of my profession I have distributed to the poor; I have been
assiduous in attending church and those who formerly fled
from me have become accustomed to seeing me. All have
forgiven me, some have even loved me; but I think that God
has not pardoned me, for the memory of that execution
pursues me constantly and every night I see that woman’s
ghost rising before me.”
“A woman! You have assassinated a woman, then?” cried the
monk.
“You also!” exclaimed the executioner, “you use that word
which sounds ever in my ears — `assassinated!’ I have
assassinated, then, and not executed! I am an assassin,
then, and not an officer of justice!” and he closed his eyes
with a groan.
The monk doubtless feared that he would die without saying
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more, for he exclaimed eagerly:
“Go on, I know nothing, as yet; when you have finished your
story, God and I will judge.”
“Oh, father,” continued the executioner, without opening his
eyes, as if he feared on opening them to see some frightful
object, “it is especially when night comes on and when I
have to cross a river, that this terror which I have been
unable to conquer comes upon me; it then seems as if my hand
grew heavy, as if the cutlass was still in its grasp, as if
the water had the color of blood, and all the voices of
nature — the whispering of the trees, the murmur of the
wind, the lapping of the wave — united in a voice tearful,
despairing, terrible, crying to me, `Place for the justice
of God!'”
“Delirium!” murmured the monk, shaking his head.
The executioner opened his eyes, turned toward the young man
and grasped his arm.
“`Delirium,'” he repeated; “`delirium,’ do you say? Oh, no!
I remember too well. It was evening; I had thrown the body
into the river and those words which my remorse repeats to
me are those which I in my pride pronounced. After being the
instrument of human justice I aspired to be that of the
justice of God.”
“But let me see, how was it done? Speak,” said the monk.
“It was at night. A man came to me and showed me an order
and I followed him. Four other noblemen awaited me. They led
me away masked. I reserved the right of refusing if the
office they required of me should seem unjust. We traveled
five or six leagues, serious, silent, and almost without
speaking. At length, through the window of a little hut,
they showed me a woman sitting, leaning on a table, and
said, `there is the person to be executed.'”
“Horrible!” said the monk. “And you obeyed?”
“Father, that woman was a monster. It was said that she had
poisoned her second husband; she had tried to assassinate
her brother-in-law; she had just poisoned a young woman who
was her rival, and before leaving England she had, it was
believed, caused the favorite of the king to be murdered.”
“Buckingham?” cried the monk.
“Yes, Buckingham.”
“The woman was English, then?”
“No, she was French, but she had married in England.”
The monk turned pale, wiped his brow and went and bolted the
door. The executioner thought that he had abandoned him and
fell back, groaning, upon his bed.
“No, no; I am here,” said the monk, quickly coming back to
him. “Go on; who were those men?”
“One of them was a foreigner, English, I think. The four
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others were French and wore the uniform of musketeers.”
“Their names?” asked the monk.
“I don’t know them, but the four other noblemen called the
Englishman `my lord.'”
“Was the woman handsome?”
“Young and beautiful. Oh, yes, especially beautiful. I see
her now, as on her knees at my feet, with her head thrown
back, she begged for life. I have never understood how I
could have laid low a head so beautiful, with a face so
pale.”
The monk seemed agitated by a strange emotion; he trembled
all over; he seemed eager to put a question which yet he
dared not ask. At length, with a violent effort at