The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  D’Artagnan stepped forward.

  “Before God and before man,” he said, “I accuse this woman of having poisoned Constance Bonacieux, who perished yesterday evening.”

  He looked up at Porthos and at Aramis.

  “I bear witness to the truth of it!” said Aramis and Porthos: “I swear this is the truth.”

  D’Artagnan continued:

  “Before God and before man, I accuse this woman of having tried to poison me, too, with wine she sent to me together with a forged letter explaining that it came from my friends. God in His mercy saved my life but a man died in my stead. The victim’s name was Brisemont.”

  “I saw him die!” said Aramis, and Porthos: “Upon oath, I declare this to be the truth.”

  “Before God and before man, I accuse this woman of having sought to make me kill the Comte de Vardes. Since no one else can certify to this fact, I beg that my solemn word of honor be accepted.” He paused a moment. “I have finished,” he concluded and crossed the room to join Porthos and Aramis.

  “It is your turn now, Milord,” said Athos, and the Englishman stepped forward.

  “Before God and before man,” said Lord Winter slowly, “I accuse this woman of having caused the murder of George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham.”

  “Buckingham!” D’Artagnan gasped.

  “Buckingham dead?” said Porthos and “What in the world—?” cried Aramis. Alone Athos and the masked man in the red cloak betrayed no change of expression and made no comment.

  “His Grace the Duke of Buckingham has just been assassinated,” the Englishman went on evenly. “On the strength of the letter I received from you gentlemen, I had this woman arrested. I placed her in the hands of a true and loyal servant. She corrupted this man, set a dagger in his hand and sent him forth to kill the Duke. At this very moment, the assassin is probably paying with his life for the crime committed by this fury.”

  Amazed at the import of the Englishman’s news and baffled by the extent of Milady’s powers of evil, they stood by, silent and lost in wonder.

  “There is more,” Lord Winter pursued. “My brother bequeathed his all to this woman. Within three hours after he had signed his will, he died of a mysterious illness which left long livid streaks over his body. Tell me, my dear sister, how did your husband die?”

  “Horrible!” said Porthos. Aramis stood motionless. D’Artagnan looked critically at Milady as he recalled his amorous passages with her.

  “For the murder of Buckingham, for the murder of Felton and for the murder of my brother, I demand that justice be done. If this woman is not punished for her crimes, then I vow to punish her by my own hand.”

  And Lord Winter joined the group across the room, leaving his corner free for other plaintiffs. Milady buried her face in her hands, striving desperately to collect her thoughts as her head whirled dizzily.

  “It is now my turn,” Athos declared impassively, but he was shaking a little, and D’Artagnan, his eyes fastened on his friend, could think only of a lion, trembling ever so merely at the sight of a serpent. “It is now my turn,” Athos repeated with utmost calm. He walked over to the corner whence the preceding accusers had testified and said:

  “I married this woman when she was a young girl, against the wishes of my whole family. I gave her my name and my wealth. One day I discovered that she was branded; there was a fleur-de-lis stamped upon her left shoulder.”

  Milady rose indignantly to her feet:

  “I defy you,” she said fiercely, “to find any tribunal which passed this infamous sentence upon me. I was innocent. No court in France could have branded me. Tell me then how it came about?”

  “Silence, woman, it is my turn to speak.”

  From the depths of the room, the man in red cloak rose to full height, dominating the others:

  “My turn at last,” he added in ominous tones.

  “Who are you?” cried Milady, choking.

  Her spell of coughing done, her disheveled hair streaming above the hands that held her head, she ventured a glance at the speaker. She was aghast, thought Porthos, with something akin to pity in his heart. Aramis, watching her, thought that her hair had come alive and was writhing like that of the Medusae. All eyes were turned toward the stranger, for none save Athos had the faintest idea who he could be. Yet Athos appeared to lose his composure and to be gazing at the man in the red cloak with as vast an astonishment as his friends. The stranger did not make for the corner the previous plaintiffs had occupied but instead approached Milady with a long, slow, firm step, advancing so near that only the narrow table separated them.

