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Chapter 5. The Marriage-Feast.
The morning's sun rose clear and resplendent, touching the foamy waves
into a network of ruby-tinted light.
The feast had been made ready on the second floor at La Reserve, with
whose arbor the reader is already familiar. The apartment destined for
the purpose was spacious and lighted by a number of windows, over each
of which was written in golden letters for some inexplicable reason the
name of one of the principal cities of France; beneath these windows a
wooden balcony extended the entire length of the house. And although
the entertainment was fixed for twelve o'clock, an hour previous to
that time the balcony was filled with impatient and expectant guests,
consisting of the favored part of the crew of the Pharaon, and other
personal friends of the bride-groom, the whole of whom had arrayed
themselves in their choicest costumes, in order to do greater honor to
the occasion.
Various rumors were afloat to the effect that the owners of the Pharaon
had promised to attend the nuptial feast; but all seemed unanimous in
doubting that an act of such rare and exceeding condescension could
possibly be intended.
Danglars, however, who now made his appearance, accompanied by
Caderousse, effectually confirmed the report, stating that he had
recently conversed with M. Morrel, who had himself assured him of his
intention to dine at La Reserve.
In fact, a moment later M. Morrel appeared and was saluted with an
enthusiastic burst of applause from the crew of the Pharaon, who hailed
the visit of the shipowner as a sure indication that the man whose
wedding feast he thus delighted to honor would ere long be first in
command of the ship; and as Dantes was universally beloved on board his
vessel, the sailors put no restraint on their tumultuous joy at finding
that the opinion and choice of their superiors so exactly coincided with
their own.
With the entrance of M. Morrel, Danglars and Caderousse were despatched
in search of the bride-groom to convey to him the intelligence of the
arrival of the important personage whose coming had created such a
lively sensation, and to beseech him to make haste.
Danglars and Caderousse set off upon their errand at full speed; but ere
they had gone many steps they perceived a group advancing towards them,
composed of the betrothed pair, a party of young girls in attendance on
the bride, by whose side walked Dantes' father; the whole brought up by
Fernand, whose lips wore their usual sinister smile.
Neither Mercedes nor Edmond observed the strange expression of his
countenance; they were so happy that they were conscious only of the
sunshine and the presence of each other.
Having acquitted themselves of their errand, and exchanged a hearty
shake of the hand with Edmond, Danglars and Caderousse took their places
beside Fernand and old Dantes,—the latter of whom attracted universal
notice. The old man was attired in a suit of glistening watered silk,
trimmed with steel buttons, beautifully cut and polished. His thin
but wiry legs were arrayed in a pair of richly embroidered clocked
stockings, evidently of English manufacture, while from his
three-cornered hat depended a long streaming knot of white and blue
ribbons. Thus he came along, supporting himself on a curiously carved
stick, his aged countenance lit up with happiness, looking for all the
world like one of the aged dandies of 1796, parading the newly opened
gardens of the Tuileries and Luxembourg. Beside him glided Caderousse,
whose desire to partake of the good things provided for the
wedding-party had induced him to become reconciled to the Dantes, father
and son, although there still lingered in his mind a faint and unperfect
recollection of the events of the preceding night; just as the brain
retains on waking in the morning the dim and misty outline of a dream.
As Danglars approached the disappointed lover, he cast on him a look of
deep meaning, while Fernand, as he slowly paced behind the happy pair,
who seemed, in their own unmixed content, to have entirely forgotten
that such a being as himself existed, was pale and abstracted;
occasionally, however, a deep flush would overspread his countenance,
and a nervous contraction distort his features, while, with an agitated
and restless gaze, he would glance in the direction of Marseilles, like
one who either anticipated or foresaw some great and important event.
Dantes himself was simply, but becomingly, clad in the dress peculiar to
the merchant service—a costume somewhat between a military and a civil
garb; and with his fine countenance, radiant with joy and happiness, a
more perfect specimen of manly beauty could scarcely be imagined.
Lovely as the Greek girls of Cyprus or Chios, Mercedes boasted the same
bright flashing eyes of jet, and ripe, round, coral lips. She moved
with the light, free step of an Arlesienne or an Andalusian. One more
practiced in the arts of great cities would have hid her blushes beneath
a veil, or, at least, have cast down her thickly fringed lashes, so as
to have concealed the liquid lustre of her animated eyes; but, on the
contrary, the delighted girl looked around her with a smile that seemed
to say: "If you are my friends, rejoice with me, for I am very happy."
As soon as the bridal party came in sight of La Reserve, M. Morrel
descended and came forth to meet it, followed by the soldiers and
sailors there assembled, to whom he had repeated the promise already
given, that Dantes should be the successor to the late Captain Leclere.
Edmond, at the approach of his patron, respectfully placed the arm of
his affianced bride within that of M. Morrel, who, forthwith conducting
her up the flight of wooden steps leading to the chamber in which the
feast was prepared, was gayly followed by the guests, beneath whose
heavy tread the slight structure creaked and groaned for the space of
several minutes.
"Father," said Mercedes, stopping when she had reached the centre of the
table, "sit, I pray you, on my right hand; on my left I will place him
who has ever been as a brother to me," pointing with a soft and gentle
smile to Fernand; but her words and look seemed to inflict the direst
torture on him, for his lips became ghastly pale, and even beneath the
dark hue of his complexion the blood might be seen retreating as though
some sudden pang drove it back to the heart.
