stable, took out his mule, went out by a back gate, ran to a
neighbouring thicket, threw off his monkish garb, took from
his valise the complete habiliment of a cavalier, clothed
himself in it, went on foot to the first post, secured there
a horse and continued with a loose rein his journey to
Paris.
33
Grimaud Speaks.
Grimaud was left alone with the executioner, who in a few
moments opened his eyes.
“Help, help,” he murmured; “oh, God! have I not a single
friend in the world who will aid me either to live or to
die?”
“Take courage,” said Grimaud; “they are gone to find
assistance.”
“Who are you?” asked the wounded man, fixing his half opened
eyes on Grimaud.
“An old acquaintance,” replied Grimaud.
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“You?” and the wounded man sought to recall the features of
the person now before him.
“Under what circumstances did we meet?” he asked again.
“One night, twenty years ago, my master fetched you from
Bethune and conducted you to Armentieres.”
“I know you well now,” said the executioner; “you were one
of the four grooms.”
“Just so.”
“Where do you come from now?”
“I was passing by and drew up at this inn to rest my horse.
They told me the executioner of Bethune was here and
wounded, when you uttered two piercing cries. At the first
we ran to the door and at the second forced it open.”
“And the monk?” exclaimed the executioner, “did you see the
monk?”
“What monk?”
“The monk that was shut in with me.”
“No, he was no longer here; he appears to have fled by the
window. Was he the man that stabbed you?”
“Yes,” said the executioner.
Grimaud moved as if to leave the room.
“What are you going to do?” asked the wounded man.
“He must be apprehended.”
“Do not attempt it; he has revenged himself and has done
well. Now I may hope that God will forgive me, since my
crime is expiated.”
“Explain yourself.” said Grimaud.
“The woman whom you and your masters commanded me to kill
—- ”
“Milady?”
“Yes, Milady; it is true you called her thus.”
“What has the monk to do with this Milady?”
“She was his mother.”
Grimaud trembled and stared at the dying man in a dull and
leaden manner.
“His mother!” he repeated.
“Yes, his mother.”
“But does he know this secret, then?”
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“I mistook him for a monk and revealed it to him in
confession.”
“Unhappy man!” cried Grimaud, whose face was covered with
sweat at the bare idea of the evil results such a revelation
might cause; “unhappy man, you named no one, I hope?”
“I pronounced no name, for I knew none, except his mother’s,
as a young girl, and it was by this name that he recognized
her, but he knows that his uncle was among her judges.”
Thus speaking, he fell back exhausted. Grimaud, wishing to
relieve him, advanced his hand toward the hilt of the
dagger.
“Touch me not!” said the executioner; “if this dagger is
withdrawn I shall die.”
Grimaud remained with his hand extended; then, striking his
forehead, he exclaimed:
“Oh! if this man should ever discover the names of the
others, my master is lost.”
“Haste! haste to him and warn him,” cried the wounded man,
“if he still lives; warn his friends, too. My death, believe
me, will not be the end of this atrocious misadventure.”
“Where was the monk going?” asked Grimaud.
“Toward Paris.”
“Who stopped him?”
“Two young gentlemen, who were on their way to join the army
and the name of one of whom I heard his companion mention —
the Viscount de Bragelonne.”
“And it was this young man who brought the monk to you? Then
it was the will of God that it should be so and this it is
which makes it all so awful,” continued Grimaud. “And yet
that woman deserved her fate; do you not think so?”
“On one’s death-bed the crimes of others appear very small
in comparison with one’s own,” said the executioner; and
falling back exhausted he closed his eyes.