  With increasing fright, Milady stared up at him. Then, noting his haggard face framed by sable-black hair and beard, she shuddered. The stranger maintained an icy impassiveness.

  “No, no, no!” Milady sobbed. Rising she shrank back to the wall. “You are a figment of my imagination, an apparition from Hell! Help, help!” she screamed, tearing at the wall as though to pull it down with her hands.

  “But how do you know this woman?” Aramis asked discreetly.

  “This woman will tell you,” the stranger replied. “As you see, she appears to have recognized me.”

  “The executioner of Lille!” Milady moaned, clutching at the wall to avoid falling. The whole company stepped back; now the man in the red cloak stood alone in the middle of the room.

  “Forgive me!” Milady sobbed, falling to her knees and mumbling incoherently.

  The stranger waited for silence, then continued very evenly:

  “As I said, this woman recognized me. I am the executioner of Lille.”

  His audience looked raptly at him, eager for the solution of the enigma. Staring straight before him the man in the red cloak stated in a monotonous voice that the accused was once as beautiful a girl as she was now a beautiful woman, that she had been a nun in the Benedictine Convent at Templemar, and that in this convent she had seduced a candid sincere young priest.

  “He was all innocence and all duty but she gained her ends. She would have seduced a saint.”

  The vows of both priest and nun were sacred and irrevocable; their love affair could not last long without bringing them both to ruin. The woman therefore persuaded her lover to leave that part of the country and to go with her where no one knew them. But for this, money was necessary and neither of them had a sou. So the young priest stole the sacred vessels and sold them. But as the pair were preparing to abscond, they were apprehended.

  A week later, the woman seduced the jailer’s son and thus escaped; the young priest was condemned to serve ten years in irons and to be branded.

  “I was the executioner of Lille,” the speaker insisted. “I was forced to brand the guilty man, and the guilty man, gentlemen, was my own brother!

  “I did my duty. This woman had ruined my brother; she was more than a party to the crime, she had instigated it. Then and there, I swore that she should not go unpunished. I found out where she was hiding, I caught up with her and I marked upon her shoulder the same brand my brother bore. That, gentlemen, is why there are no records of this sentence; it was unofficially executed by the official executioner of the City of Lille.”

  Returning to Lille next day, the executioner discovered that his brother, too, had broken out of jail. He was therefore held in prison in his brother’s place until the other gave himself up.

  “My poor brother knew nothing of this,” the plaintiff said. “He had joined this woman. They had fled southward to the province of Berry, where he found a small living. This woman passed herself off as his sister.

  “The lord of the estate where they settled met the young priest’s alleged sister and fell madly in love with her. They married and she forsook the man she had ruined for him she was about to ruin. As Comtesse de La Fère—”

  All eyes turned toward Athos who simply nodded assent.

  The young priest, out of his senses and desperate, resolved to put an end to an existence of which this woman had robbed honor, ha
ppiness and all else.

  “My poor brother returned to Lille,” the man in the red cloak said, “and learning of the judgment which had condemned me in his stead, he gave himself up. He took my place. That evening he hanged himself on the vent of his cell. To give them their due, the men who had sentenced me kept their word. I was at once set free.” Milady cowered at his glance. “I have stated why I punished this woman before and why I seek to punish her again.”

  When he had moved aside, Athos turned to D’Artagnan:

  “Monsieur d’Artagnan, what sentence should be passed upon this woman?”

  “I request the penalty of death.”

  “Lord Winter, what judgment is to be inflicted upon the accused?”

  “On three counts, the sentence of death.”

  Athos looked at Porthos and Aramis. “You two gentlemen are judges,” he stated. “What punishment do you please to impose upon this woman?”

  “Death!” they answered in one voice.

  Their stern, hollow tones rang through the room. Milady uttered a shriek, fell to her knees and crept, inch by inch, toward her accusers.

