Part 56

"Well," said Athos, "you are all faithful servants." Athos leaped from his horse, handing the reins to Grimaud, and advanced toward the window after signaling to the rest of the troop to go around to the door.

The little house was surrounded by a live hedge, two or three feet high. Athos leaped the hedge, reached the window, which had no shutters but whose half-drawn curtains were tightly closed.

He climbed onto the stone sill so that his eye could peer above the height of the curtains.

By the light of a lamp, he saw a woman wrapped in a dark-colored cloak, sitting on a stool near a dying fire: her elbows rested on a rough table, and she supported her head in her two hands, white as ivory.

Her face could not be distinguished, but a sinister smile passed over Athos's lips—there was no mistake, it was indeed the woman he sought.

At that moment, a horse neighed. Milady raised her head, saw Athos's pale face pressed against the windowpane, and uttered a cry.

Athos understood that he was recognized; he pushed the window with his knee and hand; the window gave way, the panes shattered.

And Athos, like a specter of vengeance, leaped into the room.

Milady ran to the door and opened it; paler and more menacing still than Athos, d'Artagnan stood on the threshold.

Milady recoiled with a cry. D'Artagnan, believing she had some means of escape and fearing she might elude them, drew a pistol from his belt; but Athos raised his hand.

"Put that weapon back, d'Artagnan," he said. "It is important that this woman be judged, not assassinated. Wait another moment, d'Artagnan, and you shall be satisfied. Enter, gentlemen."

D'Artagnan obeyed, for Athos's voice had the solemnity and his gesture the power of a judge sent by the Lord himself. So behind d'Artagnan entered Porthos, Aramis, Lord de Winter, and the man in the red cloak.

The four lackeys guarded the door and the window.

Milady had fallen back into her chair, her hands outstretched as if to conjure away this terrible apparition; catching sight of her brother-in-law, she uttered a terrible cry.

"What do you want?" cried Milady.

"We want," said Athos, "Charlotte Backson, who first called herself Comtesse de La Fère, and then Lady de Winter, Baroness of Sheffield."

"It is I, it is I!" she murmured, in the utmost terror. "What do you want of me?"

"We want to judge you according to your crimes," said Athos. "You shall be free to defend yourself. Justify yourself if you can. Monsieur d'Artagnan, it is your turn to accuse first."

D'Artagnan stepped forward.

"Before God and before men," he said, "I accuse this woman of having poisoned Constance Bonacieux, who died last night."

He turned toward Porthos and Aramis.

"We attest," said the two musketeers with a single movement.

D'Artagnan continued.

"Before God and before men, I accuse this woman of having tried to poison me myself, in wine she sent me from Villeroy with a false letter, as if the wine came from my friends; God saved me, but a man died in my place, named Brisemont."

"We attest," said Porthos and Aramis in the same voice.

"Before God and before men, I accuse this woman of having incited me to murder the Baron de Wardes; and since no one is here to attest the truth of this accusation, I attest it myself.

"I have spoken."

And d'Artagnan moved to the other side of the room with Porthos and Aramis.

"Your turn, my lord!" said Athos.

The baron approached in his turn.

"Before God and before men," he said, "I accuse this woman of having had the Duke of Buckingham assassinated."

"The Duke of Buckingham assassinated?" cried all the assembled in one voice.

"Yes," said the baron, "assassinated! On the advice of the letter you wrote me, I had this woman arrested, and I gave her into the custody of a loyal servant; she corrupted that man, she put the dagger in his hand, she made him kill the duke, and at this moment perhaps Felton is paying with his head for the crime of this fury."

A shudder ran through the judges at the revelation of these still unknown crimes.

"That is not all," continued Lord de Winter. "My brother, who made you his heiress, died in three hours of a strange illness that leaves livid spots over the entire body. My sister, how did your husband die?"

"Horror!" cried Porthos and Aramis.

"Assassin of Buckingham, assassin of Felton, assassin of my brother, I demand justice against you, and I declare that if it is not granted me, I will take it myself."

And Lord de Winter went to stand near d'Artagnan, leaving the place free for another accuser.

Milady let her forehead fall into her two hands and tried to collect her thoughts, confused by a mortal vertigo.

"My turn," said Athos, trembling himself as the lion trembles at the sight of the serpent. "My turn. I married this woman when she was a girl, I married her despite all my family; I gave her my wealth, I gave her my name; and one day I discovered that this woman was branded—this woman was marked with a fleur-de-lis on her left shoulder."

"Oh!" said Milady, rising. "I defy you to find the tribunal that pronounced that infamous sentence upon me. I defy you to find the one who executed it."

"Silence," said a voice. "To this, it is I who must answer!"

And the man in the red cloak approached in his turn.

"Who is this man, who is this man?" cried Milady, suffocated by terror, her hair unloosing and standing on end upon her livid head as if it were alive.

