"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.
"Come, count," said Raoul, who seemed instinctively to dislike the vicinity of the Augustine; "come, I feel ill here," and the two young men spurred on.
The litter, borne by two servants, now entered the house.
The host and his wife were standing on the steps, whilst the unhappy man seemed to suffer dreadful pain and yet to be concerned only to know if he was followed by the monk. At sight of this pale, bleeding man, the wife grasped her husband's arm.
"Well, what's the matter?" asked the latter, "are you going to be ill just now?"
"No, but look," replied the hostess, pointing to the wounded man; "I ask you if you recognize him?"
"That man -- wait a bit."
"Ah! I see you know him," exclaimed the wife; "for you have become pale in your turn."
"Truly," cried the host, "misfortune is coming on our house; it is the former executioner of Bethune."
"The former executioner of Bethune!" murmured the young monk, shrinking back and showing on his countenance the feeling of repugnance which his penitent inspired.
Monsieur d'Arminges, who was at the door, perceived his hesitation.
"Sir monk," said he, "whether he is now or has been an executioner, this unfortunate being is none the less a man.
Render to him, then, the last service he can by any possibility ask of you, and your work will be all the more meritorious."
The monk made no reply, but silently wended his way to the room where the two valets had deposited the dying man on a bed. D'Arminges and Olivain and the two grooms then mounted their horses, and all four started off at a quick trot to rejoin Raoul and his companion. Just as the tutor and his escort disappeared in their turn, a new traveler stopped on the threshold of the inn.
"What does your worship want?" demanded the host, pale and trembling from the discovery he had just made.
The traveler made a sign as if he wished to drink, and then pointed to his horse and gesticulated like a man who is brushing something.
"Ah, diable!" said the host to himself; "this man seems dumb. And where will your worship drink?"
"There," answered the traveler, pointing to the table.
"I was mistaken," said the host, "he's not quite dumb. And what else does your worship wish for?"