31
The Monk.
Two men lay prone upon the ground, one bathed in blood and
motionless, with his face toward the earth; this one was
dead. The other leaned against a tree, supported there by
the two valets, and was praying fervently, with clasped
hands and eyes raised to Heaven. He had received a ball in
his thigh, which had broken the bone. The young men first
approached the dead man.
"He is a priest," said Bragelonne, "he has worn the tonsure.
Oh, the scoundrels! to lift their hands against a minister
of God."
"Come here, sir," said Urban, an old soldier who had served
under the cardinal duke in all his campaigns; "come here,
there is nothing to be done with him, whilst we may perhaps
be able to save the other."
The wounded man smiled sadly. "Save me! Oh, no!" said he,
"but help me to die, if you can."
"Are you a priest?" asked Raoul.
"No sir."
"I ask, as your unfortunate companion appeared to me to
belong to the church."
"He is the curate of Bethune, sir, and was carrying the holy
vessels belonging to his church, and the treasure of the
chapter, to a safe place, the prince having abandoned our
town yesterday; and as it was known that bands of the enemy
were prowling about the country, no one dared to accompany
the good man, so I offered to do so.
"And, sir," continued the wounded man, "I suffer much and
would like, if possible, to be carried to some house."
"Where you can be relieved?" asked De Guiche.
"No, where I can confess."
"But perhaps you are not so dangerously wounded as you
think," said Raoul.
"Sir," replied the wounded man, "believe me, there is no
time to lose; the ball has broken the thigh bone and entered
the intestines."
"Are you a surgeon?" asked De Guiche.
"No, but I know a little about wounds, and mine, I know, is
mortal. Try, therefore, either to carry me to some place
where I may see a priest or take the trouble to send one to
me here. It is my soul that must be saved; as for my body,
it is lost."
"To die whilst doing a good deed! It is impossible. God will
help you."
"Gentlemen, in the name of Heaven!" said the wounded man,
collecting all his forces, as if to get up, "let us not lose
time in useless words. Either help me to gain the nearest
village or swear to me on your salvation that you will send
me the first monk, the first cure, the first priest you may
meet. But," he added in a despairing tone, "perhaps no one
will dare to come for it is known that the Spaniards are
ranging through the country, and I shall die without
absolution. My God! my God! Good God! good God!" added the
wounded man, in an accent of terror which made the young men
shudder; "you will not allow that? that would be too
terrible!"
"Calm yourself, sir," replied De Guiche. "I swear to you,
you shall receive the consolation that you ask. Only tell us
where we shall find a house at which we can demand aid and a
village from which we can fetch a priest."
"Thank you, and God reward you! About half a mile from this,
on the same road, there is an inn, and about a mile further
on, after leaving the inn, you will reach the village of
Greney. There you must find the curate, or if he is not at
home, go to the convent of the Augustines, which is the last
house on the right, and bring me one of the brothers. Monk
or priest, it matters not, provided only that he has
received from holy church the power of absolving in articulo
mortis."
"Monsieur d'Arminges," said De Guiche, "remain beside this
unfortunate man and see that he is removed as gently as
possible. The vicomte and myself will go and find a priest."
"Go, sir," replied the tutor; "but in Heaven's name do not
expose yourself to danger!"
"Do not fear. Besides, we are safe for to-day; you know the
axiom, `Non bis in idem.'"
"Courage, sir," said Raoul to the wounded man. "We are going
to execute your wishes."
"May Heaven prosper you!" replied the dying man, with an
accent of gratitude impossible to describe.
The two young men galloped off in the direction mentioned
and in ten minutes reached the inn. Raoul, without
dismounting, called to the host and announced that a wounded
man was about to be brought to his house and begged him in
the meantime to prepare everything needful. He desired him
also, should he know in the neighborhood any doctor or
chirurgeon, to fetch him, taking on himself the payment of
the messenger.
The host, who saw two young noblemen, richly clad, promised
everything they required, and our two cavaliers, after
seeing that preparations for the reception were actually
begun, started off again and proceeded rapidly toward
Greney.
