Three Musketeers (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Alexandre Dumas

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

  “That is not all,” resumed Lord de Winter. “My brother, who made you his heir, died in three hours of a strange disorder which left livid traces all over the 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 upon you, and I swear that if it be not granted to me, I will execute it myself.”

  And Lord de Winter ranged himself by the side of D’Artagnan, leaving the place free for another accuser.

  Milady let her head sink between her two hands, and tried to recall her ideas, whirling in a mortal vertigo.

  “My turn,” said Athos, himself trembling as the lion trembles at the sight of the serpent—“my turn. I married that woman when she was a young girl; I married her in opposition to the wishes of 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, raising herself, “I defy you to find any tribunal which pronounced that infamous sentence against me. I defy you to find him who executed it.”

  “Silence!” said a hollow voice. “It is for me to reply to that!” And the man in the red cloak came forward in his turn.

  “What man is that? What man is that?” cried Milady, suffocated by terror, her hair loosening itself, and rising above her livid countenance as if alive.

  All eyes were turned towards this man—for to all except Athos he was unknown.

  Even Athos looked at him with as much stupefaction as the others, for he knew not how he could in any way find himself mixed up with the horrible drama then unfolded.

  After approaching Milady with a slow and solemn step, so that the table alone separated them, the unknown took off his mask.

  Milady for some time examined with increasing terror that pale face, enframed with black hair and whiskers, the only expression of which was icy impassibility. Then she suddenly cried, “Oh, no, no!” rising and retreating to the very wall. “No, no! it is an infernal apparition! It is not he! Help, help!” screamed she, turning towards the wall, as if she would tear an opening with her hands.

  “Who are you, then?” cried all the witnesses of this scene.

  “Ask that woman,” said the man in the red cloak, “for you may plainly see she knows me!”

  “The executioner of Lille, the executioner of Lille!” cried Milady, a prey to insensate terror, and clinging with her hands to the wall to avoid falling.

  Every one drew back, and the man in the red cloak remained standing alone in the middle of the room.

  “Oh, grace, grace, pardon!” cried the wretch, falling on her knees.

  The unknown waited for silence, and then resumed, “I told you well that she would know me. Yes, I am the executioner of Lille, and this is my history.”

  All eyes were fixed upon this man, whose words were listened to with anxious attention.

  “That woman was once a young girl, as beautiful as she is today. She was a nun in the convent of the Benedictines of Templemar. A young priest, with a simple and trustful heart, performed the duties of the church of that convent. She undertook his seduction, and succeeded; she would have seduced a saint.

  “Their vows were sacred and irrevocable. Their connection could not last long without ruining both. She prevailed upon him to leave the country; but to leave the country, to fly together, to reach another part of France, where they might live at ease because unknown, money was necessary. Neither had any. The priest stole the sacred vases, and sold them; but as they were preparing to escape together, they were both arrested.

  “Eight days later she had seduced the son of the jailer, and escaped. The young priest was condemned to ten years of imprisonment, and to be branded. I was executioner of the city of Lille, as this woman has said. I was obliged to brand the guilty one; and he, gentlemen, was my brother!

  “I then swore that this woman who had ruined him, who was more than his accomplice, since she had urged him to the crime, should at least share his punishment. I suspected where she was concealed. I followed her, I caught her, I bound her; and I imprinted the same disgraceful mark upon her that I had imprinted upon my poor brother.

  “The day after my return to Lille, my brother in his turn succeeded in making his escape; I was accused of complicity, and was condemned to remain in his place till he should be again a prisoner. My poor brother was ignorant of this sentence. He rejoined this woman; they fled together into Berry, and there he obtained a little curacy. This woman passed for his sister.

  “The Lord of the estate on which the chapel of the curacy was situated saw this pretended sister, and became enamoured of her—amorous to such a degree that he proposed to marry her. Then she quitted him she had ruined for him she was destined to ruin, and became the Comtesse de la Fère—”

  All eyes were turned towards Athos, whose real name that was, and who made a sign with his head that all was true which the executioner had said.

  “Then,” resumed he, “mad, desperate, determined to get rid of an existence from which she had stolen everything, honor and happiness, my poor brother returned to Lille, and learning the sentence which had condemned me in his place, surrendered himself, and hanged himself that same night from the iron bar of the loophole of his prison.

  “To do justice to them who had condemned me, they kept their word. As soon as the identity of my brother was proved, I was set at liberty.

  “That is the crime of which I accuse her; that is the cause for which she was branded.”

  “Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Athos, “what is the penalty you demand against this woman?”

  “The punishment of death,” replied D’Artagnan.

  “My Lord de Winter,” continued Athos, “what is the penalty you demand against this woman?”

  “The punishment of death,” replied Lord de Winter.

  “Messieurs Porthos and Aramis,” repeated Athos, “you who are her judges, what is the sentence you pronounce upon this woman?”

  “The punishment of death,” replied the Musketeers, in a hollow voice.

