himself, “we are not people who may be treated anyhow; my
friend there is the Viscount of Bragelonne and I am the
Count de Guiche. Nor was it from caprice we asked the
question, for there is a wounded and dying man who demands
the succor of the church. If you be a priest, I conjure you
in the name of humanity to follow me to aid this man; if you
be not, it is a different matter, and I warn you in the name
of courtesy, of which you appear profoundly ignorant, that I
shall chastise you for your insolence.”
The pale face of the monk became so livid and his smile so
strange, that Raoul, whose eyes were still fixed upon him,
felt as if this smile had struck to his heart like an
insult.
“He is some Spanish or Flemish spy,” said he, putting his
hand to his pistol. A glance, threatening and transient as
lightning, replied to Raoul.
“Well, sir,” said De Guiche, “are you going to reply?”
“I am a priest,” said the young man.
“Then, father,” said Raoul, forcing himself to convey a
respect by speech that did not come from his heart, “if you
are a priest you have an opportunity, as my friend has told
you, of exercising your vocation. At the next inn you will
find a wounded man, now being attended by our servants, who
has asked the assistance of a minister of God.”
“I will go,” said the monk.
And he touched his mule.
“If you do not go, sir,” said De Guiche, “remember that we
have two steeds able to catch your mule and the power of
having you seized wherever you may be; and then I swear your
trial will be summary; one can always find a tree and a
cord.”
The monk’s eye again flashed, but that was all; he merely
repeated his phrase, “I will go,” — and he went.
“Let us follow him,” said De Guiche; “it will be the surest
plan.”
“I was about to propose so doing,” answered De Bragelonne.
In the space of five minutes the monk turned around to
ascertain whether he was followed or not.
“You see,” said Raoul, “we have done wisely.”
“What a horrible face that monk has,” said De Guiche.
“Horrible!” replied Raoul, “especially in expression.”
“Yes, yes,” said De Guiche, “a strange face; but these monks
are subject to such degrading practices; their fasts make
them pale, the blows of the discipline make them hypocrites,
and their eyes become inflamed through weeping for the good
things of this life we common folk enjoy, but they have
lost.”
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Dumas, Alexandre – Twenty Years After
“Well,” said Raoul, “the poor man will get his priest, but,
by Heaven, the penitent appears to me to have a better
conscience than the confessor. I confess I am accustomed to
priests of a very different appearance.”
“Ah!” exclaimed De Guiche, “you must understand that this is
one of those wandering brothers, who go begging on the high
road until some day a benefice falls down from Heaven on
them; they are mostly foreigners — Scotch, Irish or Danish.
I have seen them before.”
“As ugly?”
“No, but reasonably hideous.”
“What a misfortune for the wounded man to die under the
hands of such a friar!”
“Pshaw!” said De Guiche. “Absolution comes not from him who
administers it, but from God. However, for my part, I would
rather die unshriven than have anything to say to such a
confessor. You are of my opinion, are you not, viscount? and
I see you playing with the pommel of your sword, as if you
had a great inclination to break the holy father’s head.”
“Yes, count, it is a strange thing and one which might
astonish you, but I feel an indescribable horror at the
sight of yonder man. Have you ever seen a snake rise up on
your path?”
“Never,” answered De Guiche.
“Well, it has happened to me to do so in our Blaisois
forests, and I remember that the first time I encountered
one with its eyes fixed upon me, curled up, swinging its
head and pointing its tongue, I remained fixed, pale and as