses to be saddled, and had Lord Winter and his friends notified to be prepared for the expedition.
In an instant all five were ready. Each examined his arms, and put them in order. Athos was last to come down, and found D’Artagnan already on horseback and impatient.
“Patience!” cried Athos; “one of us is still lacking.”
The four gentlemen looked round them in astonishment, for they vainly wondered who this some one lacking could be.
At this moment Planchet brought Athos’s horse. The musketeer leaped lightly into the saddle.
“Wait for me,” cried he; “I will be back.”
And he set off at a gallop.
In a quarter of an hour he returned, accompanied by a tall man, masked, and enveloped in a large red cloak.
Lord Winter and the three musketeers looked at one another inquiringly. None of them could give the others any information, for all were ignorant who this man was. Nevertheless, they felt that this was as it should be, since the thing was done by Athos’s order.
At nine o’clock, guided by Planchet, the little cavalcade set out, following the route the carriage had taken.
It was a melancholy sight, that of these six men, riding silently, each plunged in his own thoughts, sad as despair, sombre as punishment.
Chapter 55 - Judgment
It was a dark and stormy night. Monstrous clouds were flying across the sky, concealing the light of the stars. The moon would not rise before midnight.
Occasionally, by the light of a lightning flash gleaming along the horizon, the road could be seen stretching before them, white and solitary. Then when the flash became extinct, all relapsed into darkness.
Just as the little troop had passed Goskal, and were approaching the Post, a man sheltered under a tree stepped out from its trunk, with which he had been confounded in the darkness, and advanced into the middle of the road, with his finger on his lips.
Athos recognized Grimaud.
“What’s the matter?” cried Athos; “has she left Armentières?”
Grimaud nodded. At a movement made by D’Artagnan,
“Silence, D’Artagnan!” said Athos. “I have taken this whole affair myself, so it is my right to question Grimaud.
“Where is she?” asked Athos.
Grimaud stretched out his hands in the direction of the Lys.
“Far from here?” asked Athos.
Grimaud showed his master his forefinger bent.
“Alone?” asked Athos.
Grimaud made a sign that she was.
By a flash of lightning they saw the village of Enguinghem.
“Is she there, Grimaud?” asked Athos.
Grimaud shook his head.
And the troop continued their route.
Another flash gleamed. Grimaud stretched out his arm, and by the livid light of the fire-serpent they distinguished a little isolated house on the banks of the river, within a hundred paces of a ferry.
One window was lighted.
“Here we are!” said Athos.
At this moment a man who had been crouching in a ditch jumped up. It was Mousqueton. He pointed his finger to the lighted window.
“She’s there,” said he.
“And Bazin?” asked Athos.
“While I was watching the window, he was watching the door.”
“Good!” said Athos; “you are all faithful servants.”
Athos leaped down from his horse, gave the bridle to Grimaud, and advanced toward the window, after having made a sign to the rest of the troop to go toward the door.
The little house was surrounded by a quickset hedge two or three feet high. Athos sprang over the hedge and went up to the window, which was without shutters, but had the half-curtains closely drawn.
He got upon the stone coping, in order to see over the top of the curtain.
By the light of the lamp he saw a woman wrapped in a dark mantle sitting on a stool near a dying fire. Her elbows rested on a mean table, and she leaned her head on her two hands, which were white as ivory.
Her face was not distinguishable, but an ominous smile passed over Athos’s lips. There was no mistaking. It was indeed she whom he sought.
At this moment a horse neighed. Milady raised her head, saw Athos’s pale face close to the window, and screamed.
Athos saw he was recognized, pushed the window with his knee and hand. It yielded; the panes broke.
And Athos, like the spectre of vengeance, sprang into the room.
Milady ran to the door and opened it; but paler and more threatening still than Athos, D’Artagnan stood on the threshold.
Milady drew back, uttering a cry. D’Artagnan, believing she might have means of flight, and fearing lest she should escape them, drew a pistol from his belt. But Athos raised his hand.
“Put back your weapon, D’Artagnan,” said he; “this woman must be judged and not assassinated. Wait but a moment longer, my friend, and you shall be satisfied. Come in, gentlemen.”
D’Artagnan obeyed, for Athos had the solemn voice and the mighty gesture of a judge sent by the Lord Himself. So behind D’Artagnan entered Porthos, Aramis, Lord Winter, and the man in the red cloak.
The four lackeys guarded the door and the window.
Milady had sunk into a chair, with her hands extended, as if to conjure away this terrible apparition. On perceiving her brother-in-law she uttered a terrible cry.
“What do you want?” screamed milady.
“We want,” said Athos, “Charlotte Backson, who first was called Comtesse de la Fère, and afterwards Lady Winter, Baroness of Sheffield.”
“I am she! I am she!” murmured she, at the height of terror. “What do you want of me?”
“We intend to judge you according to your crimes,” said Athos. “You shall be free to defend yourself. Justify yourself if you can.—Monsieur d’Artagnan, it is for you to accuse her first.”
D’Artagnan stepped forward.
“Before God and before men,” said he, “I accuse this woman of poisoning Constance Bonacieux, who died yesterday evening.”
He turned to Porthos and Aramis.
“We bear witness to this,” said the two musketeers, with one impulse.
D’Artagnan continued,
“Before God and before men, I accuse this woman of having tried to poison me by wine which she sent me from Villeroi, with a forged letter, purporting that the wine came from my friends. God preserved me, but a man named Brisemont died in my place.”
“We bear witness to this,” said Porthos and Aramis, in the same voice.
“Before God and before men, I accuse this woman of having urged me to murder the Baron de Wardes. But as no one is present to bear witness to the truth of this accusation, I attest it myself. I have done.”