  Milady uttered a frightful shriek, and dragged herself along several paces upon her knees toward her judges.

  Athos stretched out his hand toward her.

  “Charlotte Backson, Comtesse de la Fère, Milady de Winter,” said he, “your crimes have wearied men on earth and God in heaven. If you know a prayer, say it—for you are condemned, and you shall die.”

  At these words, which left no hope, Milady raised herself in all her pride, and wished to speak; but her strength failed her. She felt that a powerful and implacable hand seized her by the hair, and dragged her away as irrevocably as fatality drags humanity. She did not, therefore, even attempt the least resistance, and went out of the cottage.

  Lord de Winter, D’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, went out close behind her. The lackeys followed their masters, and the chamber was left solitary, with its broken window, its open door, and its smoky lamp burning sadly on the table.

  66

  EXECUTION

  It was near midnight; the moon, lessened by its decline, and reddened by the last traces of the storm, arose behind the little town of Armentières, which showed against its pale light the dark outline of its houses, and the skeleton of its high belfry. In front of them the Lys rolled its waters like a river of molten tin; while on the other side was a black mass of trees, profiled on a stormy sky, invaded by large coppery clouds which created a sort of twilight amid the night. On the left was an old abandoned mill, with its motionless wings, from the ruins of which an owl threw out its shrill, periodical, and monotonous cry. On the right and on the left of the road, which the dismal procession pursued, appeared a few low, stunted trees, which looked like deformed dwarfs crouching down to watch men traveling at this sinister hour.

/>   From time to time a broad sheet of lightning opened the horizon in its whole width, darted like a serpent over the black mass of trees, and like a terrible scimitar divided the heavens and the waters into two parts. Not a breath of wind now disturbed the heavy atmosphere. A deathlike silence oppressed all nature. The soil was humid and glittering with the rain which had recently fallen, and the refreshed herbs sent forth their perfume with additional energy.

  Two lackeys dragged Milady, whom each held by one arm. The executioner walked behind them, and Lord de Winter, D’Artagnan, Porthos, and Aramis walked behind the executioner. Planchet and Bazin came last.

  The two lackeys conducted Milady to the bank of the river. Her mouth was mute; but her eyes spoke with their inexpressible eloquence, supplicating by turns each of those on whom she looked.

  Being a few paces in advance she whispered to the lackeys, “A thousand pistoles to each of you, if you will assist my escape; but if you deliver me up to your masters, I have near at hand avengers who will make you pay dearly for my death.”

  Grimaud hesitated. Mousqueton trembled in all his members.

  Athos, who heard Milady’s voice, came sharply up. Lord de Winter did the same.

  “Change these lackeys,” said he; “she has spoken to them. They are no longer sure.”

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

  On the bank of the river the executioner approached Milady, and bound her hands and feet.

  Then she broke the silence to cry out, “You are cowards, miserable assassins—ten men combined to murder one woman. Beware! If I am not saved I shall be avenged.”

  “You are not a woman,” said Athos, coldly and sternly. “You do not belong to the human species; you are a demon escaped from hell, whither we send you back again.”

  “Ah, you virtuous men!” said Milady; “please to remember that he who shall touch a hair of my head is himself an assassin.”

  “The executioner may kill, without being on that account an assassin,” said the man in the red cloak, rapping upon his immense sword. “This is the last judge; that is all. Nachrichter, as say our neighbors, the Germans.”

  And as he bound her while saying these words, Milady uttered two or three savage cries, which produced a strange and melancholy effect in flying away into the night, and losing themselves in the depths of the woods.

  “If I am guilty, if I have committed the crimes you accuse me of,” shrieked Milady, “take me before a tribunal. You are not judges! You cannot condemn me!”

  “I offered you Tyburn,” said Lord de Winter. “Why did you not accept it?”

  “Because I am not willing to die!” cried Milady, struggling. “Because I am too young to die!”

  “The woman you poisoned at Béthune was still younger than you, madame, and yet she is dead,” 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 sank upon her knees. The executioner took her up in his arms and was carrying her toward the boat.

  “Oh, my God!” cried she, “my God! are you going to drown me?”

  These cries had something so heartrending in them that M. d’Artagnan, who had been at first the most eager in pursuit of Milady, sat down on the stump of a tree and hung his head, covering his ears with the palms of his hands; and yet, notwithstanding, he could still hear her cry and threaten.

  D’Artagnan was the youngest of all these men. His heart failed him.

  “Oh, I cannot behold this frightful spectacle!” said he. “I cannot consent that this woman should die thus!”

  Milady heard these few words and caught at a shadow of hope.

  “D‘Artagnan, D’Artagnan!” cried she; “remember that I loved you!”

  The young man rose and took a step toward her.

  But Athos arose likewise, drew his sword, and placed himself in the way.

  “If you take one step farther, D’Artagnan,” said he, “we shall cross swords together.”

  D’Artagnan sank on his knees and prayed.

  “Come,” continued Athos, “executioner, do your duty.”

