"Father, that woman was a monster. It was said that she had poisoned her second husband; she had tried to assassinate her brother-in-law; she had just poisoned a young woman who was her rival, and before leaving England she had, it was believed, caused the favorite of the king to be murdered."
"Buckingham?" cried the monk.
"Yes, Buckingham."
"The woman was English, then?"
"No, she was French, but she had married in England."
The monk turned pale, wiped his brow and went and bolted the door. The executioner thought that he had abandoned him and fell back, groaning, upon his bed.
"No, no; I am here," said the monk, quickly coming back to him. "Go on; who were those men?"
"One of them was a foreigner, English, I think. The four others were French and wore the uniform of musketeers."
"Their names?" asked the monk.
"I don't know them, but the four other noblemen called the Englishman `my lord.'"
"Was the woman handsome?"
"Young and beautiful. Oh, yes, especially beautiful. I see her now, as on her knees at my feet, with her head thrown back, she begged for life. I have never understood how I could have laid low a head so beautiful, with a face so pale."
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.
