“Go, Monsieur le Comte,” said the tutor, “but in heaven’s name, don’t take any risks!”
“Never fear. Besides, we’re done for one day. You know the saying: Non bis in idem.”98
“Don’t lose heart, Monsieur,” said Raoul to the wounded man. “We’ll find what you need.”
“God bless you, Messieurs!” replied the dying man, in a tone of gratitude deep and profound.
And the two young men galloped off in the direction indicated, while the count’s tutor oversaw the construction of a stretcher.
Within ten minutes the young men found the inn. Raoul, without dismounting, called for the innkeeper, warned him a wounded man was being brought there, and asked him to prepare everything needed to treat him, including a bed, bandages, and lint. He also asked if there was a nearby doctor or surgeon who could be summoned, adding that he was willing to pay for a messenger.
The innkeeper, addressed by two richly appointed young lords, promised to do everything they asked. Once they saw preparations were begun, the two cavaliers went on their way, spurring their horses toward Greney.
They had ridden nearly a league, and had just sighted the village’s first houses, whose red-tiled roofs stood out distinctly against the green of the surrounding trees, when they saw coming toward them, mounted on a mule, a poor monk wearing a broad hat and a gray woolen robe. They took him for an Augustinian friar; it seemed chance had sent them just what they needed.
They cantered toward the monk. He was a man of twenty-two or twenty-three, but ascetic habits seemed to have added years to his appearance. He was fair-skinned, with an unhealthy pallor tinged a bilious yellow. His short hair, which extended from under his hat in a line across his forehead, was pale blond, and his eyes, though of a clear blue, seemed devoid of life.
“Monsieur,” said Raoul, with his usual politeness, “are you an ecclesiastic?”
“Why do you ask?” said the stranger, coldly impassive.
“To get an answer,” said the Comte de Guiche haughtily.
The stranger touched his heel to his mule and continued on his way.
De Guiche turned his horse and blocked him. “Answer, Monsieur!” he said. “You were asked politely, and every question deserves an answer.”
“I’m free, I think, to speak or not to speak to random people who decide to interrogate me on a whim.”
De Guiche, with some difficulty, suppressed the urge to give the monk an immediate thrashing. “First of all,” he said, making an effort to speak calmly, “we are not ‘random people’—my friend here is the Vicomte de Bragelonne, and I am the Comte de Guiche. More importantly, we don’t question you on a whim, but because a man is dying nearby who needs the aid of the Church. If you’re a priest, I demand, in the name of humanity, that you follow me to aid this man. If you’re not—well, that’s something else. But I warn you, in the cause of common courtesy which you seem to prefer to ignore, that further insolence will be punished.”
The monk’s face went from pale to livid, and he smiled so strangely that Raoul, who was watching him closely, felt something tighten around his heart. “He’s some kind of Spanish or Flemish spy,” he said, putting his hand on his pistol.
The monk’s reply was a brief but menacing glare. “Eh bien, Monsieur!” said de Guiche. “What do you have to say?”
“I am a priest, Messieurs,” said the young man. And his face resumed its former passivity.
“Then, mon Père,” said Raoul, leaving his pistol in its holster, and speaking with a respect he didn’t feel in his heart, “if you’re a priest, we offer you, as my friend said, an opportunity to fulfill your vows—there’s a badly wounded man ahead in the next inn calling for the aid of a minister of the Lord. Our men are waiting there with him.”
“I will go,” said the monk. And he dug his heels into his mule.
“You’d better go, Monsieur,” said de Guiche, “because our horses can catch your mule if you go anywhere else, and then, I swear to you, your trial will be a short one, and your execution quick, because we have rope and there are trees everywhere.”
The monk’s eyes flashed again, but that was all; he just repeated, “I will go,” and left.
“Let’s follow him to make sure,” said de Guiche.
“That’s just what I was going to propose,” said Bragelonne.
And the two young men rode slowly, matching their pace to the monk’s and following about a pistol-shot behind.
