The three musketeers
caused the assassination of the Duke of Buckingham.”
“The Duke of Buckingham assassinated!” cried all present, with one
voice.
“Yes,” said the baron, “assassinated. On receiving the warning letter
you wrote to me, I had this woman arrested, and gave her in charge to a
loyal servant. She corrupted this man; she placed the poniard 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 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,
framed 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.
Everyone 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 pretend 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.
Chapter LXVI.
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?”