“Pardon me,” said Charles II., turning very pale,” but you, count, who know so many details of this melancholy event, — details which, as you said just now, have never been revealed to any one, — 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 his misfortunes.

“A million!” murmured he, “Oh, count!”

“’You alone know that this money exists:  employ it when you think it can be of the greatest service to my eldest son.  And now, Comte de la Fere, bid me adieu!’