After five minutes the monk turned to see whether he was followed.
“See that?” said Raoul. “We did the right thing.”
“What a horrible face that monk has!” said the Comte de Guiche.
“Appalling!” Raoul agreed. “That yellow hair, his dead eyes, and especially his expression, with those thin lips that disappear whenever he speaks.”
“Yes,” said de Guiche, who hadn’t been as observant of these details as Raoul, who’d been looking while de Guiche was talking. “A strange face indeed—but these monks have such degrading habits. Their fasting makes them pale, they beat themselves, the hypocrites, and their eyes sink and grow dull from weeping for life’s lost joys.”
“At least the poor dying man will have his priest,” Raoul said. “Though God knows, the penitent looks like he has a clearer conscience than the confessor. As for me, I confess I’m not used to seeing priests who look like this one.”
“You aren’t?” said de Guiche. “This is one of those wandering friars who go begging down the highway in hopes a benefice will fall from heaven. They’re mostly foreigners: Scots, Irish, Danes—I’ve seen their like before.”
“As hideous as this one?”
“No, but pretty ugly, mostly.”
“I feel bad for the dying man, having to receive consolation at the hands of such a friar!”
“Bah!” said de Guiche. “Absolution comes not from the confessor, but from God. Nonetheless, I must say I’d rather die impenitent than have to spend my final minutes with the likes of him. You agree with me, don’t you, Viscount? I saw you gripping the pommel of your pistol as if you wanted to crack it over his head.”
“Yes, Count—it’s a strange thing, and might surprise you, but at the sight of that man I felt struck by a horror that’s hard to describe. Have you ever been walking and almost stepped on a snake?”
“Never,” said de Guiche.
“Well, that happened to me in the woods near Blois, and I can’t forget the way it looked at me, its eyes dull as it reared back its head, tongue flickering. I stood stunned, frozen and fascinated, until the Comte de La Fère . . .”
“Your father?” asked de Guiche.
“No, my guardian,” replied Raoul, blushing.
“All right.”
“Until the Comte de La Fère said, ‘Come, Bragelonne—draw your blade.’ Then I drew, stepped toward the reptile, and cut it in two, just as it reared up, hissing, to strike at me. Well! I swear I felt exactly the same sensation at the sight of this fellow when he said, ‘Why do you ask?’ and glared at me.”
“So, you’re sorry you didn’t cut him in half, as you did with your snake?”
“I almost wish I had,” said Raoul.
At that moment they came in sight of the little inn, where they could see the procession bearing the wounded man just arriving. The tutor led the two lackeys who carried the dying man, while the third brought the horses.
The young men spurred forward. “As you see, here comes the wounded man,” said de Guiche as he passed the Augustinian friar. “Be so kind as to pick up your pace, Monsieur Monk.” Raoul, meanwhile, rode past, giving the friar as wide a berth as he could, looking aside in disgust.
Thus, the young men arrived ahead of the confessor, rather than behind him. They went to meet the dying man to give him the good news. He rose slightly to look where they pointed, saw the monk approaching at the trot on his mule, and fell back again on his litter, his face glowing with joy.
“Now,” said the young count, “we did wha
t we promised you, and are eager to get on to join the army of Monsieur le Prince—so if we continue on our way, you’ll excuse us, won’t you, Monsieur? They say they’re preparing for battle, and we’d hate to arrive a day late.”
“Go, my young Seigneurs,” said the wounded man, “and may you be blessed for your piety. You have indeed done all you can do; I can only say once more, God bless you and those you hold dear!”
“Monsieur,” de Guiche said to his tutor, “we’re going to ride on ahead. You can catch up to us on the road to Cambrin.”
The innkeeper was at the door; he’d prepared everything, bed, bandages, and lint, and had sent a groom to fetch a doctor from Lens, the nearest large town. “We’ll do just as you asked,” said the host, “but you, Monsieur,” he continued, addressing Bragelonne, “won’t you stop to have your wound tended to?”
