Behind the chapel extended, surrounded by two high hedges of nut-trees, elders, whitethorns, and a deep ditch, the little enclosure,- uncultivated, it is true, but gay in its wildness; because the mosses there were high; because the wild heliotropes and wall-flowers there mixed their perfumes; because beneath the tall chestnuts issued a large spring, a prisoner in a cistern of marble; and upon the thyme all around alighted thousands of bees from the neighboring plains, while chaffinches and redthroats sang cheerfully among the flowers of the hedge. It was to this place the two coffins were brought, attended by a silent and respectful crowd. The office of the dead being celebrated, the last adieux paid to the noble departed, the assembly dispersed, talking, along the roads, of the virtues and mild death of the father, of the hopes the son had given, and of his melancholy end upon the coast of Africa.
Gradually all noises were extinguished, as were the lamps illumining the humble nave. The minister bowed for a last time to the altar and the still fresh graves; then, followed by his assistant, who rang a hoarse bell, he slowly took the road back to the presbytery. D’Artagnan, left alone, perceived that night was coming on. He had forgotten the hour while thinking of the dead. He arose from the oaken bench on which he was seated in the chapel, and wished, as the priest had done, to go and bid a last adieu to the double grave which contained his two lost friends.
A woman was praying, kneeling on the moist earth. D’Artagnan stopped at the door of the chapel to avoid disturbing this woman, and also to endeavor to see who was the pious friend who performed this sacred duty with so much zeal and perseverance. The unknown concealed her face in her hands, which were white as alabaster. From the noble simplicity of her costume, she seemed to be a woman of distinction. Outside the enclosure were several horses mounted by servants, and a travelling-carriage waiting for this lady. D’Artagnan in vain sought to make out what caused her delay. She continued praying; she frequently passed her handkerchief over her face,- by which d’Artagnan perceived that she was weeping. He saw her strike her breast with the pitiless compunction of a Christian woman. He heard her several times cry, as if from a wounded heart, “Pardon! pardon!” and as she appeared to abandon herself entirely to her grief, as she threw herself down, almost fainting, amid complaints and prayers, d’Artagnan, touched by this love for his so much regretted friends, made a few steps towards the grave, in order to interrupt the melancholy colloquy of the penitent with the dead. But as soon as his step sounded on the gravel, the unknown raised her head, revealing to d’Artagnan a face bathed with tears, but a well-known face; it was Mademoiselle de la Valliere. “M. d’Artagnan!” murmured she.
“You!” replied the captain in a stern voice, “you here! Oh, Madame, I should better have liked to see you decked with flowers in the mansion of the Comte de la Fere. You would have wept less- they too- I too!”
“Monsieur!” she said, sobbing.
“For it is you,” added this pitiless friend of the dead,- “it is you who have laid these two men in the grave.”
“Oh, spare me!”
“God forbid, Madame, that I should offend a woman, or that I should make her weep in vain! but I must say that the place of the murderer is not upon the grave of her victims.” She wished to reply. “What I now tell you,” added he, coldly, “I told the King.”
She clasped her hands. “I know,” said she, “I have caused the death of the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“Ah! you know it?”
“The news arrived at court yesterday. I have travelled during the night forty leagues to come and ask pardon of the count, whom I supposed to be still living, and to supplicate God upon the tomb of Raoul that he would send me all the misfortunes I have merited, except a single one. Now, Monsieur, I know that the death of the son has killed the father. I have two crimes to reproach myself with; I have two punishments to look for from God.”