executioner, of that base wretch who concealed his face that
he might assassinate a king with impunity?”
Athos became slightly pale. “His name?” said he, “yes, I
know it, but cannot tell it.”
“And what is become of him, for nobody in England knows his
destiny?”
“He is dead.”
“But he did not die in his bed; he did not die a calm and
peaceful death, he did not die the death of the good?”
“He died a violent death, in a terrible night, rendered so
by the passions of man and a tempest from God. His body,
pierced by a dagger, sank to the depths of the ocean. God
pardon his murderer!”
“Proceed, then,” said Charles II., seeing that the count was
unwilling to say more.
“The king of England, after having, as I have said, spoken
thus to the masked executioner, added, — `Observe, you will
not strike till I shall stretch out my arms saying —
REMEMBER!'”
“I was aware,” said Charles, in an agitated voice, “that
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that was the last word pronounced by my unfortunate father.
But why and for whom?”
“For the French gentleman placed beneath his scaffold.”
“For you, then, monsieur?”
“Yes, sire; and every one of the words which he spoke to me,
through the planks of the scaffold covered with a black
cloth, still sounds in my ears. The king knelt down on one
knee: `Comte de la Fere,’ said he, `are you there?’ `Yes,
sire,’ replied I. Then the king stooped towards the boards.”
Charles II., also palpitating with interest, burning with
grief, stooped towards Athos, to catch, one by one, every
word that escaped from him. His head touched that of the
comte.
“Then,” continued Athos, “the king stooped. `Comte de la
Fere,’ said he, `I could not be saved by you: it was not to
be. Now, even though I commit a sacrilege, I must speak to
you. Yes, I have spoken to men — yes, I have spoken to God,
and I speak to you the last. To sustain a cause which I
thought sacred, I have lost the throne of my fathers and the
heritage of my children.'”
Charles II. concealed his face in his hands, and a bitter
tear glided between his white and slender fingers.
“`I have still a million in gold,’ continued the king. `I
buried it in the vaults of the castle of Newcastle, a moment
before I left that city.'” Charles raised his head with an
expression of such painful joy that it would have drawn
tears from any one acquainted with his misfortunes.
“A million!” murmured he. “Oh, count!”
“`You alone know that this money exists: employ it when you
think it can be of the greatest service to my eldest son.
And now, Comte de la Fere, bid me adieu!’
“`Adieu, adieu, sire!’ cried I.”
Charles arose, and went and leant his burning brow against
the window.
“It was then,” continued Athos, “that the king pronounced
the word, `REMEMBER!’ addressed to me. You see, sire, that I
have remembered.”
The king could not resist or conceal his emotion. Athos
beheld the movement of his shoulders, which undulated
convulsively; he heard the sobs which burst from his
overcharged breast. He was silent himself, suffocated by the
flood of bitter remembrances he had just poured upon that
royal head. Charles II., with a violent effort, left the
window, devoured his tears, and came and sat by Athos.
“Sire,” said the latter, “I thought till to-day that the
time had not yet arrived for the employment of that last
resource; but, with my eyes fixed upon England, I felt it
was approaching. To-morrow I meant to go and inquire in what
part of the world your majesty was, and then I purposed
going to you. You come to me, sire; that is an indication
that God is with us.”
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“My lord,” said Charles, in a voice choked by emotion, “you
are, for me, what an angel sent from heaven would be, — you
are a preserver sent to me from the tomb of my father
himself; but, believe me, for ten years’ civil war has