Kabanata Kabanata 65 · Chapter LXV.

. Chapter LXV.

TRIAL

It was a stormy and dark night; vast clouds covered the heavens,

concealing the stars; the moon would not rise till midnight.

Occasionally, by the light of a flash of lightning which gleamed along

the horizon, the road stretched itself before them, white and solitary;

the flash extinct, all remained in darkness.

Every minute Athos was forced to restrain D’Artagnan, constantly in

advance of the little troop, and to beg him to keep in the line, which

in an instant he again departed from. He had but one thought—to go

forward; and he went.

They passed in silence through the little village of Festubert, where

the wounded servant was, and then skirted the wood of Richebourg. At

Herlier, Planchet, who led the column, turned to the left.

Several times Lord de Winter, Porthos, or Aramis tried to talk with the

man in the red cloak; but to every interrogation which they put to him

he bowed, without response. The travelers then comprehended that there

must be some reason why the unknown preserved such a silence, and

ceased to address themselves to him.

The storm increased, the flashes succeeded one another more rapidly,

the thunder began to growl, and the wind, the precursor of a hurricane,

whistled in the plumes and the hair of the horsemen.

The cavalcade trotted on more sharply.

A little before they came to Fromelles the storm burst. They spread

their cloaks. There remained three leagues to travel, and they did it

amid torrents of rain.

D’Artagnan took off his hat, and could not be persuaded to make use of

his cloak. He found pleasure in feeling the water trickle over his

burning brow and over his body, agitated by feverish shudders.

The moment the little troop passed Goskal and were approaching the

Post, a man sheltered beneath a tree detached himself from the trunk

with which he had been confounded in the darkness, and advanced into

the middle of the road, putting his finger on his lips.

Athos recognized Grimaud.

“What’s the manner?” cried Athos. “Has she left Armentières?”

Grimaud made a sign in the affirmative. D’Artagnan ground his teeth.

“Silence, D’Artagnan!” said Athos. “I have charged myself with this

affair. It is for me, then, to interrogate Grimaud.”

“Where is she?” asked Athos.

Grimaud extended his hands in the direction of the Lys. “Far from

here?” asked Athos.

Grimaud showed his master his forefinger bent.

“Alone?” asked Athos.

Grimaud made the sign yes.

“Gentlemen,” said Athos, “she is alone within half a league of us, in

the direction of the river.”

“That’s well,” said D’Artagnan. “Lead us, Grimaud.”

Grimaud took his course across the country, and acted as guide to the

cavalcade.

At the end of five hundred paces, more or less, they came to a rivulet,

which they forded.

By the aid of the lightning they perceived the village of Erquinheim.

“Is she there, Grimaud?” asked Athos.

Grimaud shook his head negatively.

“Silence, then!” cried Athos.

And the troop continued their route.

Another flash illuminated all around them. Grimaud extended his arm,

and by the bluish splendor of the fiery serpent they distinguished a

little isolated house on the banks of the river, within a hundred paces

of a ferry.

One window was lighted.

“Here we are!” said Athos.

At this moment a man who had been crouching in a ditch jumped up and

came towards them. It was Mousqueton. He pointed his finger to the

lighted window.

“She is there,” said he.

“And Bazin?” asked Athos.

“While I watched the window, he guarded the door.”

“Good!” said Athos. “You are good and faithful servants.”

Athos sprang from his horse, gave the bridle to Grimaud, and advanced

toward the window, after having made a sign to the rest of the troop to

go toward the door.

The little house was surrounded by a low, quickset hedge, two or three

feet high. Athos sprang over the hedge and went up to the window, which

was without shutters, but had the half-curtains closely drawn.

He mounted the skirting stone that his eyes might look over the

curtain.

By the light of a lamp he saw a woman, wrapped in a dark mantle, seated

upon a stool near a dying fire. Her elbows were placed upon a mean

table, and she leaned her head upon her two hands, which were white as

ivory.

He could not distinguish her countenance, but a sinister smile passed

over the lips of Athos. He was not deceived; it was she whom he sought.

At this moment a horse neighed. Milady raised her head, saw close to

the panes the pale face of Athos, and screamed.

Athos, perceiving that she knew him, pushed the window with his knee

and hand. The window yielded. The squares were broken to shivers; and

Athos, like the spectre of vengeance, leaped into the room.

Milady rushed to the door and opened it. More pale and menacing than

Athos, D’Artagnan stood on the threshold.

Milady recoiled, uttering a cry. D’Artagnan, believing she might have

means of flight and fearing she should escape, drew a pistol from his

belt; but Athos raised his hand.

“Put back that weapon, D’Artagnan!” said he; “this woman must be tried,

not assassinated. Wait an instant, my friend, and you shall be

satisfied. Come in, gentlemen.”

D’Artagnan obeyed; for Athos had the solemn voice and the powerful

gesture of a judge sent by the Lord himself. Behind D’Artagnan entered

Porthos, Aramis, Lord de Winter, and the man in the red cloak.

The four lackeys guarded the door and the window.

Milady had sunk into a chair, with her hands extended, as if to conjure

this terrible apparition. Perceiving her brother-in-law, she uttered a

terrible cry.

“What do you want?” screamed Milady.

“We want,” said Athos, “Charlotte Backson, who first was called

Comtesse de la Fère, and afterwards Milady de Winter, Baroness of

Sheffield.”

“That is I! that is I!” murmured Milady, in extreme terror; “what do

you want?”

“We wish to judge you according to your crime,” said Athos; “you shall

be free to defend yourself. Justify yourself if you can. M. d’Artagnan,

it is for you to accuse her first.”

D’Artagnan advanced.

“Before God and before men,” said he, “I accuse this woman of having

poisoned Constance Bonacieux, who died yesterday evening.”

He turned towards Porthos and Aramis.

“We bear witness to this,” said the two Musketeers, with one voice.

D’Artagnan continued: “Before God and before men, I accuse this woman

of having attempted to poison me, in wine which she sent me from

Villeroy, with a forged letter, as if that wine came from my friends.

God preserved me, but a man named Brisemont died in my place.”

“We bear witness to this,” said Porthos and Aramis, in the same manner

as before.

“Before God and before men, I accuse this woman of having urged me to

the murder of the Baron de Wardes; but as no one else can attest the

truth of this accusation, I attest it myself. I have done.” And

D’Artagnan passed to the other side of the room with Porthos and

Aramis.

“Your turn, my Lord,” said Athos.

The baron came forward.

“Before God and before men,” said he, “I accuse this woman of having

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.