Twenty Years After

The monk seemed agitated by a strange emotion; he trembled all over; he seemed eager to put a question which yet he dared not ask. At length, with a violent effort at self-control:

“The name of that woman?” he said.

“I don’t know what it was. As I have said, she was twice married, once in France, the second time in England.”

“She was young, you say?”

“Twenty-five years old.”

“Beautiful?”

“Ravishingly.”

“Blond?”

“Yes.”

“Abundance of hair-falling over her shoulders?”

“Yes.”

“Eyes of an admirable expression?”

“When she chose. Oh, yes, it is she!”

“A voice of strange sweetness?”

“How do you know it?”

The executioner raised himself on his elbow and gazed with a frightened air at the monk, who became livid.

“And you killed her?” the monk exclaimed. “You were the tool of those cowards who dared not kill her themselves? You had no pity for that youthfulness, that beauty, that weakness? you killed that woman?”

“Alas! I have already told you, father, that woman, under that angelic appearance, had an infernal soul, and when I saw her, when I recalled all the evil she had done to me-”

“To you? What could she have done to you? Come, tell me!”

“She had seduced and ruined my brother, a priest. She had fled with him from her convent.”

“With your brother?”

“Yes, my brother was her first lover, and she caused his death. Oh, father, do not look in that way at me! Oh, I am guilty, then; you will not pardon me?”

The monk recovered his usual expression.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “I will pardon you if you tell me all.”

“Oh!” cried the executioner, “all! all! all!”

“Answer, then. If she seduced your brother-you said she seduced him, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“If she caused his death-you said that she caused his death?”

“Yes,” repeated the executioner.

“Then you must know what her name was as a young girl.”

“Oh, mon Dieu!” cried the executioner, “I think I am dying. Absolution, father! absolution.”

“Tell me her name and I will give it.”

“Her name was-My God, have pity on me!” murmured the executioner; and he fell back on the bed, pale, trembling, and apparently about to die.

“Her name!” repeated the monk, bending over him as if to tear from him the name if he would not utter it; “her name! Speak, or no absolution!”

The dying man collected all his forces.

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 movements. Deceived by this intelligence he had concentrated his forces between Vieille-Chapelle and La Venthie; and after a reconnoissance along the entire line, in company with Marshal de Grammont, he had returned and seated himself before a table, with his officers around him. He questioned them as to the news they had each been charged to obtain, but nothing positive had been learned. The hostile army had disappeared two days before and seemed to have gone out of existence.

Now an enemy is never so near and consequently so threatening, as when he has completely disappeared. The prince was, therefore, contrary to his custom, gloomy and anxious, when an officer entered and announced to Marshal de Grammont that some one wished to see him.

The Duc de Grammont received permission from the prince by a glance and went out. The prince followed him with his eyes and continued looking at the door; no one ventured to speak, for fear of disturbing him.

Suddenly a dull and heavy noise was heard. The prince leaped to his feet, extending his hand in the direction whence came the sound, there was no mistaking it-it was the noise of cannon. Every one stood up.

At that moment the door opened.

“Monseigneur,” said Marshal de Grammont, with a radiant face, “will your highness permit my son, Count de Guiche, and his traveling companion, Viscount de Bragelonne, to come in and give news of the enemy, whom they have found while we were looking for him?”

“What!” eagerly replied the prince, “will I permit? I not only permit, I desire; let them come in.”

The marshal introduced the two young men and placed them face to face with the prince.

“Speak, gentlemen,” said the prince, saluting them; “first speak; we shall have time afterward for the usual compliments. The most urgent thing now is to learn where the enemy is and what he is doing.”

It fell naturally to the Count de Guiche to make reply; not only was he the elder, but he had been presented to the prince by his father. Besides, he had long known the prince, whilst Raoul now saw him for the first time. He therefore narrated to the prince what they had seen from the inn at Mazingarbe.

Meanwhile Raoul closely observed the young general, already made so famous by the battles of Rocroy, Fribourg, and Nordlingen.

Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Conde, who, since the death of his father, Henri de Bourbon, was called, in accordance with the custom of that period, Monsieur le Prince, was a young man, not more than twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, with the eye of an eagle-agl’ occhi grifani, as Dante says-aquiline nose, long, waving hair, of medium height, well formed, possessed of all the qualities essential to the successful soldier-that is to say, the rapid glance, quick decision, fabulous courage. At the same time he was a man of elegant manners and strong mind, so that in addition to the revolution he had made in war, by his new contributions to its methods, he had also made a revolution at Paris, among the young noblemen of the court, whose natural chief he was and who, in distinction from the social leaders of the ancient court, modeled after Bassompierre, Bellegarde and the Duke d’Angouleme, were called the petits-maitres.

