Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  “In a manner of speaking,” the man replied quickly, doubtless fearing that the title of executioner would drive away the final blessing he needed. “At one time I was, but I haven’t been for fifteen years, since I sold the office. I still attend the executions, but I don’t strike the blow—not me!”

  “But you feel horror at once having done so?”

  The executioner gave a deep sigh. “As long as I swung the blade in the name of law and justice I could sleep soundly, as the responsibility was that of justice and the law—but since one terrible night when I served as an instrument of vengeance and raised my sword with hatred over one of God’s creatures . . .”

  The executioner stopped, shaking his head in despair. “Speak,” said the monk, who took a seat next to the bed, showing interest in the wounded man’s strange story.

  “Ahh!” cried the dying man, with the remorse of a long-buried grief that finally found expression. “After that, I renounced the savagery of the slayer’s work, and tried to assuage my guilt by twenty years of good works. I’ve risked my life to aid those in peril and saved many lives to balance those I took. And that’s not all: the money I made in the exercise of my vocation, I’ve given to the poor, to the Church, and to refugees fleeing persecution. All have pardoned me—some have even become my friends—but I believe that God has not pardoned me, because the memory of that execution pursues me when I sleep, and every night I see rising before me the specter of that woman.”

  “A woman! So, it was a woman you murdered?” cried the monk.

  “Now you say it, too!” cried the executioner. “You use the word that echoes in my ears: murder! I didn’t execute her, I murdered her! I’m not an instrument of justice, I’m a murderer!” And he closed his eyes with a groan.

  The monk must have feared the man would die before continuing, for he quickly said, “Go on, go on, I know nothing about it. When you’ve finished your story, then God—and I—will judge.”

  “Oh! Mon Père,” continued the executioner without opening his eyes, as if he feared by opening them to see some frightful object, “especially when it’s nighttime, and I’m crossing a river, this terror I can’t resist overwhelms me. My hands hang so heavy I can barely lift them, as if weighted by my heavy sword; the water turns the color of blood, and all the voices of nature, the rustling of trees, the murmur of the wind, the lapping of the waves, all share a single voice, despairing and terrible, crying out to me, ‘Let God’s justice be done!’”

  “Delirium!” muttered the monk, shaking his head.

  The executioner opened his eyes, twisted toward the young man, and seized his arm. “Delirium?” he repeated. “Delirium, you say? No, not at all. Because it was in the night—because I threw her body in the river—because the words my remorse always repeats, those very words, it was I in my pride who spoke them. After having been an instrument of human justice, I believed I embodied God’s justice.”

  “But, look here, how did it happen? Speak,” said the monk.

  “It was at night; a nobleman came to me; he showed me an order, and I followed him. Four other seigneurs awaited us. They blindfolded me and took me with them. I had always reserved the right to refuse a job if what I was asked to do seemed unjust. We rode for five or six leagues, somber, silent, almost without saying a word. Finally, we reached a small cottage, where through the window I could see a woman leaning on a table, and they said, ‘This is who you must execute.’”

  “Horrid!” said the monk. “And you obeyed?”

  “But mon Père, this woman was a monster, they said, who had poisoned her second husband, and then tried to murder his brother, who was among the men who’d brought me. She had just poisoned to death a young woman who was her rival, and they said that before leaving England she had conspired at the assassination of the king’s favorite.”

  “Buckingham?” cried the monk.

  “Yes, Buckingham—that’s the name.”

  “So, this woman was English?”

  “No, she was French, but she’d married in England.”

  The monk paled, wiped his forehead, got up, and locked the door from the inside. The executioner thought he was being abandoned and fell back moaning on the bed.

  “No, no, here I am,” said the monk, returning quickly. “Continue—who were these men?”

  “One was a foreigner—English, I think. The other four were French and wore the uniform of the King’s Musketeers.”

  “Who were they?”

  “I didn’t know them. But the French seigneurs called the Englishman milord.”

