Александр Дюма
Twenty Years After
“There is no mule,” cried he to whom this question was addressed.
The host clasped his hands and looked around him suspiciously, whilst Grimaud knit his brows and approached the wounded man, whose worn, hard features awoke in his mind such awful recollections of the past.
“There can be no longer any doubt but that it is himself,” said he.
“Does he still live?” inquired the innkeeper.
Making no reply, Grimaud opened the poor man’s jacket to feel if the heart beat, whilst the host approached in his turn; but in a moment they both fell back, the host uttering a cry of horror and Grimaud becoming pallid. The blade of a dagger was buried up to the hilt in the left side of the executioner.
“Run! run for help!” cried Grimaud, “and I will remain beside him here.”
The host quitted the room in agitation, and as for his wife, she had fled at the sound of her husband’s cries.
32. The Absolution
This is what had taken place: We have seen that it was not of his own free will, but, on the contrary, very reluctantly, that the monk attended the wounded man who had been recommended to him in so strange a manner. Perhaps he would have sought to escape by flight had he seen any possibility of doing so. He was restrained by the threats of the two gentlemen and by the presence of their attendants, who doubtless had received their instructions. And besides, he considered it most expedient, without exhibiting too much ill-will, to follow to the end his role as confessor.
The monk entered the chamber and approached the bed of the wounded man. The executioner searched his face with the quick glance peculiar to those who are about to die and have no time to lose. He made a movement of surprise and said:
“Father, you are very young.”
“Men who bear my robe have no age,” replied the monk, dryly.
“Alas, speak to me more gently, father; in my last moments I need a friend.”
“Do you suffer much?” asked the monk.
“Yes, but in my soul much more than in my body.”
“We will save your soul,” said the young man; “but are you really the executioner of Bethune, as these people say?”
“That is to say,” eagerly replied the wounded man, who doubtless feared that the name of executioner would take from him the last help that he could claim-“that is to say, I was, but am no longer; it is fifteen years since I gave up the office. I still assist at executions, but no longer strike the blow myself-no, indeed.”
“You have, then, a repugnance to your profession?”
“So long as I struck in the name of the law and of justice my profession allowed me to sleep quietly, sheltered as I was by justice and law; but since that terrible night when I became an instrument of private vengeance and when with personal hatred I raised the sword over one of God’s creatures-since that day-”
The executioner paused and shook his head with an expression of despair.
“Tell me about it,” said the monk, who, sitting on the foot of the bed, began to be interested in a story so strangely introduced.
“Ah!” cried the dying man, with all the effusiveness of a grief declared after long suppression, “ah! I have sought to stifle remorse by twenty years of good deeds; I have assuaged the natural ferocity of those who shed blood; on every occasion I have exposed my life to save those who were in danger, and I have preserved lives in exchange for that I took away. That is not all; the money gained in the exercise of my profession I have distributed to the poor; I have been assiduous in attending church and those who formerly fled from me have become accustomed to seeing me. All have forgiven me, some have even loved me; but I think that God has not pardoned me, for the memory of that execution pursues me constantly and every night I see that woman’s ghost rising before me.”
“A woman! You have assassinated a woman, then?” cried the monk.
“You also!” exclaimed the executioner, “you use that word which sounds ever in my ears-‘assassinated!’ I have assassinated, then, and not executed! I am an assassin, then, and not an officer of justice!” and he closed his eyes with a groan.
The monk doubtless feared that he would die without saying more, for he exclaimed eagerly:
“Go on, I know nothing, as yet; when you have finished your story, God and I will judge.”
“Oh, father,” continued the executioner, without opening his eyes, as if he feared on opening them to see some frightful object, “it is especially when night comes on and when I have to cross a river, that this terror which I have been unable to conquer comes upon me; it then seems as if my hand grew heavy, as if the cutlass was still in its grasp, as if the water had the color of blood, and all the voices of nature-the whispering of the trees, the murmur of the wind, the lapping of the wave-united in a voice tearful, despairing, terrible, crying to me, ‘Place for the justice of God!’”
“Delirium!” murmured the monk, shaking his head.
The executioner opened his eyes, turned toward the young man and grasped his arm.
“‘Delirium,’” he repeated; “‘delirium,’ do you say? Oh, no! I remember too well. It was evening; I had thrown the body into the river and those words which my remorse repeats to me are those which I in my pride pronounced. After being the instrument of human justice I aspired to be that of the justice of God.”
“But let me see, how was it done? Speak,” said the monk.
“It was at night. A man came to me and showed me an order and I followed him. Four other noblemen awaited me. They led me away masked. I reserved the right of refusing if the office they required of me should seem unjust. We traveled five or six leagues, serious, silent, and almost without speaking. At length, through the window of a little hut, they showed me a woman sitting, leaning on a table, and said, ‘there is the person to be executed.’”
“Horrible!” said the monk. “And you obeyed?”
“Father, that woman was a monster. It was said that she had poisoned her second husband; she had tried to assassinate her brother-in-law; she had just poisoned a young woman who was her rival, and before leaving England she had, it was believed, caused the favorite of the king to be murdered.”
“Buckingham?” cried the monk.
“Yes, Buckingham.”
“The woman was English, then?”
“No, she was French, but she had married in England.”
The monk turned pale, wiped his brow and went and bolted the door. The executioner thought that he had abandoned him and fell back, groaning, upon his bed.
“No, no; I am here,” said the monk, quickly coming back to him. “Go on; who were those men?”
“One of them was a foreigner, English, I think. The four others were French and wore the uniform of musketeers.”
“Their names?” asked the monk.
“I don’t know them, but the four other noblemen called the Englishman ‘my lord.’”
“Was the woman handsome?”
“Young and beautiful. Oh, yes, especially beautiful. I see her now, as on her knees at my feet, with her head thrown back, she begged for life. I have never understood how I could have laid low a head so beautiful, with a face so pale.”
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.
