event,--details which, as you
said just now, have never been revealed to anyone,--do you know the name
of that infernal executioner, of that base wretch who concealed his face
that he might assassinate a king with impunity?"

Athos became slightly pale. "His name?" said he, "yes, I know it, but
cannot tell it."

"And what is become of him, for nobody in England knows his destiny?"

"He is dead."

"But he did not die in his bed; he did not die a calm and peaceful
death, he did not die the death of the good?"

"He died a violent death, in a terrible night, rendered so by the
passions of man and a tempest from God. His body, pierced by a dagger,
sank to the depths of the ocean. God pardon his murderer!"

"Proceed, then," said Charles II., seeing that the count was unwilling
to say more.

"The king of England, after having, as I have said, spoken thus to the
masked executioner, added,--'Observe, you will not strike till I shall
stretch out my arms saying--REMEMBER!'"

"I was aware," said Charles, in an agitated voice, "that that was the
last word pronounced by my unfortunate father. But why and for whom?"

"For the French gentleman placed beneath his scaffold."

"For you, then, monsieur?"

"Yes, sire; and every one of the words which he spoke to me, through the
planks of the scaffold covered with a black cloth, still sounds in my
ears. The king knelt down on one knee: 'Comte de la Fere,' said he, 'are
you there?' 'Yes, sire,' replied I. Then the king stooped towards the
boards."

Charles II., also palpitating with interest, burning with grief, stooped
towards Athos, to catch, one by one, every word that escaped from him.
His head touched that of the comte.

"Then," continued Athos, "the king stooped. 'Comte de la Fere,' said
he, 'I could not be saved by you: it was not to be. Now, even though I
commit a sacrilege, I must speak to you. Yes, I have spoken to men--yes,
I have spoken to God, and I speak to you the last. To sustain a cause
which I thought sacred, I have lost the throne of my fathers and the
heritage of my children.'"

Charles II. concealed his face in his hands, and a bitter tear glided
between his white and slender fingers.

"'I have still a million in gold,' continued the king. 'I buried it
in the vaults of the castle of Newcastle, a moment before I left that
city.'" Charles raised his head with an expression of such painful
joy that it would have drawn tears from any one acquainted with hi