  “Charlotte Backson, Comtesse de La Fère and Lady Clark—” Athos paused significantly, “your presence has too long importuned men on earth and offended God in his Heaven. Should you happen to know a Christian prayer, now is the time to say it. You are hereby sentenced to death for your crimes. May God have mercy upon your unfortunate soul.”

  Aware that these words left her without hope of appeal, Milady rose to her feet and sought to speak. But her strength failed her. It was as though an implacable hand had seized her by the hair and must drag her as irrevocably to her doom as the hand of fate drags men whither it would have them go. Beyond all resistance, she merely bowed her head and left the cottage.

  One by one, Lord Winter, D’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos and Aramis followed her out The lackeys fell in behind their masters. The room was left empty, its window broken, its door wide open, and its smoky lamp burning dimly on the table.

  LXVI

  OF HOW JUDGMENT WAS ACCOMPLISHED

  It was now almost midnight. The waning sickle-shaped moon rose ruddy and as though emblooded by the last vestiges of the storm. It soared slowly over the village of Armentières, its wan light etching the dark line of the houses and the silhouette of its tall belfry against a darkling background. The Lys rolled by like a river of molten lead. Beyond it, a black mass of trees standing out against an angry sky heavy with fat coppery clouds, re-created a sort of twilight amid the fulness of the night. To the left, from an old deserted mill, an owl hooted, strident, monotonous and at unfailing intervals. Here and there across the plain to the right and left of the road, a few squat and stunted trees stood like so many dwarfs (rising from what sinister cave?) to spy upon these men abroad at so unwonted an hour.

  From time to time a broad, powerful sheet of lightning illumed the entire horizon, darting over the black leaves of the trees, slashing sky and stream asunder. No wisp of wind now freshened the oppressive atmosphere. A deathlike silence reigned over all nature. The ground was sodden and slippery with the recent rain. There was a cool redolence of grass.

  Grimaud and Mousqueton led Milady forward, their hands pinned under her arms. The executioner followed hard by. Then respectively came Lord Winter, D’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos and Aramis. Planchet and Bazin brought up the rear.

  Painfully Milady moved, or better, was moved toward the river. She did not say a word, but her eyes, extraordinarily brilliant, seemed to be pleading as she gazed in turn on each of her escort. As she and the valets gained some ground, she whispered:

  “A thousand pistoles for each of you if you help me escape. But if you give me up to your master, I have friends who will make you pay dearly for my death.”

  Grimaud hesitated; Mousqueton trembled. Athos, hearing Milady’s voice, ran up. “Planchet!” he called. “Bazin! Front and center!” And in an undertone to Lord Winter: “She has spoken to these two; they are no longer trustworthy.” Planchet and Bazin came up, Grimaud and Mousqueton fell behind.

  When they reached the river bank, the executioner advanced to tie a cord about Milady’s hands and feet. She screamed:

  “Cowards! You are all miserable cowards! Ten murderers against a defenseless woman! Shame upon you! If I am not saved, I shall be avenged.”

  “You are no woman,” said Athos. “You do not belong to the human species, you are a demon from Hell and back to Hell you shall go.”

  “Ha, gallant and virtuous gentlemen that you are, pray remember that whoever touches one hair of my head becomes a murderer too!”

  “The public executioner, Madame, can destroy life without being guilty of murder,” said the man in the red cloak, clapping his hand against the scabbard of his broadsword. “He is the final judge and no more: Nachrichter, our German neighbors call him.”

  As he bound her, Milady uttered piercing cries that echoed and were lost, dismally, in the depths of the wood.

  “Suppose I am guilty,” Milady protested when she had come to her senses, “take me to court. Who appointed you judges of my so-called crimes?”

  “I offered you Tyburn and you refused,” said Lord Winter.

  “I do not want to die,” Milady answered, writhing in her bonds. “I am too young to die.”

  “So too was the woman you poisoned at Béthune,” D’Artagnan put in. “She was younger than you, yet she is dead!”

  “I swear to enter a convent … I will become a nun …”

  “You were cloistered and you were a nun,” the executioner replied. “You left the convent to bring ruin upon my brother.”

