Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Twenty Years After by Alexandre Dumas (epub read online books .txt) 📖
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
Book online «Twenty Years After by Alexandre Dumas (epub read online books .txt) 📖». Author Alexandre Dumas
The monk seemed agitated by a strange emotion; he trembled all over; he seemed eager to put a question which yet he dared not ask. At length, with a violent effort at self-control:
“The name of that woman?” he said.
“I don’t know what it was. As I have said, she was twice married, once in France, the second time in England.”
“She was young, you say?”
“Twenty-five years old.”
“Beautiful?”
“Ravishingly.”
“Blond?”
“Yes.”
“Abundance of hair--falling over her shoulders?”
“Yes.”
“Eyes of an admirable expression?”
“When she chose. Oh, yes, it is she!”
“A voice of strange sweetness?”
“How do you know it?”
The executioner raised himself on his elbow and gazed with a frightened air at the monk, who became livid.
“And you killed her?” the monk exclaimed. “You were the tool of those cowards who dared not kill her themselves? You had no pity for that youthfulness, that beauty, that weakness? you killed that woman?”
“Alas! I have already told you, father, that woman, under that angelic appearance, had an infernal soul, and when I saw her, when I recalled all the evil she had done to me----”
“To you? What could she have done to you? Come, tell me!”
“She had seduced and ruined my brother, a priest. She had fled with him from her convent.”
“With your brother?”
“Yes, my brother was her first lover, and she caused his death. Oh, father, do not look in that way at me! Oh, I am guilty, then; you will not pardon me?”
The monk recovered his usual expression.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “I will pardon you if you tell me all.”
“Oh!” cried the executioner, “all! all! all!”
“Answer, then. If she seduced your brother--you said she seduced him, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“If she caused his death--you said that she caused his death?”
“Yes,” repeated the executioner.
“Then you must know what her name was as a young girl.”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” cried the executioner, “I think I am dying. Absolution, father! absolution.”
“Tell me her name and I will give it.”
“Her name was----My God, have pity on me!” murmured the executioner; and he fell back on the bed, pale, trembling, and apparently about to die.
“Her name!” repeated the monk, bending over him as if to tear from him the name if he would not utter it; “her name! Speak, or no absolution!”
The dying man collected all his forces.
The monk’s eyes glittered.
“Anne de Bueil,” murmured the wounded man.
“Anne de Bueil!” cried the monk, standing up and lifting his hands to Heaven. “Anne de Bueil! You said Anne de Bueil, did you not?”
“Yes, yes, that was her name; and now absolve me, for I am dying.”
“I, absolve you!” cried the priest, with a laugh which made the dying man’s hair stand on end; “I, absolve you? I am not a priest.”
“You are not a priest!” cried the executioner. “What, then, are you?”
“I am about to tell you, wretched man.”
“Oh, mon Dieu!”
“I am John Francis de Winter.”
“I do not know you,” said the executioner.
“Wait, wait; you are going to know me. I am John Francis de Winter,” he repeated, “and that woman----”
“Well, that woman?”
“Was my mother!”
The executioner uttered the first cry, that terrible cry which had been first heard.
“Oh, pardon me, pardon me!” he murmured; “if not in the name of God, at least in your own name; if not as priest, then as son.”
“Pardon you!” cried the pretended monk, “pardon you! Perhaps God will pardon you, but I, never!”
“For pity’s sake,” said the executioner, extending his arms.
“No pity for him who had no pity! Die, impenitent, die in despair, die and be damned!” And drawing a poniard from beneath his robe he thrust it into the breast of the wounded man, saying, “Here is my absolution!”
Then was heard that second cry, not so loud as the first and followed by a long groan.
The executioner, who had lifted himself up, fell back upon his bed. As to the monk, without withdrawing the poniard from the wound, he ran to the window, opened it, leaped out into the flowers of a small garden, glided onward to the stable, took out his mule, went out by a back gate, ran to a neighbouring thicket, threw off his monkish garb, took from his valise the complete habiliment of a cavalier, clothed himself in it, went on foot to the first post, secured there a horse and continued with a loose rein his journey to Paris.
Grimaud was left alone with the executioner, who in a few moments opened his eyes.
“Help, help,” he murmured; “oh, God! have I not a single friend in the world who will aid me either to live or to die?”
“Take courage,” said Grimaud; “they are gone to find assistance.”
“Who are you?” asked the wounded man, fixing his half opened eyes on Grimaud.
“An old acquaintance,” replied Grimaud.
“You?” and the wounded man sought to recall the features of the person now before him.
“Under what circumstances did we meet?” he asked again.
“One night, twenty years ago, my master fetched you from Bethune and conducted you to Armentieres.”
“I know you well now,” said the executioner; “you were one of the four grooms.”
“Just so.”
“Where do you come from now?”
“I was passing by and drew up at this inn to rest my horse. They told me the executioner of Bethune was here and wounded, when you uttered two piercing cries. At the first we ran to the door and at the second forced it open.”