All eyes turned upon this man, for to all except Athos he was unknown. Even Athos looked at him with as much stupefaction as the others, for he did not know how he could be mixed up in anything connected with the horrible drama that was now being played out.

Having approached Milady with a slow and solemn step, so that only the table separated him from her, the stranger removed his mask.

Milady gazed for some time with increasing terror at this pale face framed by black hair and whiskers, whose only expression was an icy impassivity; then suddenly:

"Oh! no, no," she said, rising and recoiling to the wall. "No, no, it is an infernal apparition! It is not he! Help! Help!" she cried in a hoarse voice, turning toward the wall as if she could open a passage through it with her hands.

"But who are you then?" cried all the witnesses to this scene.

"Ask that woman," said the man in the red cloak, "for you see that she has recognized me."

"The executioner of Lille, the executioner of Lille!" cried Milady, prey to a senseless terror, clinging to the wall with her hands to keep from falling.

Everyone drew back, and the man in the red cloak stood alone in the middle of the room.

"Oh! mercy! mercy! pardon!" cried the wretch, falling to her knees.

The stranger allowed silence to be restored.

"I told you that she had recognized me!" he resumed. "Yes, I am the executioner of the city of Lille, and here is my story."

All eyes were fixed upon this man, whose words they awaited with eager anxiety.

"This young woman was formerly a girl as beautiful as she is today. She was a nun in the Benedictine convent of Templemar. A young priest with a simple and believing heart served the church of that convent; she undertook to seduce him and succeeded—she would have seduced a saint.

"Their vows were both sacred and irrevocable; their liaison could not last long without ruining them both. She persuaded him that they should leave the country; but to leave the country, to flee together, to reach another part of France where they could live quietly because they would be unknown, they needed money; neither had any. The priest stole the sacred vessels and sold them; but as they were preparing to leave together, they were both arrested.

"Eight days later, she had seduced the jailer's son and escaped. The young priest was condemned to ten years in irons and to be branded. I was the executioner of the city of Lille, as this woman says. I was obliged to mark the guilty man, and the guilty man, gentlemen, was my brother!

"I swore then that this woman who had ruined him, who was more than his accomplice, since she had driven him to crime, would at least share the punishment. I suspected the place where she was hidden, I pursued her, I caught her, I bound her, and I imprinted upon her the same brand I had imprinted upon my brother.

"The day after my return to Lille, my brother managed to escape in his turn; I was accused of complicity, and I was condemned to remain in prison in his place until he should give himself up. My poor brother was ignorant of this judgment; he had rejoined this woman, they had fled together into Berry; and there he had obtained a small curacy. This woman passed for his sister.

"The lord of the land on which the priest's church was situated saw this pretended sister and fell in love with her, so in love that he proposed to marry her. Then she left the man she had ruined for the man she was to ruin, and became the Comtesse de La Fère..."

All eyes turned toward Athos, whose true name this was, and who nodded his head to indicate that all the executioner had said was true.

"Then," continued the latter, "mad, desperate, resolved to rid himself of a life from which she had taken everything—honor and happiness—my poor brother returned to Lille, and learning of the sentence that had condemned me in his place, gave himself up as a prisoner, and hanged himself that same evening from the grating of his dungeon.

"Moreover, to do them justice, those who had condemned me kept their word. As soon as the identity of the corpse was established, I was set at liberty.

"That is the crime of which I accuse her; that is the cause for which I branded her."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Athos, "what penalty do you demand against this woman?"

"The penalty of death," replied d'Artagnan.

"Milord de Winter," continued Athos, "what penalty do you demand against this woman?"

"The penalty of death," replied Lord de Winter.

"Messieurs Porthos and Aramis," resumed Athos, "you who are her judges, what penalty do you pronounce against this woman?"

"The penalty of death," answered the two musketeers in a low voice.

Milady uttered an awful howl and took a few steps toward her judges, dragging herself on her knees.

Athos extended his hand toward her.

"Anne de Breuil, Comtesse de La Fère, Milady de Winter," he said, "your crimes have wearied men on earth and God in heaven. If you know any prayer, say it, for you are condemned and you are going to die."

At these words, which left her no hope, Milady rose to her full height and tried to speak, but her strength failed her; she felt that a powerful and implacable hand seized her by the hair and dragged her as irrevocably as fate drags a man; she therefore did not even attempt to resist and left the cottage.

Lord de Winter, d'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis went out behind her. The lackeys followed their masters, and the room remained solitary, with its broken window, its open door, and its smoking lamp burning sadly on the table.