  Milady uttered a cry of horror and fell on her knees. The hangman, picking her up under the arms, sought to take her toward the boat moored near by.

  “Ah, God, do you mean to drown me?” she whimpered.

  There was something so pathetic and so appealing in her voice that even D’Artagnan, from the first her most dogged pursuer, slumped down on a tree trunk and, bowing his head, stopped up his ears with his fingers. Nevertheless he could not drown out her shrieks and threats. The youngest of them all, D’Artagnan felt his courage fail him.

  “I cannot bear to see this sight!” he moaned. “I cannot stand by and let a woman die like this.”

  Hearing him, Milady clutched at a shadow of hope.

  “D’Artagnan,” she cried, “remember that I loved you!”

  The Gascon rose dully and took a few steps toward her, but Athos, looming between them, his sword drawn, barred the way.

  “One more step, D’Artagnan, and we fight, for all our friendship,” he threatened.

  D’Artagnan sank to his knees and prayed.

  “Come,” Athos commanded, “do your duty, executioner.”

  “Willingly, Monsieur,” the man of Lille replied. “As a good Catholic, I swear I am but performing the duties of my office in destroying this woman.”

  Athos took one step forward and facing Milady:

  “I forgive you the evil you have done me,” he said. “I pardon you for my future blasted, my honor lost, my love defiled and salvation forever warped by the despair you visited upon me. God rest you, may you die in peace!”

  Lord Winter advanced.

  “I forgive you for poisoning my brother, for murdering His Grace the Duke of Buckingham, for causing the death of young Felton and for your attempts upon my own life. May you die in peace!”

  “For my part,” said D’Artagnan, “I beg your forgiveness. By trickery unworthy of a gentleman, I provoked your anger and moved you to vengeance. In return for such forgiveness, I forgive you that cruel vengeance and the death of my poor mistress. God grant you die in peace!”

  “I am lost!” Milady cried in English. “I must die,” and immediately after, in French: “Je suis perdue, je dois mourir!”

  Then, unaided, she rose, stood erect and glanced about her, her eyes shining in the night like a flame. But she saw nothing; and, pausing to listen, she heard no sound.
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  “Where am I to die?” she asked.

  “Across the river,” said the man of Lille, helping her into the boat. When both were settled, Athos handed the executioner a sum of money.

  “Here is your fee for the execution,” he said. “It must be made quite plain that we are acting only as judges.”

  “I thank you, Monsieur,” the man in the red cloak replied, tossing the money into the river. “This woman must know that I am not accomplishing my public duties as professional executioner but my private duties as a Godfearing man.”

  The boat glided toward the left bank of the Lys as the company fell to their knees. Slowly the boat followed the ferry rope under the shadow of a pallid cloud that descended very gradually over the waters. Our friends, following the boat’s progress, watched it reach the bank opposite; the figures of executioner and condemned were clearly discernible, outlined in black against the faintly reddish horizon.

  Milady, during the crossing, had contrived to shake free from the rope binding her feet. Reaching shore, she jumped lightly from the boat and took to her heels. But the ground was wet. Having scaled the bank, she slipped and fell to her knees.

  What passed through her mind at that instant? Perhaps she realized fatalistically that all was at an end. Perhaps, even she, adamant by nature, was at long last beaten. Perhaps she felt, superstitiously, that Heaven itself had vowed her destruction. At all events, she stayed very still there, kneeling on the top of the embankment.

  The executioner raised his arms very slowly … a ray of moonlight illumined the blade of his broadsword … his arms fell down again smartly … the whir of his weapon cut across the silent air (or did the spectators imagine it?) … and, after one terrified shriek, his victim fell, severed under the blow.…

  The man from Lille then took off his red cloak, spread it out on the turf, placed the body upon it and tossed the head on it after the body. Then he gathered it up and, his grisly burden over his shoulder, returned to his boat.

  Midstream, he swung his boat round. Raising his red cloak and its contents over the water: