“Young and beautiful. Oh, yes, especially beautiful. I see her now, as on her knees at my feet, with her head thrown back, she begged for life. I have never understood how I could have laid low a head so beautiful, with a face so pale.” The monk seemed agitated by a strange emotion; he trembled all over; he seemed eager to put a question which yet he dared not ask. At length, with a violent effort at self-control: “The name of that woman?” he said. “I don’t know what it was. As I have said, she was twice married, once in France, the second time in England.” “She was young, you say?” “Twenty-five years old.” “Beautiful?” “Ravishingly.” “Blond?” “Yes.” “Abundance of hair—falling over her shoulders?” “Yes.” “Eyes of an admirable expression?” “When she chose. Oh, yes, it is she!” “A voice of strange sweetness?” “How do you know it?” The executioner raised himself on his elbow and gazed with a frightened air at the monk, who became livid. “And you killed her?” the monk exclaimed. “You were the tool of those cowards who dared not kill her themselves? You had no pity for that youthfulness, that beauty, that weakness? you killed that woman?” “Alas! I have already told you, father, that woman, under that angelic appearance, had an infernal soul, and when I saw her, when I recalled all the evil she had done to me——” “To you? What could she have done to you? Come, tell me!” “She had seduced and ruined my brother, a priest. She had fled with him from her convent.” “With your brother?” “Yes, my brother was her first lover, and she caused his death. Oh, father, do not look in that way at me! Oh, I am guilty, then; you will not pardon me?” The monk recovered his usual expression. “Yes, yes,” he said, “I will pardon you if you tell me all.” “Oh!” cried the executioner, “all! all! all!” “Answer, then. If she seduced your brother—you said she seduced him, did you not?” “Yes.” “If she caused his death—you said that she caused his death?” “Yes,” repeated the executioner. “Then you must know what her name was as a young girl.” “Oh, _mon Dieu!_” cried the executioner, “I think I am dying. Absolution, father! absolution.” “Tell me her name and I will give it.” “Her name was——My God, have pity on me!” murmured the executioner; and he fell back on the bed, pale, trembling, and apparently about to die. “Her name!” repeated the monk, bending over him as if to tear from him the name if he would not utter it; “her name! Speak, or no absolution!” The dying man collected all his forces. The monk’s eyes glittered. “Anne de Bueil,” murmured the wounded man. “Anne de Bueil!” cried the monk, standing up and lifting his hands to Heaven. “Anne de Bueil! You said Anne de Bueil, did you not?” “Yes, yes, that was her name; and now absolve me, for I am dying.” “I, absolve you!” cried the priest, with a laugh which made the dying man’s hair stand on end; “I, absolve you? I am not a priest.”