“What, this wound? It’s nothing,” said the viscount. “It’s time we got on to our next bivouac. But if a rider should stop and ask if you’ve seen a young man on a chestnut horse followed by a lackey, be so kind as to tell him that you’ve seen me, and that I plan to dine at Mazingarbe and sleep at Cambrin. That rider is my servant.”
“Wouldn’t it be better and more certain if I ask him his name and tell him yours?” replied the host.
“No harm in that,” said Raoul. “My name is the Vicomte de Bragelonne, and his is Grimaud.”
At this moment the wounded man arrived from one direction, and the monk from the other; the two young men drew back to give room for the stretcher, while the monk got down from his mule, and ordered that it be taken to the stables without having its saddle removed.
“Monsieur Monk,” said de Guiche, “give that brave man a proper confession, and don’t worry about your expenses or those of your mule—everything is covered.”
“Thanks, Monsieur,” said the monk, with one of those false smiles that made Bragelonne shiver.
“Come, Count,” said Raoul, repelled by the Augustinian. “Let’s go. I feel a chill here.”
“Thank you again, my fine young Seigneurs,” said the wounded man, “and remember me in your prayers.”
“Rest easy!” said de Guiche, spurring along to catch up to Bragelonne, who was already twenty paces ahead.
The stretcher, carried by the two lackeys, was borne into the inn. The host and his wife, who had joined him, watched from the staircase. The wounded man seemed to be in terrible pain, but he seemed most concerned about whether the monk was following after him.
At the sight of the pale and bloody man, the woman grasped her husband’s arm. “What’s the matter?” he asked her. “Are you ill?”
“No, but look!” said the hostess.
“Dame!” said the innkeeper. “He’s in bad shape.”
“That’s not what I mean,” said the woman, trembling. “Don’t you recognize him?”
“The wounded man? Wait a moment . . .”
“Ah! I see you do recognize him,” the woman said, “because now you’re as pale as I am.”
“It’s true!” cried the host. “Bad luck has come to our house—it’s the old executioner of Béthune.”
“The executioner of Béthune!” murmured the young monk, stopping short, his expression betraying the repugnance he felt for his penitent.
Monsieur d’Arminges, standing on the threshold, saw this hesitation. “Monsieur Monk,” he said, “this man may have been an executioner, but he is no less a man, so give him the final services he requires. It will make your labors all the more meritorious.”
The monk didn’t reply, just silently followed the two lackeys into the rear chamber, where they placed the dying man on a bed. Seeing the man of God approach the bedside, the lackeys went out, closing the door on the monk and the penitent. D’Arminges and Olivain were waiting for them outside; they mounted their horses, and all four trotted off after Raoul and his companion.
They were just disappearing around a bend in the road when a new traveler arrived at the threshold of the inn.
“What can I do for you, Monsieur?” asked the innkeeper, still pale and trembling from his fearful discovery.
The traveler made the gesture of a man drinking, and then dismounted, pointed to his horse, and pantomimed giving it a rubdown.
“The devil!” the host said to himself. “It seems the man’s a mute.” He asked, “And where would you like to drink?”
“Here,” said the traveler, pointing to a table.
“I was wrong,” said the host to himself. “He’s not a mute.” So, he bowed and went to get a bottle of wine and some biscuits, which he placed before his taciturn guest. “Would Monsieur like anything else?” he asked.
“I would,” said the traveler.
“What does Monsieur wish?”
“To know if you’ve seen a young gentleman of fifteen riding a chestnut horse and followed by a lackey.”
“The Vicomte de Bragelonne?” said the host.
“Exactly.”
“So, you’re the one he called Monsieur Grimaud?”
The traveler nodded.
“Well!” said the host. “You missed your young master by no more than a quarter of an hour. He plans to dine at Mazingarbe and sleep tonight at Cambrin.”
“How far is Mazingarbe?”
“Two and a half leagues.”
“Thank you.”