“And the monk?” exclaimed the executioner, “did you see the monk?”
“What monk?”
“The monk that was shut in with me.”
“No, he was no longer here; he appears to have fled by the window. Was he the man that stabbed you?”
“Yes,” said the executioner.
Grimaud moved as if to leave the room.
“What are you going to do?” asked the wounded man.
“He must be apprehended.”
“Do not attempt it; he has revenged himself and has done well. Now I may hope that God will forgive me, since my crime is expiated.”
“Explain yourself.” said Grimaud.
“The woman whom you and your masters commanded me to kill----”
“Milady?”
“Yes, Milady; it is true you called her thus.”
“What has the monk to do with this Milady?”
“She was his mother.”
Grimaud trembled and stared at the dying man in a dull and leaden manner.
“His mother!” he repeated.
“Yes, his mother.”
“But does he know this secret, then?”
“I mistook him for a monk and revealed it to him in confession.”
“Unhappy man!” cried Grimaud, whose face was covered with sweat at the bare idea of the evil results such a revelation might cause; “unhappy man, you named no one, I hope?”
“I pronounced no name, for I knew none, except his mother’s, as a young girl, and it was by this name that he recognized her, but he knows that his uncle was among her judges.”
Thus speaking, he fell back exhausted. Grimaud, wishing to relieve him, advanced his hand toward the hilt of the dagger.
“Touch me not!” said the executioner; “if this dagger is withdrawn I shall die.”
Grimaud remained with his hand extended; then, striking his forehead, he exclaimed:
“Oh! if this man should ever discover the names of the others, my master is lost.”
“Haste! haste to him and warn him,” cried the wounded man, “if he still lives; warn his friends, too. My death, believe me, will not be the end of this atrocious misadventure.”
“Where was the monk going?” asked Grimaud.
“Toward Paris.”
“Who stopped him?”
“Two young gentlemen, who were on their way to join the army and the name of one of whom I heard his companion mention--the Viscount de Bragelonne.”
“And it was this young man who brought the monk to you? Then it was the will of God that it should be so and this it is which makes it all so awful,” continued Grimaud. “And yet that woman deserved her fate; do you not think so?”
“On one’s death-bed the crimes of others appear very small in comparison with one’s own,” said the executioner; and falling back exhausted he closed his eyes.
Grimaud was reluctant to leave the man alone and yet he perceived the necessity of starting at once to bear these tidings to the Comte de la Fere. Whilst he thus hesitated the host re-entered the room, followed not only by a surgeon, but by many other persons, whom curiosity had attracted to the spot. The surgeon approached the dying man, who seemed to have fainted.
“We must first extract the steel from the side,” said he, shaking his head in a significant manner.
The prophecy which the wounded man had just uttered recurred to Grimaud, who turned away his head. The weapon, as we have already stated, was plunged into the body to the hilt, and as the surgeon, taking it by the end, drew it forth, the wounded man opened his eyes and fixed them on him in a manner truly frightful. When at last the blade had been entirely withdrawn, a red froth issued from the mouth of the wounded man and a stream of blood spouted afresh from the wound when he at length drew breath; then, fixing his eyes upon Grimaud with a singular expression, the dying man uttered the last death-rattle and expired.
Then Grimaud, lifting the dagger from the pool of blood which was gliding along the room, to the horror of all present, made a sign to the host to follow him, paid him with a generosity worthy of his master and again mounted his horse. Grimaud’s first intention had been to return to Paris, but he remembered the anxiety which his prolonged absence might occasion Raoul, and reflecting that there were now only two miles between the vicomte and himself and a quarter of an hour’s riding would unite them, and that the going, returning and explanation would not occupy an hour, he put spurs to his horse and a few minutes after had reached the only inn of Mazingarbe.
Raoul was seated at table with the Count de Guiche and his tutor, when all at once the door opened and Grimaud presented himself, travel-stained, dirty, and sprinkled with the blood of the unhappy executioner.
“Grimaud, my good Grimaud!” exclaimed Raoul “here you are at last! Excuse me, sirs, this is not a servant, but a friend. How did you leave the count?” continued he. “Does he regret me a little? Have you seen him since I left him? Answer, for I have many things to tell you, too; indeed, the last three days some odd adventures have happened--but what is the matter? how pale you are! and blood, too! What is this?”
“It is the blood of the unfortunate man whom you left at the inn and who died in my arms.”
“In your arms?--that man! but know you who he was?”
“He used to be the headsman of Bethune.”
“You knew him? and he is dead?”
“Yes.”
“Well, sir,” said D’Arminges, “it is the common lot; even an executioner is not exempted. I had a bad opinion of him the moment I saw his wound, and since he asked for a monk you know that it was his opinion, too, that death would follow.”
At the mention of the monk, Grimaud became pale.
“Come, come,” continued D’Arminges, “to dinner;” for like most men of his age and generation he did not allow sentiment or sensibility to interfere with a repast.
“You are right, sir,” said Raoul. “Come,
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