  “And this woman . . . was she beautiful?”

  “Young and beautiful! Oh, yes! I can still see her, kneeling at my feet as she prayed, her beautiful head thrown back. I’ve never been able to understand how I could have taken such a head, so beautiful, so pale.”

  The monk seemed agitated by a strange emotion. He trembled as if he wanted to ask a question but didn’t dare. Finally, after a violent effort to control himself, he asked, “And the name of this woman?”

  “I don’t know. As I told you, they said she was twice married, once in France and once in England.”

  “And she was young, you say?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Beautiful?”

  “Ravishing.”

  “Blond hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “She had full, flowing hair, didn’t she? That fell to her shoulders?”

  “Yes.”

  “Eyes large and expressive?”

  “When she wanted them to be. Oh, yes, that was her.”

  “A voice of strange sweetness?”

  “How . . . how do you know?”

  The executioner raised himself on his arm and stared, terrified, at the monk, who flushed. “And you killed her!” said the monk. “You served as the tool of those cowards who didn’t dare to kill her themselves! Had you no pity for her youth, her beauty, her helplessness? You killed her?”

  “Alas!” said the executioner. “I told you, Father, that beneath her heavenly trappings this woman hid an infernal spirit, and when I saw her, when I remembered the evil she’d done to me . . .”

  “To you? What could she have done to you? Tell me.”

  “She had seduced and run off with my brother, who was a priest; she had escaped with him from her convent.”

  “With your brother?”

  “Yes—my brother was her first lover. She was the cause of my brother’s death. Oh, Father, Father! Don’t look at me like that! Am I guilty? Will I not be forgiven?”

  The monk composed his face. “All right, all right, I will forgive you—if you tell me everything!”

  “Yes!” cried the executioner. “Everything! Everything!”

  “Then answer me: if she seduced your brother . . . you said she seduced him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “If she caused his death . . . you said she caused his death?”

  “Yes,” repeated the executioner.

  “Then, you must know her maiden name.”

  “Ah! My God, my God!” said the executioner. “I feel I’m dying. Absolution, Father! Absolution!”

  “Say the name!” cried the monk. “Say the name, and I will give it.”

  “Her name . . . ah, God pity me!” the executioner murmured. And he fell back on the bed, pale, shivering, almost convulsing.

  “Her name!” repeated the monk, bending over the dying man as if to draw it out of him. “Her name! Speak, or no absolution!”

  The dying man seemed to gather all his remaining strength. The monk’s eyes glistened. “Anne de Breuil,” the dying man murmured.

  “Anne de Breuil!” cried the monk, straightening and raising his hands to heaven. “Anne de Breuil! That was the name, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, that was her name—and now absolve me, for I’m dying.”

  “I, absolve you?” cried the priest, with a laugh that made the hair stand on the dying man’s head. “I, absolve you? I am no priest!”<
br />
  “You’re not a priest!” cried the executioner. “But . . . but what are you, then?”

  “I shall tell you, wretch!”

  “Oh, Lord—oh, my God!”

  “I am John Francis de Winter!”

  “I don’t know you!” cried the executioner.

  “Patience, patience, because you shall know me. I am John Francis de Winter,” he repeated, “and that woman . . .”

  “That woman?”

  “Was my mother!”

  The executioner gave a great and horrible scream, the first cry that was heard outside. Then he gibbered, “Oh, forgive me, forgive me, if not in the name of God, then in your own name—if not as a priest, then as her son.”

  “Forgive you!” cried the false monk. “Forgive you! God may do so, but as for me—never!”

  “Pity me,” said the executioner, holding his hands out to him.

  “No pity for those who had no pity. Die without confession—die in despair—die and be damned!”

  And drawing a dagger from his robes, he plunged it into the man’s chest. “There!” he said. “That is my absolution!”

  It was then that those outside heard the second, quieter cry, followed by a prolonged groan.

