Well, I swear to you, all three, that had the executioner of
Bethune — was he not of Bethune? — yes, egad! of Bethune!
— not been there, I would have cut off the head of that
infamous being without thinking of it, or even after
thinking of it. She was a most atrocious woman.”
“And then,” said Aramis, with the tone of philosophical
indifference which he had assumed since he had belonged to
the church and in which there was more atheism than
confidence in God, “what is the use of thinking of it all?
At the last hour we must confess this action and God knows
better than we can whether it is a crime, a fault, or a
meritorious deed. I repent of it? Egad! no. Upon my honor
and by the holy cross; I only regret it because she was a
woman.”
“The most satisfactory part of the matter,” said D’Artagnan,
“is that there remains no trace of it.”
“She had a son,” observed Athos.
“Oh! yes, I know that,” said D’Artagnan, “and you mentioned
it to me; but who knows what has become of him? If the
serpent be dead, why not its brood? Do you think his uncle
De Winter would have brought up that young viper? De Winter
probably condemned the son as he had done the mother.”
“Then,” said Athos, “woe to De Winter, for the child had
done no harm.”
“May the devil take me, if the child be not dead,” said
Porthos. “There is so much fog in that detestable country,
at least so D’Artagnan declares.”
Just as the quaint conclusion reached by Porthos was about
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to bring back hilarity to faces now more or less clouded,
hasty footsteps were heard upon the stair and some one
knocked at the door.
“Come in,” cried Athos.
“Please your honors,” said the host, “a person in a great
hurry wishes to speak to one of you.”
“To which of us?” asked all the four friends.
“To him who is called the Comte de la Fere.”
“It is I,” said Athos, “and what is the name of the person?”
“Grimaud.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Athos, turning pale. “Back already! What can
have happened, then, to Bragelonne?”
“Let him enter,” cried D’Artagnan; “let him come up.”
But Grimaud had already mounted the staircase and was
waiting on the last step; so springing into the room he
motioned the host to leave it. The door being closed, the
four friends waited in expectation. Grimaud’s agitation, his
pallor, the sweat which covered his face, the dust which
soiled his clothes, all indicated that he was the messenger
of some important and terrible news.
“Your honors,” said he, “that woman had a child; that child
has become a man; the tigress had a little one, the tiger
has roused himself; he is ready to spring upon you —
beware!”
Athos glanced around at his friends with a melancholy smile.
Porthos turned to look at his sword, which was hanging on
the wall; Aramis seized his knife; D’Artagnan arose.
“What do you mean, Grimaud?” he exclaimed.
“That Milady’s son has left England, that he is in France,
on his road to Paris, if he be not here already.”
“The devil he is!” said Porthos. “Are you sure of it?”
“Certain,” replied Grimaud.
This announcement was received in silence. Grimaud was so
breathless, so exhausted, that he had fallen back upon a
chair. Athos filled a beaker with champagne and gave it to
him.
“Well, after all,” said D’Artagnan, “supposing that he
lives, that he comes to Paris; we have seen many other such.
Let him come.”
“Yes,” echoed Porthos, glancing affectionately at his sword,
still hanging on the wall; “we can wait for him; let him
come.”
“Moreover, he is but a child,” said Aramis.
Grimaud rose.
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“A child!” he exclaimed. “Do you know what he has done, this
child? Disguised as a monk he discovered the whole history
in confession from the executioner of Bethune, and having
confessed him, after having learned everything from him, he
gave him absolution by planting this dagger into his heart.