They had gone rather more than a league and had begun to
descry the first houses of the village, the red-tiled roofs
of which stood out from the green trees which surrounded
them, when, coming toward them mounted on a mule, they
perceived a poor monk, whose large hat and gray worsted
dress made them take him for an Augustine brother. Chance
for once seemed to favor them in sending what they were so
assiduously seeking. He was a man about twenty-two or
twenty-three years old, but who appeared much older from
ascetic exercises. His complexion was pale, not of that
deadly pallor which is a kind of neutral beauty, but of a
bilious, yellow hue; his colorless hair was short and
scarcely extended beyond the circle formed by the hat around
his head, and his light blue eyes seemed destitute of any
expression.
"Sir," began Raoul, with his usual politeness, "are you an
ecclesiastic?"
"Why do you ask me that?" replied the stranger, with a
coolness which was barely civil.
"Because we want to know," said De Guiche, haughtily.
The stranger touched his mule with his heel and continued
his way.
In a second De Guiche had sprung before him and barred his
passage. "Answer, sir," exclaimed he; "you have been asked
politely, and every question is worth an answer."
"I suppose I am free to say or not to say who I am to two
strangers who take a fancy to ask me."
It was with difficulty that De Guiche restrained the intense
desire he had of breaking the monk's bones.
"In the first place," he said, making an effort to control
himself, "we are not people who may be treated anyhow; my
friend there is the Viscount of Bragelonne and I am the
Count de Guiche. Nor was it from caprice we asked the
question, for there is a wounded and dying man who demands
the succor of the church. If you be a priest, I conjure you
in the name of humanity to follow me to aid this man; if you
be not, it is a different matter, and I warn you in the name
of courtesy, of which you appear profoundly ignorant, that I
shall chastise you for your insolence."
The pale face of the monk became so livid and his smile so
strange, that Raoul, whose eyes were still fixed upon him,
felt as if this smile had struck to his heart like an
insult.
"He is some Spanish or Flemish spy," said he, putting his
hand to his pistol. A glance, threatening and transient as
lightning, replied to Raoul.
"Well, sir," said De Guiche, "are you going to reply?"
"I am a priest," said the young man.
"Then, father," said Raoul, forcing himself to convey a
respect by speech that did not come from his heart, "if you
are a priest you have an opportunity, as my friend has told
you, of exercising your vocation. At the next inn you will
find a wounded man, now being attended by our servants, who
has asked the assistance of a minister of God."
"I will go," said the monk.
And he touched his mule.
"If you do not go, sir," said De Guiche, "remember that we
have two steeds able to catch your mule and the power of
having you seized wherever you may be; and then I swear your
trial will be summary; one can always find a tree and a
cord."
The monk's eye again flashed, but that was all; he merely
repeated his phrase, "I will go," -- and he went.
"Let us follow him," said De Guiche; "it will be the surest
plan."
"I was about to propose so doing," answered De Bragelonne.
In the space of five minutes the monk turned around to
ascertain whether he was followed or not.
"You see," said Raoul, "we have done wisely."
"What a horrible face that monk has," said De Guiche.
"Horrible!" replied Raoul, "especially in expression."
"Yes, yes," said De Guiche, "a strange face; but these monks
are subject to such degrading practices; their fasts make
them pale, the blows of the discipline make them hypocrites,
and their eyes become inflamed through weeping for the good
things of this life we common folk enjoy, but they have
lost."
"Well," said Raoul, "the poor man will get his priest, but,
by Heaven, the penitent appears to me to have a better
conscience than the confessor. I confess I am accustomed to
priests of a very different appearance."
"Ah!" exclaimed De Guiche, "you must understand that this is
one of those wandering brothers, who go begging on the high
road until some day a benefice falls down from Heaven on
them; they are mostly foreigners -- Scotch, Irish or Danish.
I have seen them before."
"As ugly?"
"No, but reasonably hideous."
"What a misfortune for the wounded man to die under the
hands of such a friar!"
"Pshaw!" said De Guiche. "Absolution comes not from him who
administers it, but from God. However, for my part, I would
rather die unshriven than have anything to say to such a
confessor. You are of my opinion, are you not, viscount? and
I see you playing with the pommel of your sword, as if you
had a great inclination to break the holy father's head."
"Yes, count, it is a strange thing and one which might
astonish you, but I feel an indescribable horror at the
sight of yonder man. Have you ever seen a snake rise up on
your path?"
"Never," answered De Guiche.
"Well, it has happened to me to do so in our Blaisois
forests, and I remember that the first time I encountered
one with its eyes fixed upon me, curled up, swinging its
head and pointing its tongue, I remained fixed, pale and as
though fascinated, until the moment when the Comte de la
Fere ---- "
"Your father?" asked De Guiche.
"No, my guardian," replied Raoul, blushing.
"Very well ---- "
"Until the moment when the Comte de la Fere," resumed Raoul,
"said, `Come, Bragelonne, draw your sword;' then only I
rushed upon the reptile and cut it in two, just at the
moment when it was rising on its tail and hissing, ere it
sprang upon me. Well, I vow I felt exactly the same
sensation at sight of that man when he said, `Why do you ask
me that?' and looked so strangely at me."
"Then you regret that you did not cut your serpent in two
morsels?"
"Faith, yes, almost," said Raoul.
They had now arrived within sight of the little inn and
could see on the opposite side the procession bearing the
wounded man and guided by Monsieur d'Arminges. The youths
spurred on.
"There is the wounded man," said De Guiche, passing close to
the Augustine brother. "Be good enough to hurry yourself a
little, monsieur monk."
As for Raoul, he avoided the monk by the whole width of the
road and passed him, turning his head away in repulsion.
The young men rode up to the wounded man to announce that
they were followed by the priest. He raised himself to
glance in the direction which they pointed out, saw the
monk, and fell back upon the litter, his face illumined by
joy.
"And now," said the youths, "we have done all we can for
you; and as we are in haste to rejoin the prince's army we
must continue our journey. You will excuse us, sir, but we
are told that a battle is expected and we do not wish to
arrive the day after it."
"Go, my young sirs," said the sick man, "and may you both be
blessed for your piety. You have done for me, as you
promised, all that you could do. As for me I can only
repeat, may God protect you and all dear to you!"
"Sir," said De Guiche to his tutor, "we will precede you,
and you can rejoin us on the road to Cambrin."
The host was at his door and everything was prepared -- bed,
bandages, and lint; and a groom had gone to Lens, the
nearest village, for a doctor.
"Everything," said he to Raoul, "shall be done as you
desire; but you will not stop to have your wound dressed?"
"Oh, my wound -- mine -- 'tis nothing," replied the
viscount; "it will be time to think about it when we next
halt; only have the goodness, should you see a cavalier who
makes inquiries about a young man on a chestnut horse
followed by a servant, to tell him, in fact, that you have
seen me, but that I have continued my journey and intend to
dine at Mazingarbe and to stop at Cambrin. This cavalier is
my attendant."
"Would it not be safer and more certain if I should ask him
his name and tell him yours?" demanded the host.
"There is no harm in over-precaution. I am the Viscount de
Bragelonne and he is called Grimaud."
At this moment the wounded man arrived from one direction
and the monk from the other, the latter dismounting from his
mule and desiring that it should be taken to the stables
without being unharnessed.
"Sir monk," said De Guiche, "confess well that brave man;
and be not concerned for your expenses or for those of your
mule; all is paid."
"Thanks, monsieur," said the monk, with one of those smiles
that made Bragelonne shudder.
"Come, count," said Raoul, who seemed instinctively to
dislike the vicinity of the Augustine; "come, I feel ill
here," and the two young men spurred on.
The litter, borne by two servants, now entered the house.
The host and his wife were standing on the steps, whilst the
unhappy man seemed to suffer dreadful pain and yet to be
concerned only to know if he was followed by the monk. At
sight of this pale, bleeding man, the wife grasped her
husband's arm.
"Well, what's the matter?" asked the latter, "are you going
to be ill just now?"
"No, but look," replied the hostess, pointing to the wounded
man; "I ask you if you recognize him?"
"That man -- wait a bit."
"Ah! I see you know him," exclaimed the wife; "for you have
become pale in your turn."
"Truly," cried the host, "misfortune is coming on our house;
it is the former executioner of Bethune."
"The former executioner of Bethune!" murmured the young
monk, shrinking back and showing on his countenance the
feeling of repugnance which his penitent inspired.
