husband’s arm.
“Well, what’s the matter?” asked the latter, “are you going
to be ill just now?”
“No, but look,” replied the hostess, pointing to the wounded
man; “I ask you if you recognize him?”
“That man — wait a bit.”
“Ah! I see you know him,” exclaimed the wife; “for you have
become pale in your turn.”
“Truly,” cried the host, “misfortune is coming on our house;
it is the former executioner of Bethune.”
“The former executioner of Bethune!” murmured the young
monk, shrinking back and showing on his countenance the
feeling of repugnance which his penitent inspired.
Monsieur d’Arminges, who was at the door, perceived his
hesitation.
“Sir monk,” said he, “whether he is now or has been an
executioner, this unfortunate being is none the less a man.
Render to him, then, the last service he can by any
possibility ask of you, and your work will be all the more
meritorious.”
The monk made no reply, but silently wended his way to the
room where the two valets had deposited the dying man on a
bed. D’Arminges and Olivain and the two grooms then mounted
their horses, and all four started off at a quick trot to
rejoin Raoul and his companion. Just as the tutor and his
escort disappeared in their turn, a new traveler stopped on
the threshold of the inn.
“What does your worship want?” demanded the host, pale and
trembling from the discovery he had just made.
The traveler made a sign as if he wished to drink, and then
pointed to his horse and gesticulated like a man who is
brushing something.
“Ah, diable!” said the host to himself; “this man seems
dumb. And where will your worship drink?”
“There,” answered the traveler, pointing to the table.
“I was mistaken,” said the host, “he’s not quite dumb. And
what else does your worship wish for?”
“To know if you have seen a young man pass, fifteen years of
age, mounted on a chestnut horse and followed by a groom?”
“The Viscount de Bragelonne?
“Just so.”
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“Then you are called Monsieur Grimaud?”
The traveler made a sign of assent.
“Well, then,” said the host, “your young master was here a
quarter of an hour ago; he will dine at Mazingarbe and sleep
at Cambrin.”
“How far is Mazingarbe?”
“Two miles and a half.”
“Thank you.”
Grimaud was drinking his wine silently and had just placed
his glass on the table to be filled a second time, when a
terrific scream resounded from the room occupied by the monk
and the dying man. Grimaud sprang up.
“What is that?” said he; “whence comes that cry?”
“From the wounded man’s room,” replied the host.
“What wounded man?”
“The former executioner of Bethune, who has just been
brought in here, assassinated by Spaniards, and who is now
being confessed by an Augustine friar.”
“The old executioner of Bethune,” muttered Grimaud; “a man
between fifty-five and sixty, tall, strong, swarthy, black
hair and beard?”
“That is he, except that his beard has turned gray and his
hair is white; do you know him?” asked the host.
“I have seen him once,” replied Grimaud, a cloud darkening
his countenance at the picture so suddenly summoned to the
bar of recollection.
At this instant a second cry, less piercing than the first,
but followed by prolonged groaning, was heard.
The three listeners looked at one another in alarm.
“We must see what it is,” said Grimaud.
“It sounds like the cry of one who is being murdered,”
murmured the host.
“Mon Dieu!” said the woman, crossing herself.
If Grimaud was slow in speaking, we know that he was quick
to act; he sprang to the door and shook it violently, but it
was bolted on the other side.
“Open the door!” cried the host; “open it instantly, sir
monk!”
No reply.
“Unfasten it, or I will break it in!” said Grimaud.
The same silence, and then, ere the host could oppose his
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design, Grimaud seized a pair of pincers he perceived in a
corner and forced the bolt. The room was inundated with