During this time, Dantes, at the opposite side of the table, had been
occupied in similarly placing his most honored guests. M. Morrel was
seated at his right hand, Danglars at his left; while, at a sign from
Edmond, the rest of the company ranged themselves as they found it most
agreeable.
Then they began to pass around the dusky, piquant, Arlesian sausages,
and lobsters in their dazzling red cuirasses, prawns of large size and
brilliant color, the echinus with its prickly outside and dainty morsel
within, the clovis, esteemed by the epicures of the South as more than
rivalling the exquisite flavor of the oyster,—all the delicacies, in
fact, that are cast up by the wash of waters on the sandy beach, and
styled by the grateful fishermen "fruits of the sea."
"A pretty silence truly!" said the old father of the bride-groom, as
he carried to his lips a glass of wine of the hue and brightness of the
topaz, and which had just been placed before Mercedes herself. "Now,
would anybody think that this room contained a happy, merry party, who
desire nothing better than to laugh and dance the hours away?"
"Ah," sighed Caderousse, "a man cannot always feel happy because he is
about to be married."
"The truth is," replied Dantes, "that I am too happy for noisy mirth;
if that is what you meant by your observation, my worthy friend, you
are right; joy takes a strange effect at times, it seems to oppress us
almost the same as sorrow."
Danglars looked towards Fernand, whose excitable nature received and
betrayed each fresh impression.
"Why, what ails you?" asked he of Edmond. "Do you fear any approaching
evil? I should say that you were the happiest man alive at this
instant."
"And that is the very thing that alarms me," returned Dantes. "Man does
not appear to me to be intended to enjoy felicity so unmixed; happiness
is like the enchanted palaces we read of in our childhood, where fierce,
fiery dragons defend the entrance and approach; and monsters of all
shapes and kinds, requiring to be overcome ere victory is ours. I own
that I am lost in wonder to find myself promoted to an honor of which I
feel myself unworthy—that of being the husband of Mercedes."
"Nay, nay!" cried Caderousse, smiling, "you have not attained that honor
yet. Mercedes is not yet your wife. Just assume the tone and manner of
a husband, and see how she will remind you that your hour is not yet
come!"
The bride blushed, while Fernand, restless and uneasy, seemed to start
at every fresh sound, and from time to time wiped away the large drops
of perspiration that gathered on his brow.
"Well, never mind that, neighbor Caderousse; it is not worth while to
contradict me for such a trifle as that. 'Tis true that Mercedes is not
actually my wife; but," added he, drawing out his watch, "in an hour and
a half she will be."
A general exclamation of surprise ran round the table, with the
exception of the elder Dantes, whose laugh displayed the still perfect
beauty of his large white teeth. Mercedes looked pleased and gratified,
while Fernand grasped the handle of his knife with a convulsive clutch.
"In an hour?" inquired Danglars, turning pale. "How is that, my friend?"
"Why, thus it is," replied Dantes. "Thanks to the influence of M.
Morrel, to whom, next to my father, I owe every blessing I enjoy, every
difficulty his been removed. We have purchased permission to waive the
usual delay; and at half-past two o'clock the mayor of Marseilles will
be waiting for us at the city hall. Now, as a quarter-past one has
already struck, I do not consider I have asserted too much in saying,
that, in another hour and thirty minutes Mercedes will have become
Madame Dantes."
Fernand closed his eyes, a burning sensation passed across his brow, and
he was compelled to support himself by the table to prevent his falling
from his chair; but in spite of all his efforts, he could not refrain
from uttering a deep groan, which, however, was lost amid the noisy
felicitations of the company.
"Upon my word," cried the old man, "you make short work of this kind of
affair. Arrived here only yesterday morning, and married to-day at three
o'clock! Commend me to a sailor for going the quick way to work!"
"But," asked Danglars, in a timid tone, "how did you manage about the
other formalities—the contract—the settlement?"
"The contract," answered Dantes, laughingly, "it didn't take long to
fix that. Mercedes has no fortune; I have none to settle on her. So, you
see, our papers were quickly written out, and certainly do not come very
expensive." This joke elicited a fresh burst of applause.
"So that what we presumed to be merely the betrothal feast turns out to
be the actual wedding dinner!" said Danglars.
"No, no," answered Dantes; "don't imagine I am going to put you off in
that shabby manner. To-morrow morning I start for Paris; four days to
go, and the same to return, with one day to discharge the commission
intrusted to me, is all the time I shall be absent. I shall be back here
by the first of March, and on the second I give my real marriage feast."
This prospect of fresh festivity redoubled the hilarity of the guests
to such a degree, that the elder Dantes, who, at the commencement of
the repast, had commented upon the silence that prevailed, now found
it difficult, amid the general din of voices, to obtain a moment's
tranquillity in which to drink to the health and prosperity of the bride
and bride-groom.
Dantes, perceiving the affectionate eagerness of his father, responded
by a look of grateful pleasure; while Mercedes glanced at the clock and
made an expressive gesture to Edmond.