  The executioner, who had half risen, fell back across the bed. As for the false monk, leaving the dagger in his victim, he ran to the window, opened it, jumped out onto the flowerbed, slipped into the stable, and took his mule out the back door. He led it to the nearest copse of trees, threw off his monk’s robe, pulled a full cavalier’s outfit from his saddle bags, donned it, and rode to the nearest posting-house. There he hired a horse and galloped off at full speed toward Paris.

  XXXVI

  Grimaud Speaks

  The innkeeper had gone for help, his wife was outside praying, and Grimaud was left alone with the executioner.

  After a moment, the wounded man opened his eyes. “Save me!” he murmured. “Save me! O, my God, is there no friend in the world who’ll help me live—or die?” With an effort, he lifted his hand to his chest, and felt the hilt of the dagger. “Oh,” he said, like one who suddenly remembers.

  And he dropped his arm back on the bed.

  “Take courage,” said Grimaud. “We’ve sent for help.”

  “Who are you?” asked the wounded man, eyes widening as he looked at Grimaud.

  “An old friend,” said Grimaud.

  “You?” The man tried to remember him, to recognize the features of the one speaking to him. “When did we meet? What happened then?”

  “It was one night twenty years ago. My master brought you from Béthune to Armentières.”

  “Yes, I remember you,” said the executioner. “You were one of the four lackeys.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How is it you’re here?”

  “I was passing on the road and stopped at this inn to rest my horse. They’d just informed me the old executioner of Béthune was here when we heard your cries. We tried to rush to your aid but had to break down the door.”

  “And the monk?” said the executioner. “Have you seen the monk?”

  “What monk?”

  “The monk who was locked in with me?”

  “No, he’s gone; it looks like he fled out the window. Is he the one who stabbed you?”

  “Yes,” said the executioner.

  Grimaud turned as if to leave. “What are you going to do?” asked the wounded man.

  “We have to go after him.”

  “If you do—take care!”

  “Why?”

  “This was his revenge upon me, and so this is my expiation. Now I hope God will forgive me.”

  “Explain,” Grimaud said.

  “That woman that you and your masters had me kill . . .”

  “Milady?”

  “Yes, Milady, that’s what you called her.”

  “What did this monk have to do with Milady?”

  “She was his mother.”

  Grimaud staggered and gazed at the dying man as if stunned. “His . . . mother?” he repeated.

  “Yes, his mother.”

  “So, he knows the secret of her death?”

  “I took him for a monk and told him everything in confession.”

  “Woe!” cried Grimaud, sweat breaking out on his brow at the thought of the consequences of such a revelation. “You . . . you gave him no names, I hope?”

  “No names, because I didn’t know any, except the maiden name of his mother, which he recognized—but he knows that his uncle was one of the judges.” And with that, the executioner fell back, exhausted.

  Grimaud wanted to help him and reached out for the hilt of the dagger. “Don’t touch it,” said the executioner. “If you pull out the dagger, I’ll die.”

  Grimaud froze, hand outstretched, then balled it into a fist and struck his forehead. “Ah! But if that man learns who the others were, my master is lost.”

  “Hurry, then! Go to him!” cried the executioner. “Warn your master, if he’s still alive—and warn his friends. Believe me, my death won’t be the end of his terrible vengeance.”

  “Where was he going?” asked Grimaud.

  “To Paris.”

  “Where in Paris?”

  “To track back two young gentlemen who passed on their way to the army, one of them—I heard his companion say his name—called the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”

  “Was that the young man who brought the monk to you?”

  “Yes.”

  Grimaud raised his eyes to heaven. “Then it’s the will of God,” he said.

  “It must be,” said the wounded man.

  “This is terrifying,” muttered Grimaud. “And yet that woman deserved her fate,” he said aloud. “Don’t you think so?”

  “When one is dying,” said the executioner, “the crimes of others seem tiny compared to one’s own.” And he fell back, eyes closed in exhaustion.