Grimaud, certain now of rejoining his young master by the end of the day, relaxed, mopped his brow, and poured himself a glass of wine, which he sipped silently.
He had just set down his glass and was preparing to refill it when a terrible scream came from the back room where the monk and the dying man had gone.
Grimaud leapt to his feet. “What was that?” he said. “Where was that scream from?”
“From the wounded man’s room,” said the host.
“What wounded man?” asked Grimaud.
“The old executioner of Béthune, who was ambushed by some Spaniards, then brought here to be confessed by an Augustinian friar. He must be suffering terribly.”
“The old executioner of Béthune?” Grimaud muttered, calling up his memories. “A man of fifty-five to sixty, tall, strong, with a dark complexion, black hair and beard?”
“That’s him, except his beard is gray and his hair is white. Do you know him?” asked the host.
“I met him once,” said Grimaud, his expression darkening at the memory it recalled.
The hostess rushed up, trembling. “Did you hear that?” she asked her husband.
“Yes,” the host replied, looking anxiously toward the door at the rear. Just then there came a second cry, less loud than the first, but followed by a long, extended groan.
The three listeners shuddered. “We have to find out what’s going on,” said Grimaud.
“That sounded like a man being murdered,” whispered the host.
“Jésus!” said the woman, crossing herself.
Though Grimaud spoke slowly, he could act quickly. He rushed to the door of the back room and shook it by the knob, but it was locked from within.
“Open up!” cried the host. “Open up this instant, Monsieur Monk!”
No one answered.
“Open up, or I’ll break down the door!” said Grimaud.
Silence.
Grimaud looked around and spotted a crowbar in a corner of the common room. He went and grabbed it, and before the host could object, pried the door open.
The back room was spattered with blood, a stream of which flowed from the mattress. The wounded man said nothing, for he was on the brink of death.
The Augustinian friar had disappeared. “The monk!” cried the host. “Where’s the monk?”
Grimaud rushed to the window, which opened onto the courtyard. “He got out this way,” he said.
“You think so?” said the host, thoroughly frightened. “Groom! See if the monk’s mule is still in the stable!”
“The mule’s gone!” the groom shouted back.
Grimaud frowned, while the host
wrung his hands and looked around in dismay. His wife, terrified, didn’t even dare to enter the room, and stood at the door.
Grimaud approached the dying man, recognizing his blunt, scarred features, which brought back a terrible memory. Finally, after a moment of sad and silent contemplation, he said, “There’s no doubt about it: it’s him.”
“Is he still alive?” asked the host.
Grimaud didn’t reply, just opened the man’s doublet to feel his heart, as the host came around to the other side. Suddenly both started back, the host uttering a cry of terror, while Grimaud turned pale.
The blade of a dagger was buried to the hilt in the left side of the executioner’s chest.
“Run for help,” said Grimaud. “I’ll stay here with him.”
The host left the room in a hurry; as for his wife, she’d fled when she heard her husband cry out.
XXXV
The Absolution
Here’s what had happened within the room.
We’ve seen that it was not by his own will, but rather against it that the monk attended the wounded man whose need had been forced upon him. Perhaps he’d thought to escape, if he got the chance—but he’d been prevented by the threats of the two gentlemen, and of their retainers, who’d apparently been given strict orders, as well as by the monk’s own need to play the part of confessor convincingly. So, once he entered the room, he approached the wounded man’s bedside.
The executioner quickly looked the monk over, with the efficient glance of those who know they are dying and therefore have no time to lose. As he took in the figure of the one who was to give him consolation, he started in surprise and said, “You’re very young, Father.”
“Those who wear these robes are of no age,” the monk replied drily.
“Please speak gently to me, Father,” said the wounded man. “I need a friend in these final moments.”
“Do you suffer much?” asked the monk.
“Yes—but in soul even more than in body.”
“We shall save your soul,” said the young man. “But tell me, were you really the executioner of Béthune, as these people say?”
Twenty Years After Page 33