“Oh! my lord bishop,” he cried, seizing Juxon’s hands,
“where is Providence? where is Providence?”
“My son,” replied the bishop, with firmness, “you see Him
not, because the passions of the world conceal Him.”
“My son,” said the king to Aramis, “do not take it so to
heart. You ask what God is doing. God beholds your devotion
and my martyrdom, and believe me, both will have their
reward. Ascribe to men, then, what is happening, and not to
God. It is men who drive me to death; it is men who make you
weep.”
“Yes, sire,” said Aramis, “yes, you are right. It is men
whom I should hold responsible, and I will hold them
responsible.”
“Be seated, Juxon,” said the king, falling upon his knees.
“I have now to confess to you. Remain, sir,” he added to
Aramis, who had moved to leave the room. “Remain, Parry. I
have nothing to say that cannot be said before all.”
Juxon sat down, and the king, kneeling humbly before him,
began his confession.
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The mob had already assembled when the confession
terminated. The king’s children next arrived — the Princess
Charlotte, a beautiful, fair-haired child, with tears in her
eyes, and the Duke of Gloucester, a boy eight or nine years
old, whose tearless eyes and curling lip revealed a growing
pride. He had wept all night long, but would not show his
grief before the people.
Charles’s heart melted within him at the sight of those two
children, whom he had not seen for two years and whom he now
met at the moment of death. He turned to brush away a tear,
and then, summoning up all his firmness, drew his daughter
toward him, recommending her to be pious and resigned. Then
he took the boy upon his knee.
“My son,” he said to him, “you saw a great number of people
in the streets as you came here. These men are going to
behead your father. Do not forget that. Perhaps some day
they will want to make you king, instead of the Prince of
Wales, or the Duke of York, your elder brothers. But you are
not the king, my son, and can never be so while they are
alive. Swear to me, then, never to let them put a crown upon
your head unless you have a legal right to the crown. For
one day — listen, my son — one day, if you do so, they
will doom you to destruction, head and crown, too, and then
you will not be able to die with a calm conscience, as I
die. Swear, my son.”
The child stretched out his little hand toward that of his
father and said, “I swear to your majesty.”
“Henry,” said Charles, “call me your father.”
“Father,” replied the child, “I swear to you that they shall
kill me sooner than make me king.”
“Good, my child. Now kiss me; and you, too, Charlotte. Never
forget me.”
“Oh! never, never!” cried both the children, throwing their
arms around their father’s neck.
“Farewell,” said Charles, “farewell, my children. Take them
away, Juxon; their tears will deprive me of the courage to
die.”
Juxon led them away, and this time the doors were left open.
Meanwhile, Athos, in his concealment, waited in vain the
signal to recommence his work. Two long hours he waited in
terrible inaction. A deathlike silence reigned in the room
above. At last he determined to discover the cause of this
stillness. He crept from his hole and stood, hidden by the
black drapery, beneath the scaffold. Peeping out from the
drapery, he could see the rows of halberdiers and musketeers
around the scaffold and the first ranks of the populace
swaying and groaning like the sea.
“What is the matter, then?” he asked himself, trembling more
than the wind-swayed cloth he was holding back. “The people
are hurrying on, the soldiers under arms, and among the
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Dumas, Alexandre – Twenty Years After
spectators I see D’Artagnan. What is he waiting for? What is
he looking at? Good God! have they allowed the headsman to
escape?”
Suddenly the dull beating of muffled drums filled the