  Grimaud was torn between a pity that forbade him to leave the man before help came, and the fear that commanded him to leave at once to bring this news to the Comte de La Fère. He heard a noise in the corridor and saw the host returning with the surgeon, who had finally been found. They were followed by several busybodies, drawn by curiosity; news of the strange event had started to spread.

  The surgeon approached the dying man, who seemed unconscious. Shaking his head doubtfully, he said, “First we must draw the blade from his chest.” Grimaud remembered what the wounded man had said and looked away. The surgeon opened the man’s doublet, tore a hole in his shirt, and laid his chest bare. The blade, as we said, was buried to its hilt.

  The surgeon took hold of the pommel and pulled; as he did so the wounded man opened his eyes in a startled stare. When the blade was pulled out, a bloody froth foamed from the executioner’s mouth, and when he breathed, blood spurted from his wound. The dying man fixed his eyes on Grimaud with a strange expression, uttered a muffled groan, and died in an instant.

  Grimaud picked up the bloody dagger from where the surgeon had dropped it on the bedroom floor, horrifying everyone, and gestured for the host to follow him. He paid all the host’s expenses with a generosity worthy of his master, and then mounted his horse.

  At first Grimaud had thought he should return immediately to Paris, but then he remembered that his prolonged absence would make Raoul anxious—Raoul, who was only two leagues ahead of him, and could be caught in a quarter of an hour. He would explain everything to Raoul, then head back to Paris. He put his horse into a gallop, and fifteen minutes later he pulled up at the Crowned Mule, the only inn at Mazingarbe.

  After a few words with the host, he knew he was in the right place. Raoul was dining with the Comte de Guiche and his tutor, but the grim adventure of the morning had left the young men in a somber mood. This didn’t dampen the cheer of Monsieur d’Arminges, whose greater experience made him more philosophical about such events.

  Suddenly the door opened and Grimaud appeared before them, pale, dusty, and still spattered with t
he dying man’s blood. “Grimaud, my good Grimaud,” cried Raoul. “Here you are at last! Excuse me, Messieurs—he’s not a servant, he’s a friend.” And rising and racing to him, he continued, “How is Monsieur le Comte? Have you seen him since we parted? Please tell me—but I also have much to tell you. In the last three days we’ve had many adven-tures . . . but what’s wrong? You’re so pale. And blood! What’s this blood?”

  “You’re right, he’s all bloody,” said de Guiche, rising. “Are you hurt, mon ami?”

  “No, Monsieur,” said Grimaud, “the blood is not mine.”

  “Whose, then?” asked Raoul.

  “It’s the blood of that luckless man you left at the inn, and who died in my arms.”

  “That man died—in your arms! But do you know who he was?”

  “Yes,” said Grimaud.

  “He was the old executioner of Béthune.”

  “I know it.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I knew him . . . before.”

  “And he’s dead?”

  “Yes.”

  The two young men gaped at each other.

  “What would you have, Messieurs?” said d’Arminges. “Death is the universal law, and not even an executioner is exempt. From the moment I saw his wound, I figured he would die—and you know, that was his opinion too, which was why he asked for a monk.”

  At the word monk, Grimaud paled.

  “Come, sit down, eat!” said d’Arminges, who like all men of that period, and especially those of his maturity, didn’t allow sentiment to get in the way of a good meal.

  “Yes, Monsieur, you’re right,” said Raoul. “Come, Grimaud, call for what you need, get served, and after you’ve rested, we’ll talk.”

  “No, Monsieur, no,” said Grimaud. “I can’t stop for a moment—I need to get back to Paris.”

  “What, you, go back to Paris? You’re mistaken, it’s Olivain who’s going back—you’re staying with me.”

  “On the contrary, it’s Olivain who’s staying, and I who am leaving. I came expressly to tell you that.”

  “But what’s the reason for this change?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “I can’t explain.”

  “Come, is this some kind of joke?”