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    Martin Guerre Celebrated Crimes
    Martin Guerre Celebrated Crimes
    Martin Guerre Celebrated Crimes
    Ebook81 pages1 hour

    Martin Guerre Celebrated Crimes

    By Alexandre Dumas

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Martin Guerre Celebrated Crimes
    Author

    Alexandre Dumas

    Alexandre Dumas (1802-1870) was a prolific French writer who is best known for his ever-popular classic novels The Count of Monte Cristo and The Three Musketeers.

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      Book preview

      Martin Guerre Celebrated Crimes - Alexandre Dumas

      MARTIN GUERRE

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license.

      Title: Martin Guerre

      Author: Alexandre Dumas, Pere

      Release Date: August 15, 2006 [EBook #2752]

      Language: English

      Character set encoding: UTF-8

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARTIN GUERRE ***

      Produced by David Widger.

      MARTIN GUERRE

      By

      Alexandre Dumas, Pere

      From the set of Eight Volumes of Celebrated Crimes

      1910

      CONTENTS

      MARTIN GUERRE

      MARTIN GUERRE

      We are sometimes astonished at the striking resemblance existing between two persons who are absolute strangers to each other, but in fact it is the opposite which ought to surprise us. Indeed, why should we not rather admire a Creative Power so infinite in its variety that it never ceases to produce entirely different combinations with precisely the same elements? The more one considers this prodigious versatility of form, the more overwhelming it appears.

      To begin with, each nation has its own distinct and characteristic type, separating it from other races of men. Thus there are the English, Spanish, German, or Slavonic types; again, in each nation we find families distinguished from each other by less general but still well-pronounced features; and lastly, the individuals of each family, differing again in more or less marked gradations. What a multitude of physiognomies! What variety of impression from the innumerable stamps of the human countenance! What millions of models and no copies! Considering this ever changing spectacle, which ought to inspire us with most astonishment—the perpetual difference of faces or the accidental resemblance of a few individuals? Is it impossible that in the whole wide world there should be found by chance two people whose features are cast in one and the same mould? Certainly not; therefore that which ought to surprise us is not that these duplicates exist here and there upon the earth, but that they are to be met with in the same place, and appear together before our eyes, little accustomed to see such resemblances. From Amphitryon down to our own days, many fables have owed their origin to this fact, and history also has provided a few examples, such as the false Demetrius in Russia, the English Perkin Warbeck, and several other celebrated impostors, whilst the story we now present to our readers is no less curious and strange.

      On the 10th of, August 1557, an inauspicious day in the history of France, the roar of cannon was still heard at six in the evening in the plains of St. Quentin; where the French army had just been destroyed by the united troops of England and Spain, commanded by the famous Captain Emanuel Philibert, Duke of Savoy. An utterly beaten infantry, the Constable Montmorency and several generals taken prisoner, the Duke d'Enghien mortally wounded, the flower of the nobility cut down like grass,—such were the terrible results of a battle which plunged France into mourning, and which would have been a blot on the reign of Henry II, had not the Duke of Guise obtained a brilliant revenge the following year.

      In a little village less than a mile from the field of battle were to be heard the groans of the wounded and dying, who had been carried thither from the field of battle. The inhabitants had given up their houses to be used as hospitals, and two or three barber surgeons went hither and thither, hastily ordering operations which they left to their assistants, and driving out fugitives who had contrived to accompany the wounded under pretence of assisting friends or near relations. They had already expelled a good number of these poor fellows, when, opening the door of a small room, they found a soldier soaked in blood lying on a rough mat, and another soldier apparently attending on him with the utmost care.

      Who are you? said one of the surgeons to the sufferer. I don't think you belong to our French troops.

      Help! cried the soldier, only help me! and may God bless you for it!

      From the colour of that tunic, remarked the other surgeon, I should wager the rascal belongs to some Spanish gentleman. By what blunder was he brought here?

      For pity's sake! murmured the poor fellow, I am in such pain.

      Die, wretch! responded the last speaker, pushing him with his foot. Die, like the dog you are!

      But this brutality, answered as it was by an agonised groan, disgusted the other surgeon.

      After all, he is a man, and a wounded man who implores help. Leave him to me, Rene.

      Rene went out grumbling, and the one who remained proceeded to examine the wound. A terrible arquebus-shot had passed through the leg, shattering the bone: amputation was absolutely necessary.

      Before proceeding to the operation, the surgeon turned to the other soldier, who had retired into the darkest corner of the room.

      And you, who may you be? he asked.

      The man replied by coming forward into the light: no other answer was needed. He resembled his companion so closely that no one could doubt they were brothers-twin brothers, probably. Both were above middle height; both had olive-brown complexions, black eyes, hooked noses, pointed chins, a slightly projecting lower lip; both were round-shouldered, though this defect did not amount to disfigurement: the whole personality suggested strength, and was not destitute of masculine beauty. So strong a likeness is hardly ever seen; even their ages appeared to agree, for one would not have supposed either to be more than thirty-two; and the only difference noticeable, besides the pale countenance of the wounded man, was

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