At the first words of the Count de Guiche, the prince, having in mind the direction whence came the sound of cannon, had understood everything. The enemy was marching upon Lens, with the intention, doubtless, of securing possession of that town and separating from France the army of France. But in what force was the enemy? Was it a corps sent out to make a diversion? Was it an entire army? To this question De Guiche could not respond.

Now, as these questions involved matters of gravest consequence, it was these to which the prince had especially desired an answer, exact, precise, positive.

Raoul conquered the very natural feeling of timidity he experienced and approaching the prince:

“My lord,” he said, “will you permit me to hazard a few words on that subject, which will perhaps relieve you of your uncertainty?”

The prince turned and seemed to cover the young man with a single glance; he smiled on perceiving that he was a child hardly fifteen years old.

“Certainly, monsieur, speak,” he said, softening his stern, accented tones, as if he were speaking to a woman.

“My lord,” said Raoul, blushing, “might examine the Spanish prisoner.”

“Have you a Spanish prisoner?” cried the prince.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Ah, that is true,” said De Guiche; “I had forgotten it.”

“That is easily understood; it was you who took him, count,” said Raoul, smiling.

The old marshal turned toward the viscount, grateful for that praise of his son, whilst the prince exclaimed:

“The young man is right; let the prisoner be brought in.”

Meanwhile the prince took De Guiche aside and asked him how the prisoner had been taken and who this young man was.

“Monsieur,” said the prince, turning toward Raoul, “I know that you have a letter from my sister, Madame de Longueville; but I see that you have preferred commending yourself to me by giving me good counsel.”

“My lord,” said Raoul, coloring up, “I did not wish to interrupt your highness in a conversation so important as that in which you were engaged with the count. But here is the letter.”

“Very well,” said the prince; “give it to me later. Here is the prisoner; let us attend to what is most pressing.”

The prisoner was one of those military adventurers who sold their blood to whoever would buy, and grew old in stratagems and spoils. Since he had been taken he had not uttered a word, so that it was not known to what country he belonged. The prince looked at him with unspeakable distrust.

“Of what country are you?” asked the prince.

The prisoner muttered a few words in a foreign tongue.

“Ah! ah! it seems that he is a Spaniard. Do you speak Spanish, Grammont?”

“Faith, my lord, but indifferently.”

“And I not at all,” said the prince, laughing. “Gentlemen,” he said, turning to those who were near him “can any one of you speak Spanish and serve me as interpreter?”

“I can, my lord,” said Raoul.

“Ah, you speak Spanish?”

“Enough, I think, to fulfill your highness’s wishes on this occasion.”

Meanwhile the prisoner had remained impassive and as if he had no understanding of what was taking place.

“My lord asks of what country you are,” said the young man, in the purest Castilian.

“Ich bin ein Deutscher,” replied the prisoner.

“What in the devil does he say?” asked the prince. “What new gibberish is that?”

“He says he is German, my lord,” replied Raoul; “but I doubt it, for his accent is bad and his pronunciation defective.”

“Then you speak German, also?” asked the prince.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well enough to question him in that language?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Question him, then.”

Raoul began the examination, but the result justified his opinion. The prisoner did not understand, or seemed not to understand, what Raoul said to him; and Raoul could hardly understand his replies, containing a mixture of Flemish and Alsatian. However, amidst all the prisoner’s efforts to elude a systematic examination, Raoul had recognized his natural accent.

“Non siete Spagnuolo,” he said; “non siete Tedesco; siete Italiano.”

The prisoner started and bit his lips.

“Ah, that,” said the prince, “I understand that language thoroughly; and since he is Italian I will myself continue the examination. Thank you, viscount,” continued the prince, laughing, “and I appoint you from this moment my interpreter.”

But the prisoner was not less unwilling to respond in Italian than in the other languages; his aim was to elude the examination. Therefore, he knew nothing either of the enemy’s numbers, or of those in command, or of the purpose of the army.

“Very good,” said the prince, understanding the reason of that ignorance; “the man was caught in the act of assassination and robbery; he might have purchased his life by speaking; he doesn’t wish to speak. Take him out and shoot him.”

The prisoner turned pale. The two soldiers who had brought him in took him, each by one arm, and led him toward the door, whilst the prince, turning to Marshal de Grammont, seemed to have already forgotten the order he had given.

When he reached the threshold of the door the prisoner stopped. The soldiers, who knew only their orders, attempted to force him along.

“One moment,” said the prisoner, in French. “I am ready to speak, my lord.”

“Ah! ah!” said the prince, laughing, “I thought we should come to that. I have a sure method of limbering tongues. Young men, take advantage of it against the time when you may be in command.”

“But on condition,” continued the prisoner, “that your highness will swear that my life shall be safe.”

“Upon my honor,” said the prince.

“Question, then, my lord.”

“Where did the army cross the Lys?”

“Between Saint-Venant and Aire.”

“By whom is it commanded?”

“By Count de Fuonsaldagna, General Beck and the archduke.”

“Of how many does it consist?”