And M. d’Artagnan passed to the other side of the room with Porthos and Aramis.
“It is your turn, milord,” said Athos.
The baron came forward.
“Before God and before men,” said he, “I accuse this woman of having caused the assassination of the Duke of Buckingham.”
“The Duke of Buckingham assassinated!” cried all present with one voice.
“Yes,” said the baron, “assassinated. On receiving the warning letter you wrote to me, I had this woman arrested, and put her in the charge of a loyal servant. She corrupted this man, she placed the dagger in his hand, she made him kill the duke. And at this moment, perhaps, Felton is paying with his life for this fury’s crime!”
A shudder crept through the judges at the revelation of these crimes of which they had not yet heard.
“This is not all,” proceeded Lord Winter. “My brother, who made you his heir, died in three hours, of a strange disorder, which left livid traces over all his body. Sister, how did your husband die?”
“Horror!” cried Porthos and Aramis.
“Buckingham’s assassin, Felton’s assassin, my brother’s assassin, I demand justice upon you, and I swear that if it be not granted to me, I will execute it myself.”
And Lord Winter ranged himself by D’Artagnan’s side, leaving his place free for another accuser.
Milady buried her face in her two hands, and tried to recall her ideas, confused in a mortal vertigo.
“It is my turn,” said Athos, himself trembling as the lion trembles at the sight of the serpent—“it is my turn. I married this woman when she was a young girl. I married her in spite of all my family. I gave her my wealth, I gave her my name; and one day I discovered that this woman was branded—this woman was marked with a fleur-de-lis on her left shoulder.”
“Oh,” said milady, “I defy you to find the tribunal which pronounced that infamous sentence upon me. I defy you to find him who executed it.”
“Silence!” said a voice. “It is for me to reply to that!”
And the man in the red cloak came forward in his turn.
“Who is this man? who is this man?” cried milady. She was suffocated by terror; her hair, which had become undone, seemed to stand up over her livid countenance as if it were alive.
All eyes were fixed on this man, for to all except Athos he was unknown.
Even Athos looked at him with as much stupefaction as the others, for he knew not how he could in any way be mixed up with the horrible drama which was at that moment coming to its climax.
After approaching milady with a slow and solemn step, so that the table alone separated them, the unknown took off his mask.
Milady for some time examined with increasing terror his pale face, framed in its black hair and beard, and the only expression of which was icy sternness. Then all at once,
“Oh no, no!” cried she, rising and retreating to the very wall; “no, no! it is an infernal apparition! It is not he! Help, help!” she screamed in a hoarse voice, turning to the wall as if she could tear an opening in it with her hands.
“But who are you, then?” cried all the witnesses of this scene.
“Ask this woman,” said the man in the red cloak, “for you see well enough she knows me!”
“The executioner of Lille! the executioner of Lille!” cried milady, a prey to wild terror, and clinging with her hands to the wall to avoid falling.
Everyone drew back, and the man in the red cloak remained standing alone in the middle of the room.
“Oh, forgive me, pardon, pardon!” cried the wretched woman, falling on her knees.
The unknown waited for silence.
“I told you so—that she knew me,” he went on to say. “Yes, I am the executioner of the city of Lille, and here is my story.”
All eyes were fixed upon this man; his words were awaited with anxious eagerness.
“This young woman when she was a young maiden was as beautiful as she is now. She was a nun in the convent of the Benedictines of Templemar. A young priest, of a simple and believing heart, was the chaplain of that convent. She undertook to seduce him, and succeeded; she would have seduced a saint.
“The vows of both were sacred—irrevocable. Their intrigue could not last long without ruining both. She prevailed on him to leave the country; but for them to leave the country, to escape together, to reach another part of France, where they might live at ease because there they would be unknown, money was necessary. Neither of them had any. The priest stole the sacred utensils and sold them. But as they were preparing to escape together, they were both arrested.
“Within a week she seduced the jailor’s son and escaped. The young priest was condemned to ten years in chains, and to be branded. I was executioner of the city of Lille, as this woman has said. I was obliged to brand the guilty man; and the guilty man, gentlemen, was my brother!
“I then swore that this woman who had ruined him, who was more than his accomplice, since she had spurred him on to commit the crime, should share at least his punishment. I suspected the place where she was concealed. I followed her, I caught her, I bound her, and I imprinted the same disgraceful mark on her that I had imprinted on my poor brother.
“The day after my return to Lille, my brother in his turn succeeded in making his escape. I was accused of complicity, and was condemned to stay in prison in his place till he should be again a prisoner. My poor brother was ignorant of my condemnation. He had rejoined his woman. They fled together into Berry, and there he obtained a little curacy. This woman passed for his sister.
“The lord of the estate on which the curate’s church was situated saw this pretended sister, and fell in love with her so sincerely that he offered to marry her. Then she left the man whom she had ruined for the man whom she was destined to ruin, and became the Comtesse de la Fère—”
All eyes were turned toward Athos, whose real name this was. He bowed his head in token that all that the executioner had said was true.
“Then,” resumed the other, “mad, desperate, determined to get rid of an existence from which she had taken away everything, both honour and happiness, my poor brother returned to Lille, and learning the sentence that had condemned me in his place, gave himself up, and hanged himself that same night from the air-hole of his dungeon cell.
“I must say in justice that they who had condemned me kept their word. As soon as the identity of the body was proved, I was set at liberty.
“That is the crime of which I accuse her. That is the cause of her being branded.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Athos, “what penalty do you demand against this woman?”
“The penalty of death,” replied D’Artagnan.