  “Willingly, monseigneur,” said the executioner; “for as I am a good Catholic, I firmly believe I am acting justly in performing my functions on this woman.”

  “That’s well.”

  Athos made a step toward Milady.

  “I pardon you,” said he, “the ill you have done me. I pardon you for my blasted future, my lost honor, my defiled love, and my salvation forever compromised by the despair into which you have cast me. Die in peace!”

  Lord de Winter advanced in his turn.

  “I pardon you,” said he, “for the poisoning of my brother, and the assassination of his Grace, Lord Buckingham. I pardon you for the death of poor Felton; I pardon you for the attempts upon my own person. Die in peace!”

  “And I,” said M. d’Artagnan. “pardon me, madame, for having by a trick unworthy of a gentleman provoked your anger; and I, in exchange, pardon you the murder of my poor love and your cruel vengeance against me. I pardon you, and I weep for you. Die in peace!”

  “I am lost!” murmured Milady in English. “I must die!”

  Then she arose of herself, and cast around her one of those piercing looks which seemed to dart from an eye of flame.

  She saw nothing; she listened, and she heard nothing.

  “Where am I to die?” said she.

  “On the other bank,” replied the executioner.

  Then he placed her in the boat, and as he was going to set foot in it himself, Athos handed him a sum of silver.

  “Here,” said he, “is the price of the execution, that it may be plain we act as judges.”

  “That is correct,” said the executioner; “and now in her turn, let this woman see that I am not fulfilling my trade, but my debt.”

  And he threw the money into the river.

  The boat moved off toward the left-hand shore of the Lys, bearing the guilty woman and the executioner; all the others remained on the right-hand bank, where they fell on their knees.

  The boat glided along the ferry rope under the shadow of a pale cloud which hung over the water at that moment.

  The troop of friends saw it gain the opposite bank; the figures were defined like black shadows on the red-tinted horizon.

  Milady during the passage had contrived to untie the cord which fastened her feet. On coming near the bank, she jumped lightly on shore and took to flight. But the soil was moist; on reaching the top of the bank, she slipped and fell upon her knees.

  She was struck, no doubt, with a superstitious idea: she conceived that heaven denied its aid, and she remained in the attitude in which she had fallen, her head drooping and her hands clasped.

  Then they saw from the other bank the executioner raise both his arms slowly; a moonbeam fell upon the blade of the large sword. The two arms fell with a sudden force; they heard the hissing of the scimitar and the cry of the victim, then a truncated mass sank beneath the blow.

  The executioner then took off his red cloak, spread it upon the ground, laid the body in it, threw in the head, tied all up by the four corners, lifted it on his back, and entered the boat again.

  In the middle of the stream he stopped the boat, and suspended his burden over the water and cried in a loud voice, “Let the justice of God be done!” and he let the corpse drop into the depths of the waters, which closed over it.

  Three days afterward the four Musketeers were in Paris; they had not exceeded their leave of absence, and that same evening they went to pay their customary visit to M. de Tréville.

  “Well, gentlemen,” said the brave captain, “I hope you have been well amused during your excursion.”

  “Prodigiously,” replied Athos in the name of himself and his comrades.

  67

  CONCLUSION

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p; On the sixth of the following month the king, in compliance with the promise he had made the cardinal to return to La Rochelle, left his capital still in amazement at the news which began to spread itself of Buckingham’s assassination.

  Although warned that the man she had loved so much was in great danger, the queen, when his death was announced to her, would not believe the fact, and even imprudently exclaimed, “It is false; he has just written to me!”

  But the next day she was obliged to believe this fatal intelligence; Laporte, detained in England, as everyone else had been, by the orders of Charles I, arrived, and was the bearer of the duke’s dying gift to the queen.

  The joy of the king was lively. He did not even give himself the trouble to dissemble, and displayed it with affectation before the queen. Louis XIII, like every weak mind, was wanting in generosity.

  But the king soon again became dull and indisposed; his brow was not one of those that long remain clear. He felt that in returning to camp he should re-enter slavery; nevertheless, he did return.

  The cardinal was for him the fascinating serpent, and himself the bird which flies from branch to branch without power to escape.

  The return to La Rochelle, therefore, was profoundly dull. Our four friends, in particular, astonished their comrades; they traveled together, side by side, with sad eyes and heads lowered. Athos alone from time to time raised his expansive brow; a flash kindled in his eyes, and a bitter smile passed over his lips, then, like his comrades, he sank again into reverie.

  As soon as the escort arrived in a city, when they had conducted the king to his quarters the four friends either retired to their own or to some secluded cabaret, where they neither drank nor played; they only conversed in a low voice, looking around attentively to see that no one overheard them.

  One day, when the king had halted to fly the magpie, and the four friends, according to their custom, instead of following the sport had stopped at a cabaret on the high road, a man coming from La Rochelle on horseback pulled up at the door to drink a glass of wine, and darted a searching glance into the room where the four Musketeers were sitting.