Twenty Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part one

Grimaud was reluctant to leave the man alone and yet he

perceived the necessity of starting at once to bear these

tidings to the Comte de la Fere. Whilst he thus hesitated

the host re-entered the room, followed not only by a

surgeon, but by many other persons, whom curiosity had

attracted to the spot. The surgeon approached the dying man,

who seemed to have fainted.

“We must first extract the steel from the side,” said he,

shaking his head in a significant manner.

The prophecy which the wounded man had just uttered recurred

to Grimaud, who turned away his head. The weapon, as we have

already stated, was plunged into the body to the hilt, and

as the surgeon, taking it by the end, drew it forth, the

wounded man opened his eyes and fixed them on him in a

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manner truly frightful. When at last the blade had been

entirely withdrawn, a red froth issued from the mouth of the

wounded man and a stream of blood spouted afresh from the

wound when he at length drew breath; then, fixing his eyes

upon Grimaud with a singular expression, the dying man

uttered the last death-rattle and expired.

Then Grimaud, lifting the dagger from the pool of blood

which was gliding along the room, to the horror of all

present, made a sign to the host to follow him, paid him

with a generosity worthy of his master and again mounted his

horse. Grimaud’s first intention had been to return to

Paris, but he remembered the anxiety which his prolonged

absence might occasion Raoul, and reflecting that there were

now only two miles between the vicomte and himself and a

quarter of an hour’s riding would unite them, and that the

going, returning and explanation would not occupy an hour,

he put spurs to his horse and a few minutes after had

reached the only inn of Mazingarbe.

Raoul was seated at table with the Count de Guiche and his

tutor, when all at once the door opened and Grimaud

presented himself, travel-stained, dirty, and sprinkled with

the blood of the unhappy executioner.

“Grimaud, my good Grimaud!” exclaimed Raoul “here you are at

last! Excuse me, sirs, this is not a servant, but a friend.

How did you leave the count?” continued he. “Does he regret

me a little? Have you seen him since I left him? Answer, for

I have many things to tell you, too; indeed, the last three

days some odd adventures have happened — but what is the

matter? how pale you are! and blood, too! What is this?”

“It is the blood of the unfortunate man whom you left at the

inn and who died in my arms.”

“In your arms? — that man! but know you who he was?”

“He used to be the headsman of Bethune.”

“You knew him? and he is dead?”

“Yes.”

“Well, sir,” said D’Arminges, “it is the common lot; even an

executioner is not exempted. I had a bad opinion of him the

moment I saw his wound, and since he asked for a monk you

know that it was his opinion, too, that death would follow.”

At the mention of the monk, Grimaud became pale.

“Come, come,” continued D’Arminges, “to dinner;” for like

most men of his age and generation he did not allow

sentiment or sensibility to interfere with a repast.

“You are right, sir,” said Raoul. “Come, Grimaud, order

dinner for yourself and when you have rested a little we can

talk.”

“No, sir, no,” said Grimaud. “I cannot stop a moment; I must

start for Paris again immediately.”

“What? You start for Paris? You are mistaken; it is Olivain

who leaves me; you are to remain.”

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“On the contrary, Olivain is to stay and I am to go. I have

come for nothing else but to tell you so.”

“But what is the meaning of this change?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I cannot explain myself.”

“Come, tell me, what is the joke?”

“Monsieur le vicomte knows that I never joke.”

“Yes, but I know also that Monsieur le Comte de la Fere

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