Around the table reigned that noisy hilarity which usually prevails at
such a time among people sufficiently free from the demands of
social position not to feel the trammels of etiquette. Such as at
the commencement of the repast had not been able to seat themselves
according to their inclination rose unceremoniously, and sought out more
agreeable companions. Everybody talked at once, without waiting for a
reply and each one seemed to be contented with expressing his or her own
thoughts.
Fernand's paleness appeared to have communicated itself to Danglars.
As for Fernand himself, he seemed to be enduring the tortures of the
damned; unable to rest, he was among the first to quit the table,
and, as though seeking to avoid the hilarious mirth that rose in such
deafening sounds, he continued, in utter silence, to pace the farther
end of the salon.
Caderousse approached him just as Danglars, whom Fernand seemed most
anxious to avoid, had joined him in a corner of the room.
"Upon my word," said Caderousse, from whose mind the friendly treatment
of Dantes, united with the effect of the excellent wine he had partaken
of, had effaced every feeling of envy or jealousy at Dantes' good
fortune,—"upon my word, Dantes is a downright good fellow, and when I
see him sitting there beside his pretty wife that is so soon to be. I
cannot help thinking it would have been a great pity to have served him
that trick you were planning yesterday."
"Oh, there was no harm meant," answered Danglars; "at first I certainly
did feel somewhat uneasy as to what Fernand might be tempted to do; but
when I saw how completely he had mastered his feelings, even so far as
to become one of his rival's attendants, I knew there was no further
cause for apprehension." Caderousse looked full at Fernand—he was
ghastly pale.
"Certainly," continued Danglars, "the sacrifice was no trifling one,
when the beauty of the bride is concerned. Upon my soul, that future
captain of mine is a lucky dog! Gad, I only wish he would let me take
his place."
"Shall we not set forth?" asked the sweet, silvery voice of Mercedes;
"two o'clock has just struck, and you know we are expected in a quarter
of an hour."
"To be sure!—to be sure!" cried Dantes, eagerly quitting the table;
"let us go directly!"
His words were re-echoed by the whole party, with vociferous cheers.
At this moment Danglars, who had been incessantly observing every change
in Fernand's look and manner, saw him stagger and fall back, with an
almost convulsive spasm, against a seat placed near one of the open
windows. At the same instant his ear caught a sort of indistinct sound
on the stairs, followed by the measured tread of soldiery, with the
clanking of swords and military accoutrements; then came a hum and buzz
as of many voices, so as to deaden even the noisy mirth of the bridal
party, among whom a vague feeling of curiosity and apprehension quelled
every disposition to talk, and almost instantaneously the most deathlike
stillness prevailed.
The sounds drew nearer. Three blows were struck upon the panel of the
door. The company looked at each other in consternation.
"I demand admittance," said a loud voice outside the room, "in the name
of the law!" As no attempt was made to prevent it, the door was opened,
and a magistrate, wearing his official scarf, presented himself,
followed by four soldiers and a corporal. Uneasiness now yielded to the
most extreme dread on the part of those present.
"May I venture to inquire the reason of this unexpected visit?" said
M. Morrel, addressing the magistrate, whom he evidently knew; "there is
doubtless some mistake easily explained."
"If it be so," replied the magistrate, "rely upon every reparation being
made; meanwhile, I am the bearer of an order of arrest, and although I
most reluctantly perform the task assigned me, it must, nevertheless, be
fulfilled. Who among the persons here assembled answers to the name of
Edmond Dantes?" Every eye was turned towards the young man who, spite of
the agitation he could not but feel, advanced with dignity, and said, in
a firm voice, "I am he; what is your pleasure with me?"
"Edmond Dantes," replied the magistrate, "I arrest you in the name of
the law!"
"Me!" repeated Edmond, slightly changing color, "and wherefore, I pray?"
"I cannot inform you, but you will be duly acquainted with the
reasons that have rendered such a step necessary at the preliminary
examination."
M. Morrel felt that further resistance or remonstrance was useless. He
saw before him an officer delegated to enforce the law, and perfectly
well knew that it would be as unavailing to seek pity from a magistrate
decked with his official scarf, as to address a petition to some cold
marble effigy. Old Dantes, however, sprang forward. There are situations
which the heart of a father or a mother cannot be made to understand.
He prayed and supplicated in terms so moving, that even the officer
was touched, and, although firm in his duty, he kindly said, "My worthy
friend, let me beg of you to calm your apprehensions. Your son has
probably neglected some prescribed form or attention in registering his
cargo, and it is more than probable he will be set at liberty directly
he has given the information required, whether touching the health of
his crew, or the value of his freight."
"What is the meaning of all this?" inquired Caderousse, frowningly, of
Danglars, who had assumed an air of utter surprise.
"How can I tell you?" replied he; "I am, like yourself, utterly
bewildered at all that is going on, and cannot in the least make out
what it is about." Caderousse then looked around for Fernand, but he had
disappeared.
The scene of the previous night now came back to his mind with startling
clearness. The painful catastrophe he had just witnessed appeared
effectually to have rent away the veil which the intoxication of the
evening before had raised between himself and his memory.
"So, so," said he, in a hoarse and choking voice, to Danglars, "this,
then, I suppose, is a part of the trick you were concerting yesterday?
All I can say is, that if it be so, 'tis an ill turn, and well deserves
to bring double evil on those who have projected it."
"Nonsense," returned Danglars, "I tell you again I have nothing whatever
to do with it; besides, you know very well that I tore the paper to
pieces."
"No, you did not!" answered Caderousse, "you merely threw it by—I saw
it lying in a corner."
"Hold your tongue, you fool!—what should you know about it?—why, you
were drunk!"
"Where is Fernand?" inquired Caderousse.
"How do I know?" replied Danglars; "gone, as every prudent man ought to
be, to look after his own affairs, most likely. Never mind where he is,
let you and I go and see what is to be done for our poor friends."
During this conversation, Dantes, after having exchanged a cheerful
shake of the hand with all his sympathizing friends, had surrendered
himself to the officer sent to arrest him, merely saying, "Make
yourselves quite easy, my good fellows, there is some little mistake to
clear up, that's all, depend upon it; and very likely I may not have to
go so far as the prison to effect that."
"Oh, to be sure!" responded Danglars, who had now approached the group,
"nothing more than a mistake, I feel quite certain."
Dantes descended the staircase, preceded by the magistrate, and followed
by the soldiers. A carriage awaited him at the door; he got in, followed
by two soldiers and the magistrate, and the vehicle drove off towards
Marseilles.
"Adieu, adieu, dearest Edmond!" cried Mercedes, stretching out her arms
to him from the balcony.
The prisoner heard the cry, which sounded like the sob of a broken
heart, and leaning from the coach he called out, "Good-by, Mercedes—we
shall soon meet again!" Then the vehicle disappeared round one of the
turnings of Fort Saint Nicholas.
"Wait for me here, all of you!" cried M. Morrel; "I will take the first
conveyance I find, and hurry to Marseilles, whence I will bring you word
how all is going on."
"That's right!" exclaimed a multitude of voices, "go, and return as
quickly as you can!"
This second departure was followed by a long and fearful state of
terrified silence on the part of those who were left behind. The old
father and Mercedes remained for some time apart, each absorbed in
grief; but at length the two poor victims of the same blow raised their
eyes, and with a simultaneous burst of feeling rushed into each other's
arms.
Meanwhile Fernand made his appearance, poured out for himself a glass
of water with a trembling hand; then hastily swallowing it, went to sit
down at the first vacant place, and this was, by mere chance, placed
next to the seat on which poor Mercedes had fallen half fainting,
when released from the warm and affectionate embrace of old Dantes.
Instinctively Fernand drew back his chair.
"He is the cause of all this misery—I am quite sure of it," whispered
Caderousse, who had never taken his eyes off Fernand, to Danglars.
"I don't think so," answered the other; "he's too stupid to imagine such
a scheme. I only hope the mischief will fall upon the head of whoever
wrought it."
"You don't mention those who aided and abetted the deed," said
Caderousse.
"Surely," answered Danglars, "one cannot be held responsible for every
chance arrow shot into the air."
"You can, indeed, when the arrow lights point downward on somebody's
head."
Meantime the subject of the arrest was being canvassed in every
different form.
"What think you, Danglars," said one of the party, turning towards him,
"of this event?"
"Why," replied he, "I think it just possible Dantes may have been
detected with some trifling article on board ship considered here as
contraband."
"But how could he have done so without your knowledge, Danglars, since
you are the ship's supercargo?"
"Why, as for that, I could only know what I was told respecting the
merchandise with which the vessel was laden. I know she was loaded with
cotton, and that she took in her freight at Alexandria from Pastret's
warehouse, and at Smyrna from Pascal's; that is all I was obliged to
know, and I beg I may not be asked for any further particulars."
"Now I recollect," said the afflicted old father; "my poor boy told me
yesterday he had got a small case of coffee, and another of tobacco for
me!"
"There, you see," exclaimed Danglars. "Now the mischief is out; depend
upon it the custom-house people went rummaging about the ship in our
absence, and discovered poor Dantes' hidden treasures."
Mercedes, however, paid no heed to this explanation of her lover's
arrest. Her grief, which she had hitherto tried to restrain, now burst
out in a violent fit of hysterical sobbing.
"Come, come," said the old man, "be comforted, my poor child; there is
still hope!"
"Hope!" repeated Danglars.
"Hope!" faintly murmured Fernand, but the word seemed to die away on his
pale agitated lips, and a convulsive spasm passed over his countenance.
"Good news! good news!" shouted forth one of the party stationed in the
balcony on the lookout. "Here comes M. Morrel back. No doubt, now, we
shall hear that our friend is released!"
Mercedes and the old man rushed to meet the shipowner and greeted him at
the door. He was very pale.
"What news?" exclaimed a general burst of voices.
"Alas, my friends," replied M. Morrel, with a mournful shake of his
head, "the thing has assumed a more serious aspect than I expected."
"Oh, indeed—indeed, sir, he is innocent!" sobbed forth Mercedes.
"That I believe!" answered M. Morrel; "but still he is charged"—
"With what?" inquired the elder Dantes.
"With being an agent of the Bonapartist faction!" Many of our readers
may be able to recollect how formidable such an accusation became in the
period at which our story is dated.
A despairing cry escaped the pale lips of Mercedes; the old man sank
into a chair.
"Ah, Danglars!" whispered Caderousse, "you have deceived me—the trick
you spoke of last night has been played; but I cannot suffer a poor
old man or an innocent girl to die of grief through your fault. I am
determined to tell them all about it."
"Be silent, you simpleton!" cried Danglars, grasping him by the arm, "or
I will not answer even for your own safety. Who can tell whether Dantes
be innocent or guilty? The vessel did touch at Elba, where he quitted
it, and passed a whole day in the island. Now, should any letters or
other documents of a compromising character be found upon him, will it
not be taken for granted that all who uphold him are his accomplices?"
With the rapid instinct of selfishness, Caderousse readily perceived the
solidity of this mode of reasoning; he gazed, doubtfully, wistfully, on
Danglars, and then caution supplanted generosity.
"Suppose we wait a while, and see what comes of it," said he, casting a
bewildered look on his companion.
"To be sure!" answered Danglars. "Let us wait, by all means. If he be
innocent, of course he will be set at liberty; if guilty, why, it is no
use involving ourselves in a conspiracy."
"Let us go, then. I cannot stay here any longer."
"With all my heart!" replied Danglars, pleased to find the other so
tractable. "Let us take ourselves out of the way, and leave things for
the present to take their course."
After their departure, Fernand, who had now again become the friend and
protector of Mercedes, led the girl to her home, while the friends of
Dantes conducted the now half-fainting man back to his abode.
The rumor of Edmond's arrest as a Bonapartist agent was not slow in
circulating throughout the city.
"Could you ever have credited such a thing, my dear Danglars?" asked M.
Morrel, as, on his return to the port for the purpose of gleaning fresh
tidings of Dantes, from M. de Villefort, the assistant procureur, he
overtook his supercargo and Caderousse. "Could you have believed such a
thing possible?"
"Why, you know I told you," replied Danglars, "that I considered the
circumstance of his having anchored at the Island of Elba as a very
suspicious circumstance."
"And did you mention these suspicions to any person beside myself?"
"Certainly not!" returned Danglars. Then added in a low whisper, "You
understand that, on account of your uncle, M. Policar Morrel, who served
under the other government, and who does not altogether conceal what
he thinks on the subject, you are strongly suspected of regretting the
abdication of Napoleon. I should have feared to injure both Edmond and
yourself, had I divulged my own apprehensions to a soul. I am too well
aware that though a subordinate, like myself, is bound to acquaint the
shipowner with everything that occurs, there are many things he ought
most carefully to conceal from all else."
"'Tis well, Danglars—'tis well!" replied M. Morrel. "You are a worthy
fellow; and I had already thought of your interests in the event of poor
Edmond having become captain of the Pharaon."
"Is it possible you were so kind?"
"Yes, indeed; I had previously inquired of Dantes what was his opinion
of you, and if he should have any reluctance to continue you in your
post, for somehow I have perceived a sort of coolness between you."
"And what was his reply?"
"That he certainly did think he had given you offence in an affair
which he merely referred to without entering into particulars, but that
whoever possessed the good opinion and confidence of the ship's owner
would have his preference also."
"The hypocrite!" murmured Danglars.
"Poor Dantes!" said Caderousse. "No one can deny his being a
noble-hearted young fellow."
"But meanwhile," continued M. Morrel, "here is the Pharaon without a
captain."
"Oh," replied Danglars, "since we cannot leave this port for the next
three months, let us hope that ere the expiration of that period Dantes
will be set at liberty."
"No doubt; but in the meantime?"
"I am entirely at your service, M. Morrel," answered Danglars. "You know
that I am as capable of managing a ship as the most experienced captain
in the service; and it will be so far advantageous to you to accept my
services, that upon Edmond's release from prison no further change will
be requisite on board the Pharaon than for Dantes and myself each to
resume our respective posts."
"Thanks, Danglars—that will smooth over all difficulties. I fully
authorize you at once to assume the command of the Pharaon, and look
carefully to the unloading of her freight. Private misfortunes must
never be allowed to interfere with business."
"Be easy on that score, M. Morrel; but do you think we shall be
permitted to see our poor Edmond?"
"I will let you know that directly I have seen M. de Villefort, whom I
shall endeavor to interest in Edmond's favor. I am aware he is a furious
royalist; but, in spite of that, and of his being king's attorney, he is
a man like ourselves, and I fancy not a bad sort of one."
"Perhaps not," replied Danglars; "but I hear that he is ambitious, and
that's rather against him."
"Well, well," returned M. Morrel, "we shall see. But now hasten on
board, I will join you there ere long." So saying, the worthy shipowner
quitted the two allies, and proceeded in the direction of the Palais de
Justice.
"You see," said Danglars, addressing Caderousse, "the turn things have
taken. Do you still feel any desire to stand up in his defence?"
"Not the slightest, but yet it seems to me a shocking thing that a mere
joke should lead to such consequences."
"But who perpetrated that joke, let me ask? neither you nor myself, but
Fernand; you knew very well that I threw the paper into a corner of the
room—indeed, I fancied I had destroyed it."
"Oh, no," replied Caderousse, "that I can answer for, you did not. I
only wish I could see it now as plainly as I saw it lying all crushed
and crumpled in a corner of the arbor."
"Well, then, if you did, depend upon it, Fernand picked it up, and
either copied it or caused it to be copied; perhaps, even, he did not
take the trouble of recopying it. And now I think of it, by Heavens, he
may have sent the letter itself! Fortunately, for me, the handwriting
was disguised."
"Then you were aware of Dantes being engaged in a conspiracy?"
"Not I. As I before said, I thought the whole thing was a joke, nothing
more. It seems, however, that I have unconsciously stumbled upon the
truth."
"Still," argued Caderousse, "I would give a great deal if nothing of the
kind had happened; or, at least, that I had had no hand in it. You will
see, Danglars, that it will turn out an unlucky job for both of us."
"Nonsense! If any harm come of it, it should fall on the guilty person;
and that, you know, is Fernand. How can we be implicated in any way?
All we have got to do is, to keep our own counsel, and remain perfectly
quiet, not breathing a word to any living soul; and you will see that
the storm will pass away without in the least affecting us."
"Amen!" responded Caderousse, waving his hand in token of adieu to
Danglars, and bending his steps towards the Allees de Meillan, moving
his head to and fro, and muttering as he went, after the manner of one
whose mind was overcharged with one absorbing idea.
"So far, then," said Danglars, mentally, "all has gone as I would have
it. I am, temporarily, commander of the Pharaon, with the certainty of
being permanently so, if that fool of a Caderousse can be persuaded to
hold his tongue. My only fear is the chance of Dantes being released.
But, there, he is in the hands of Justice; and," added he with a smile,
"she will take her own." So saying, he leaped into a boat, desiring to
be rowed on board the Pharaon, where M. Morrel had agreed to meet him.
Chapter 6. The Deputy Procureur du Roi.
In one of the aristocratic mansions built by Puget in the Rue du Grand
Cours opposite the Medusa fountain, a second marriage feast was being
celebrated, almost at the same hour with the nuptial repast given
by Dantes. In this case, however, although the occasion of the
entertainment was similar, the company was strikingly dissimilar.
Instead of a rude mixture of sailors, soldiers, and those belonging to
the humblest grade of life, the present assembly was composed of the
very flower of Marseilles society,—magistrates who had resigned their
office during the usurper's reign; officers who had deserted from the
imperial army and joined forces with Conde; and younger members of
families, brought up to hate and execrate the man whom five years of
exile would convert into a martyr, and fifteen of restoration elevate to
the rank of a god.
The guests were still at table, and the heated and energetic
conversation that prevailed betrayed the violent and vindictive passions
that then agitated each dweller of the South, where unhappily, for five
centuries religious strife had long given increased bitterness to the
violence of party feeling.
The emperor, now king of the petty Island of Elba, after having held
sovereign sway over one-half of the world, counting as his subjects
a small population of five or six thousand souls,—after having been
accustomed to hear the "Vive Napoleons" of a hundred and twenty millions
of human beings, uttered in ten different languages,—was looked upon
here as a ruined man, separated forever from any fresh connection with
France or claim to her throne.
The magistrates freely discussed their political views; the military
part of the company talked unreservedly of Moscow and Leipsic, while
the women commented on the divorce of Josephine. It was not over the
downfall of the man, but over the defeat of the Napoleonic idea, that
they rejoiced, and in this they foresaw for themselves the bright and
cheering prospect of a revivified political existence.
An old man, decorated with the cross of Saint Louis, now rose and
proposed the health of King Louis XVIII. It was the Marquis de
Saint-Meran. This toast, recalling at once the patient exile of Hartwell
and the peace-loving King of France, excited universal enthusiasm;
glasses were elevated in the air a l'Anglais, and the ladies, snatching
their bouquets from their fair bosoms, strewed the table with their
floral treasures. In a word, an almost poetical fervor prevailed.
"Ah," said the Marquise de Saint-Meran, a woman with a stern, forbidding
eye, though still noble and distinguished in appearance, despite her
fifty years—"ah, these revolutionists, who have driven us from those
very possessions they afterwards purchased for a mere trifle during the
Reign of Terror, would be compelled to own, were they here, that all
true devotion was on our side, since we were content to follow the
fortunes of a falling monarch, while they, on the contrary, made their
fortune by worshipping the rising sun; yes, yes, they could not help
admitting that the king, for whom we sacrificed rank, wealth, and
station was truly our 'Louis the well-beloved,' while their wretched
usurper his been, and ever will be, to them their evil genius, their
'Napoleon the accursed.' Am I not right, Villefort?"
"I beg your pardon, madame. I really must pray you to excuse me, but—in
truth—I was not attending to the conversation."
"Marquise, marquise!" interposed the old nobleman who had proposed the
toast, "let the young people alone; let me tell you, on one's wedding
day there are more agreeable subjects of conversation than dry
politics."
"Never mind, dearest mother," said a young and lovely girl, with a
profusion of light brown hair, and eyes that seemed to float in liquid
crystal, "'tis all my fault for seizing upon M. de Villefort, so as to
prevent his listening to what you said. But there—now take him—he is
your own for as long as you like. M. Villefort, I beg to remind you my
mother speaks to you."
