Twenty years after
“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 curé,
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 Fère——”
“Your father?” asked De Guiche.
“No, my guardian,” replied Raoul, blushing.
“Very well——”
“Until the moment when the Comte de la Fère,” 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.