CHAPTER LXVI. THE EXECUTION

It was about midnight; the moon, waning and blood-red from the last traces of the storm, was rising behind the little town of Armentières, which silhouetted against its wan light the dark outline of its houses and the skeleton of its tall, openwork steeple. In front, the Lys rolled its waters like a river of molten pewter; while on the opposite bank one saw the black mass of trees outlined against a stormy sky invaded by large coppery clouds that created a kind of twilight in the middle of the night. To the left rose an old abandoned mill, its sails motionless, in whose ruins an owl uttered its shrill, periodic, monotonous cry. Here and there in the plain, to the right and left of the path the lugubrious procession followed, appeared some low, stunted trees, which seemed like deformed dwarfs crouched to watch men at this sinister hour.

From time to time a broad flash of lightning opened the horizon across its entire width, serpentined above the black mass of trees, and came like a frightful scimitar to cut the sky and water into two parts. Not a breath of wind passed through the heavy atmosphere. A deathlike silence crushed all nature; the ground was damp and slippery from the rain that had just fallen, and the revived herbs gave forth their perfume with more energy.

Two lackeys dragged Milady, each holding her by an arm; the executioner walked behind, and Lord de Winter, d'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis walked behind the executioner.

Planchet and Bazin came last.

The two lackeys led Milady toward the river. Her mouth was mute; but her eyes spoke with their inexpressible eloquence, imploring in turn each of those she looked at.

As she was a few steps ahead, she said to the lackeys:

"A thousand pistoles to each of you if you aid my flight; but if you deliver me to your masters, I have avengers near at hand who will make you pay dearly for my death."

Grimaud hesitated. Mousqueton trembled in all his limbs.

Athos, who had heard Milady's voice, approached quickly, and Lord de Winter did the same.

"Dismiss those lackeys," he said. "She has spoken to them; they are no longer reliable."

Planchet and Bazin were called, and they took the places of Grimaud and Mousqueton.

Having reached the water's edge, the executioner approached Milady and tied her feet and hands.

Then she broke the silence to cry out:

"You are cowards, you are miserable assassins, you are ten of you to butcher a woman; take care, if I am not rescued, I shall be avenged."

"You are not a woman," said Athos coldly. "You do not belong to the human species; you are a demon escaped from hell, and we are going to send you back there."

"Ah! you virtuous gentlemen!" said Milady. "Take heed that whoever touches a hair of my head is himself an assassin."

"The executioner may kill without being an assassin, madame," said the man in the red cloak, striking his broad sword. "He is the last judge, that is all: 'Nachrichter,' as our German neighbors say."

And as he bound her while saying these words, Milady uttered two or three wild cries, which produced a somber and strange effect as they flew into the night and lost themselves in the depths of the woods.

"But if I am guilty, if I have committed the crimes you accuse me of," howled Milady, "take me before a tribunal; you are not judges to condemn me."

"I offered you Tyburn," said Lord de Winter. "Why did you not accept?"

"Because I do not want to die!" cried Milady, struggling. "Because I am too young to die!"

"The woman you poisoned at Béthune was even younger than you, madame, and yet she died," said d'Artagnan.

"I will enter a cloister; I will become a nun," said Milady.

"You were in a cloister," said the executioner, "and you left it to ruin my brother."

Milady uttered a cry of terror and fell to her knees.

The executioner lifted her by the arms and tried to carry her toward the boat.

"Oh, my God!" she cried. "My God! Are you going to drown me?"

These cries had something so heartrending that d'Artagnan, who had at first been the most relentless in pursuing Milady, let himself sink onto a stump, bowed his head, and stopped his ears with the palms of his hands; and yet, despite this, he still heard her threatening and crying.

D'Artagnan was the youngest of all these men; his heart failed him.

"Oh! I cannot witness this frightful spectacle! I cannot consent that this woman should die like this!"

Milady had heard these few words, and she caught at a gleam of hope.

"D'Artagnan! D'Artagnan!" she cried. "Remember that I loved you!"

The young man rose and took a step toward her.

But Athos suddenly drew his sword and placed himself in his path.

"If you take another step, d'Artagnan," he said, "we shall cross swords together."

D'Artagnan fell on his knees and prayed.

"Come," continued Athos. "Executioner, do your duty."

"Willingly, Monseigneur," said the executioner, "for as true as I am a good Catholic, I firmly believe I am doing justice in performing my function upon this woman."

"It is well."

Athos took a step toward Milady.

"I forgive you," he said, "the harm you have done me; I forgive you my blighted future, my lost honor, my sullied love, and my salvation forever compromised by the despair into which you have thrown me. Die in peace."

Lord de Winter advanced in his turn.

"I forgive you," he said, "the poisoning of my brother, the assassination of His Grace the Duke of Buckingham; I forgive you the death of poor Felton, I forgive you your attempts upon my person. Die in peace."

"And I," said d'Artagnan, "forgive me, madame, for having, by a trick unworthy of a gentleman, provoked your anger; and in return, I forgive you the murder of my poor friend and your cruel vengeances against me; I forgive you and I weep for you. Die in peace!"