"If the marquise will deign to repeat the words I but imperfectly
caught, I shall be delighted to answer," said M. de Villefort.
"Never mind, Renee," replied the marquise, with a look of tenderness
that seemed out of keeping with her harsh dry features; but, however all
other feelings may be withered in a woman's nature, there is always one
bright smiling spot in the desert of her heart, and that is the shrine
of maternal love. "I forgive you. What I was saying, Villefort, was,
that the Bonapartists had not our sincerity, enthusiasm, or devotion."
"They had, however, what supplied the place of those fine qualities,"
replied the young man, "and that was fanaticism. Napoleon is the
Mahomet of the West, and is worshipped by his commonplace but
ambitions followers, not only as a leader and lawgiver, but also as the
personification of equality."
"He!" cried the marquise: "Napoleon the type of equality! For mercy's
sake, then, what would you call Robespierre? Come, come, do not strip
the latter of his just rights to bestow them on the Corsican, who, to my
mind, has usurped quite enough."
"Nay, madame; I would place each of these heroes on his right
pedestal—that of Robespierre on his scaffold in the Place Louis Quinze;
that of Napoleon on the column of the Place Vendome. The only difference
consists in the opposite character of the equality advocated by these
two men; one is the equality that elevates, the other is the equality
that degrades; one brings a king within reach of the guillotine, the
other elevates the people to a level with the throne. Observe," said
Villefort, smiling, "I do not mean to deny that both these men were
revolutionary scoundrels, and that the 9th Thermidor and the 4th of
April, in the year 1814, were lucky days for France, worthy of being
gratefully remembered by every friend to monarchy and civil order;
and that explains how it comes to pass that, fallen, as I trust he is
forever, Napoleon has still retained a train of parasitical satellites.
Still, marquise, it has been so with other usurpers—Cromwell, for
instance, who was not half so bad as Napoleon, had his partisans and
advocates."
"Do you know, Villefort, that you are talking in a most dreadfully
revolutionary strain? But I excuse it, it is impossible to expect the
son of a Girondin to be free from a small spice of the old leaven." A
deep crimson suffused the countenance of Villefort.
"'Tis true, madame," answered he, "that my father was a Girondin, but he
was not among the number of those who voted for the king's death; he
was an equal sufferer with yourself during the Reign of Terror, and
had well-nigh lost his head on the same scaffold on which your father
perished."
"True," replied the marquise, without wincing in the slightest degree at
the tragic remembrance thus called up; "but bear in mind, if you please,
that our respective parents underwent persecution and proscription from
diametrically opposite principles; in proof of which I may remark, that
while my family remained among the stanchest adherents of the exiled
princes, your father lost no time in joining the new government; and
that while the Citizen Noirtier was a Girondin, the Count Noirtier
became a senator."
"Dear mother," interposed Renee, "you know very well it was agreed that
all these disagreeable reminiscences should forever be laid aside."
"Suffer me, also, madame," replied Villefort, "to add my earnest request
to Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran's, that you will kindly allow the veil of
oblivion to cover and conceal the past. What avails recrimination over
matters wholly past recall? For my own part, I have laid aside even the
name of my father, and altogether disown his political principles. He
was—nay, probably may still be—a Bonapartist, and is called Noirtier;
I, on the contrary, am a stanch royalist, and style myself de Villefort.
Let what may remain of revolutionary sap exhaust itself and die away
with the old trunk, and condescend only to regard the young shoot which
has started up at a distance from the parent tree, without having the
power, any more than the wish, to separate entirely from the stock from
which it sprung."
"Bravo, Villefort!" cried the marquis; "excellently well said! Come,
now, I have hopes of obtaining what I have been for years endeavoring
to persuade the marquise to promise; namely, a perfect amnesty and
forgetfulness of the past."
"With all my heart," replied the marquise; "let the past be forever
forgotten. I promise you it affords me as little pleasure to revive it
as it does you. All I ask is, that Villefort will be firm and inflexible
for the future in his political principles. Remember, also, Villefort,
that we have pledged ourselves to his majesty for your fealty and strict
loyalty, and that at our recommendation the king consented to forget the
past, as I do" (and here she extended to him her hand)—"as I now do at
your entreaty. But bear in mind, that should there fall in your way any
one guilty of conspiring against the government, you will be so much the
more bound to visit the offence with rigorous punishment, as it is known
you belong to a suspected family."
"Alas, madame," returned Villefort, "my profession, as well as the times
in which we live, compels me to be severe. I have already successfully
conducted several public prosecutions, and brought the offenders to
merited punishment. But we have not done with the thing yet."
"Do you, indeed, think so?" inquired the marquise.
"I am, at least, fearful of it. Napoleon, in the Island of Elba, is
too near France, and his proximity keeps up the hopes of his partisans.
Marseilles is filled with half-pay officers, who are daily, under one
frivolous pretext or other, getting up quarrels with the royalists;
from hence arise continual and fatal duels among the higher classes of
persons, and assassinations in the lower."
"You have heard, perhaps," said the Comte de Salvieux, one of M. de
Saint-Meran's oldest friends, and chamberlain to the Comte d'Artois,
"that the Holy Alliance purpose removing him from thence?"
