the young man.
“You desire to fathom this horrible secret?” said De Winter;
“well, then, so be it. Know, then, what manner of woman it
was for whom to-day you call me to account. That woman had,
in all probability, poisoned my brother, and in order to
inherit from me she was about to assassinate me in my turn.
I have proof of it. What say you to that?”
“I say that she was my mother.”
“She caused the unfortunate Duke of Buckingham to be stabbed
by a man who was, ere that, honest, good and pure. What say
you to that crime, of which I have the proof?”
“She was my mother.”
“On our return to France she had a young woman who was
attached to one of her opponents poisoned in the convent of
the Augustines at Bethune. Will this crime persuade you of
the justice of her punishment — for of all this I have the
proofs?”
“She was my mother!” cried the young man, who uttered these
three successive exclamations with constantly increasing
force.
“At last, charged with murders, with debauchery, hated by
every one and yet threatening still, like a panther
thirsting for blood, she fell under the blows of men whom
she had rendered desperate, though they had never done her
the least injury; she met with judges whom her hideous
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crimes had evoked; and that executioner you saw — that
executioner who you say told you everything — that
executioner, if he told you everything, told you that he
leaped with joy in avenging on her his brother’s shame and
suicide. Depraved as a girl, adulterous as a wife, an
unnatural sister, homicide, poisoner, execrated by all who
knew her, by every nation that had been visited by her, she
died accursed by Heaven and earth.”
A sob which Mordaunt could not repress burst from his throat
and his livid face became suffused with blood; he clenched
his fists, sweat covered his face, his hair, like Hamlet’s,
stood on end, and racked with fury he cried out:
“Silence, sir! she was my mother! Her crimes, I know them
not; her disorders, I know them not; her vices, I know them
not. But this I know, that I had a mother, that five men
leagued against one woman, murdered her clandestinely by
night — silently — like cowards. I know that you were one
of them, my uncle, and that you cried louder than the
others: `She must die.’ Therefore I warn you, and listen
well to my words, that they may be engraved upon your
memory, never to be forgotten: this murder, which has robbed
me of everything — this murder, which has deprived me of my
name — this murder, which has impoverished me — this
murder, which has made me corrupt, wicked, implacable — I
shall summon you to account for it first and then those who
were your accomplices, when I discover them!”
With hatred in his eyes, foaming at his mouth, and his fist
extended, Mordaunt had advanced one more step, a
threatening, terrible step, toward De Winter. The latter put
his hand to his sword, and said, with the smile of a man who
for thirty years has jested with death:
“Would you assassinate me, sir? Then I shall recognize you
as my nephew, for you would be a worthy son of such a
mother.”
“No,” replied Mordaunt, forcing his features and the muscles
of his body to resume their usual places and be calm; “no, I
shall not kill you; at least not at this moment, for without
you I could not discover the others. But when I have found
them, then tremble, sir. I stabbed to the heart the headsman
of Bethune, without mercy or pity, and he was the least
guilty of you all.”
With these words the young man went out and descended the
stairs with sufficient calmness to pass unobserved; then
upon the lowest landing place he passed Tony, leaning over
the balustrade, waiting only for a call from his master to
mount to his room.
But De Winter did not call; crushed, enfeebled, he remained