"I am lost!" murmured Milady in English. "I must die."

Then she rose by herself, cast around her one of those clear looks that seemed to spring from a flaming eye.

She saw nothing.

She listened and heard nothing.

She had only enemies around her.

"Where am I to die?" she said.

"On the opposite bank," replied the executioner.

Then he made her enter the boat, and as he was about to step into it to follow her, Athos handed him a sum of money.

"Here," he said. "This is the price of the execution; let it be seen that we act as judges."

"It is well," said the executioner. "And now let this woman know, in her turn, that I do not perform my trade, but my duty."

And he threw the money into the river.

The boat moved away toward the left bank of the Lys, carrying the guilty woman and the executioner; all the others remained on the right bank, where they had fallen on their knees.

The boat glided slowly along the ferry rope, under the reflection of a pale cloud that overhung the water at that moment.

They saw it reach the other bank; the figures were outlined in black against the reddish horizon.

Milady, during the crossing, had managed to untie the rope that bound her feet; on reaching the shore, she leaped lightly to the ground and took flight.

But the ground was damp; on reaching the top of the slope, she slipped and fell on her knees.

A superstitious idea doubtless struck her; she understood that Heaven refused her aid and remained in the attitude in which she found herself, her head bowed and her hands clasped.

Then from the opposite bank, they saw the executioner slowly raise his two arms; a ray of moonlight was reflected on the blade of his broad sword; the two arms fell; they heard the hiss of the scimitar and the cry of the victim, then a truncated mass collapsed under the blow.

Then the executioner detached his red cloak, spread it on the ground, laid the body upon it, threw the head upon it, tied it by the four corners, shouldered it, and got back into the boat.

Arrived in the middle of the Lys, he stopped the boat, and suspending his burden over the river:

"Let the justice of God pass!" he cried in a loud voice.

And he let the corpse fall into the deepest part of the water, which closed over it.

Three days later, the four musketeers returned to Paris; they had remained within the limits of their leave, and that same evening they went to pay their customary visit to Monsieur de Tréville.

"Well, gentlemen," asked the brave captain, "did you enjoy yourselves on your excursion?"

"Prodigiously," replied Athos, through clenched teeth.

CHAPTER LXVII. CONCLUSION

On the sixth of the following month, the king, keeping the promise he had made to the cardinal to leave Paris and return to La Rochelle, left his capital still quite stunned by the news that had just spread through it that Buckingham had been assassinated.

Although she had been warned that the man she had so loved was in danger, the queen, when she was told of his death, refused to believe it; she even went so far as to exclaim imprudently:

"It is false! He has just written to me."

But the next day she was compelled to believe the fatal news; La Porte, detained like everyone else in England by the orders of King Charles I, arrived bringing the last and mournful present that Buckingham had sent to the queen.

The king's joy had been very great; he did not take the trouble to dissimulate it and even displayed it with affectation before the queen. Louis XIII, like all weak hearts, lacked generosity.

But soon the king became gloomy and unwell again: his brow was not of the kind that clears for long; he felt that on returning to camp he would resume his slavery, and yet he returned there.

The cardinal was for him the fascinating serpent, and he himself was the bird that flits from branch to branch without being able to escape him.

So the return to La Rochelle was profoundly sad. Our four friends especially were the astonishment of their comrades; they traveled together, side by side, with somber eyes and bowed heads. Athos alone occasionally raised his broad brow; a flash shone in his eyes, a bitter smile passed over his lips, then, like his comrades, he again let himself sink into his reveries.

As soon as the escort arrived in a town, when they had conducted the king to his lodging, the four friends withdrew either to their own quarters or to some remote tavern, where they neither played nor drank; they only spoke in low voices, watching attentively to see if anyone was listening.

One day when the king had halted on the road to hunt the magpie, and the four friends, according to their custom, instead of following the hunt, had stopped in a tavern on the highway, a man who came from La Rochelle at full gallop stopped at the door to drink a glass of wine and cast his gaze into the interior of the room where the four musketeers were seated at table.

"Hello! Monsieur d'Artagnan!" he said. "Is it not you I see there?"

D'Artagnan raised his head and uttered a cry of joy. This man, whom he called his phantom, was his stranger from Meung, from the Rue des Fossoyeurs, and from Arras.

D'Artagnan drew his sword and rushed toward the door.

But this time, instead of fleeing, the stranger leaped down from his horse and advanced to meet d'Artagnan.

"Ah! Monsieur," said the young man, "I have caught up with you at last; this time you shall not escape me."

"Nor do I intend to, Monsieur, for this time I was seeking you; in the king's name, I arrest you, and I order you to surrender your sword to me, Monsieur, and without resistance; your head is at stake, I warn you."

“Stories of the world, in your language.”