Raoul was seated at table with the Count de Guiche and his tutor, when all at once the door opened and Grimaud presented himself, travel-stained, dirty, and sprinkled with the blood of the unhappy executioner.
“Grimaud, my good Grimaud!” exclaimed Raoul “here you are at last! Excuse me, sirs, this is not a servant, but a friend. How did you leave the count?” continued he. “Does he regret me a little? Have you seen him since I left him? Answer, for I have many things to tell you, too; indeed, the last three days some odd adventures have happened—but what is the matter? how pale you are! and blood, too! What is this?”
“It is the blood of the unfortunate man whom you left at the inn and who died in my arms.”
“In your arms?—that man! but know you who he was?”
“He used to be the headsman of Bethune.”
“You knew him? and he is dead?”
“Yes.”
“Well, sir,” said D’Arminges, “it is the common lot; even an executioner is not exempted. I had a bad opinion of him the moment I saw his wound, and since he asked for a monk you know that it was his opinion, too, that death would follow.”
At the mention of the monk, Grimaud became pale.
“Come, come,” continued D’Arminges, “to dinner;” for like most men of his age and generation he did not allow sentiment or sensibility to interfere with a repast.