me, count, thanks for your devoted remembrance, but I know
in what I must trust — nothing will save me now. And see,
my friend, I was so convinced, that I was taking the route
of exile with my old Parry; I was returning to devour my
poignant griefs in the little hermitage offered me by
Holland. There, believe me, count, all will soon be over,
and death will come quickly, it is called so often by this
body, eaten up by its soul, and by this soul, which aspires
to heaven.”
“Your majesty has a mother, a sister, and brothers; your
majesty is the head of the family, and ought, therefore, to
ask a long life of God, instead of imploring Him for a
prompt death. Your majesty is an exile, a fugitive, but you
have right on your side; you ought to aspire to combats,
dangers, business, and not to rest in heavens.”
“Count,” said Charles II., with a smile of indescribable
sadness, “have you ever heard of a king who reconquered his
kingdom with one servant of the age of Parry, and with three
hundred crowns which that servant carried in his purse?”
“No, sire; but I have heard — and that more than once —
that a dethroned king has recovered his kingdom with a firm
will, perseverance, some friends, and a million skillfully
employed.”
“But you cannot have understood me. The million I asked of
my brother Louis was refused me.”
“Sire,” said Athos, “will your majesty grant me a few
minutes, and listen attentively to what remains for me to
say to you?”
Charles II. looked earnestly at Athos. “Willingly,
monsieur,” said he.
“Then I will show your majesty the way,” resumed the count,
directing his steps towards the house. He then conducted the
king to his study, and begged him to be seated. “Sire,” said
he, “your majesty just now told me that, in the present
state of England, a million would suffice for the recovery
of your kingdom.”
“To attempt it at least, monsieur, and to die as a king if I
should not succeed.”
“Well, then, sire, let your majesty, according to the
promise you have made me, have the goodness to listen to
what I have to say.” Charles made an affirmative sign with
his head. Athos walked straight up to the door, the bolts of
which he drew, after looking to see if anybody was near, and
then returned. “Sire,” said he, “your majesty has kindly
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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later
remembered that I lent assistance to the very noble and very
unfortunate Charles I., when his executioners conducted him
from St. James’s to Whitehall.”
“Yes, certainly, I do remember it, and always shall remember
it.”
“Sire, it is a dismal history to be heard by a son who no
doubt has had it related to him many times; and yet I ought
to repeat it to your majesty without omitting one detail.”
“Speak on, monsieur.”
“When the king your father ascended the scaffold, or rather
when he passed from his chamber to the scaffold on a level
with his window, everything was prepared for his escape. The
executioner was got out of the way; a hole contrived under
the floor of his apartment; I myself was beneath the funeral
vault, which I heard all at once creak beneath his feet.”
“Parry has related to me all these terrible details,
monsieur.”
Athos bowed, and resumed. “But here is something he has not
related to you, sire, for what follows passed between God,
your father, and myself; and never has the revelation of it
been made even to my dearest friends. `Go a little further
off,’ said the august patient to the executioner; `it is but
for an instant, and I know that I belong to you; but
remember not to strike till I give the signal. I wish to
offer up my prayers in freedom.'”
“Pardon me,” said Charles II., turning very pale, “but you,
count, who know so many details of this melancholy event, —
details which, as you said just now, have never been
revealed to anyone, — do you know the name of that infernal