Monsieur d'Arminges, who was at the door, perceived his
hesitation.
"Sir monk," said he, "whether he is now or has been an
executioner, this unfortunate being is none the less a man.
Render to him, then, the last service he can by any
possibility ask of you, and your work will be all the more
meritorious."
The monk made no reply, but silently wended his way to the
room where the two valets had deposited the dying man on a
bed. D'Arminges and Olivain and the two grooms then mounted
their horses, and all four started off at a quick trot to
rejoin Raoul and his companion. Just as the tutor and his
escort disappeared in their turn, a new traveler stopped on
the threshold of the inn.
"What does your worship want?" demanded the host, pale and
trembling from the discovery he had just made.
The traveler made a sign as if he wished to drink, and then
pointed to his horse and gesticulated like a man who is
brushing something.
"Ah, diable!" said the host to himself; "this man seems
dumb. And where will your worship drink?"
"There," answered the traveler, pointing to the table.
"I was mistaken," said the host, "he's not quite dumb. And
what else does your worship wish for?"
"To know if you have seen a young man pass, fifteen years of
age, mounted on a chestnut horse and followed by a groom?"
"The Viscount de Bragelonne?
"Just so."
"Then you are called Monsieur Grimaud?"
The traveler made a sign of assent.
"Well, then," said the host, "your young master was here a
quarter of an hour ago; he will dine at Mazingarbe and sleep
at Cambrin."
"How far is Mazingarbe?"
"Two miles and a half."
"Thank you."
Grimaud was drinking his wine silently and had just placed
his glass on the table to be filled a second time, when a
terrific scream resounded from the room occupied by the monk
and the dying man. Grimaud sprang up.
"What is that?" said he; "whence comes that cry?"
"From the wounded man's room," replied the host.
"What wounded man?"
"The former executioner of Bethune, who has just been
brought in here, assassinated by Spaniards, and who is now
being confessed by an Augustine friar."
"The old executioner of Bethune," muttered Grimaud; "a man
between fifty-five and sixty, tall, strong, swarthy, black
hair and beard?"
"That is he, except that his beard has turned gray and his
hair is white; do you know him?" asked the host.
"I have seen him once," replied Grimaud, a cloud darkening
his countenance at the picture so suddenly summoned to the
bar of recollection.
At this instant a second cry, less piercing than the first,
but followed by prolonged groaning, was heard.
The three listeners looked at one another in alarm.
"We must see what it is," said Grimaud.
"It sounds like the cry of one who is being murdered,"
murmured the host.
"Mon Dieu!" said the woman, crossing herself.
If Grimaud was slow in speaking, we know that he was quick
to act; he sprang to the door and shook it violently, but it
was bolted on the other side.
"Open the door!" cried the host; "open it instantly, sir
monk!"
No reply.
"Unfasten it, or I will break it in!" said Grimaud.
The same silence, and then, ere the host could oppose his
design, Grimaud seized a pair of pincers he perceived in a
corner and forced the bolt. The room was inundated with
blood, dripping from the mattresses upon which lay the
wounded man, speechless; the monk had disappeared.
"The monk!" cried the host; "where is the monk?"
Grimaud sprang toward an open window which looked into the
courtyard.
"He has escaped by this means," exclaimed he.
"Do you think so?" said the host, bewildered; "boy, see if
the mule belonging to the monk is still in the stable."
"There is no mule," cried he to whom this question was
addressed.
The host clasped his hands and looked around him
suspiciously, whilst Grimaud knit his brows and approached
the wounded man, whose worn, hard features awoke in his mind
such awful recollections of the past.
"There can be no longer any doubt but that it is himself,"
said he.
"Does he still live?" inquired the innkeeper.
Making no reply, Grimaud opened the poor man's jacket to
feel if the heart beat, whilst the host approached in his
turn; but in a moment they both fell back, the host uttering
a cry of horror and Grimaud becoming pallid. The blade of a
dagger was buried up to the hilt in the left side of the
executioner.
"Run! run for help!" cried Grimaud, "and I will remain
beside him here."
The host quitted the room in agitation, and as for his wife,
she had fled at the sound of her husband's cries.