"Yes; they were talking about it when we left Paris," said M. de
Saint-Meran; "and where is it decided to transfer him?"
"To Saint Helena."
"For heaven's sake, where is that?" asked the marquise.
"An island situated on the other side of the equator, at least two
thousand leagues from here," replied the count.
"So much the better. As Villefort observes, it is a great act of folly
to have left such a man between Corsica, where he was born, and Naples,
of which his brother-in-law is king, and face to face with Italy, the
sovereignty of which he coveted for his son."
"Unfortunately," said Villefort, "there are the treaties of 1814, and we
cannot *** Napoleon without breaking those compacts."
"Oh, well, we shall find some way out of it," responded M. de Salvieux.
"There wasn't any trouble over treaties when it was a question of
shooting the poor Duc d'Enghien."
"Well," said the marquise, "it seems probable that, by the aid of the
Holy Alliance, we shall be rid of Napoleon; and we must trust to the
vigilance of M. de Villefort to purify Marseilles of his partisans. The
king is either a king or no king; if he be acknowledged as sovereign of
France, he should be upheld in peace and tranquillity; and this can best
be effected by employing the most inflexible agents to put down every
attempt at conspiracy—'tis the best and surest means of preventing
mischief."
"Unfortunately, madame," answered Villefort, "the strong arm of the law
is not called upon to interfere until the evil has taken place."
"Then all he has got to do is to endeavor to repair it."
"Nay, madame, the law is frequently powerless to effect this; all it can
do is to avenge the wrong done."
"Oh, M. de Villefort," cried a beautiful young creature, daughter to
the Comte de Salvieux, and the cherished friend of Mademoiselle de
Saint-Meran, "do try and get up some famous trial while we are at
Marseilles. I never was in a law-court; I am told it is so very
amusing!"
"Amusing, certainly," replied the young man, "inasmuch as, instead of
shedding tears as at the fictitious tale of woe produced at a theatre,
you behold in a law-court a case of real and genuine distress—a drama
of life. The prisoner whom you there see pale, agitated, and alarmed,
instead of—as is the case when a curtain falls on a tragedy—going home
to sup peacefully with his family, and then retiring to rest, that he
may recommence his mimic woes on the morrow,—is removed from your
sight merely to be reconducted to his prison and delivered up to the
executioner. I leave you to judge how far your nerves are calculated to
bear you through such a scene. Of this, however, be assured, that should
any favorable opportunity present itself, I will not fail to offer you
the choice of being present."
"For shame, M. de Villefort!" said Renee, becoming quite pale; "don't
you see how you are frightening us?—and yet you laugh."
"What would you have? 'Tis like a duel. I have already recorded
sentence of death, five or six times, against the movers of political
conspiracies, and who can say how many daggers may be ready sharpened,
and only waiting a favorable opportunity to be buried in my heart?"
"Gracious heavens, M. de Villefort," said Renee, becoming more and more
terrified; "you surely are not in earnest."
"Indeed I am," replied the young magistrate with a smile; "and in the
interesting trial that young lady is anxious to witness, the case would
only be still more aggravated. Suppose, for instance, the prisoner,
as is more than probable, to have served under Napoleon—well, can
you expect for an instant, that one accustomed, at the word of his
commander, to rush fearlessly on the very bayonets of his foe, will
scruple more to drive a stiletto into the heart of one he knows to
be his personal enemy, than to slaughter his fellow-creatures, merely
because bidden to do so by one he is bound to obey? Besides, one
requires the excitement of being hateful in the eyes of the accused, in
order to lash one's self into a state of sufficient vehemence and power.
I would not choose to see the man against whom I pleaded smile, as
though in mockery of my words. No; my pride is to see the accused pale,
agitated, and as though beaten out of all composure by the fire of my
eloquence." Renee uttered a smothered exclamation.
"Bravo!" cried one of the guests; "that is what I call talking to some
purpose."
"Just the person we require at a time like the present," said a second.
"What a splendid business that last case of yours was, my dear
Villefort!" remarked a third; "I mean the trial of the man for murdering
his father. Upon my word, you killed him ere the executioner had laid
his hand upon him."
"Oh, as for parricides, and such dreadful people as that," interposed
Renee, "it matters very little what is done to them; but as regards
poor unfortunate creatures whose only crime consists in having mixed
themselves up in political intrigues"—
"Why, that is the very worst offence they could possibly commit; for,
don't you see, Renee, the king is the father of his people, and he who
shall plot or contrive aught against the life and safety of the parent
of thirty-two millions of souls, is a parricide upon a fearfully great
scale?"
"I don't know anything about that," replied Renee; "but, M. de
Villefort, you have promised me—have you not?—always to show mercy to
those I plead for."
"Make yourself quite easy on that point," answered Villefort, with
one of his sweetest smiles; "you and I will always consult upon our
verdicts."
"My love," said the marquise, "attend to your doves, your lap-dogs, and
embroidery, but do not meddle with what you do not understand. Nowadays
the military profession is in abeyance and the magisterial robe is
the badge of honor. There is a wise Latin proverb that is very much in
point."
"Cedant arma togae," said Villefort with a bow.
"I cannot speak Latin," responded the marquise.
"Well," said Renee, "I cannot help regretting you had not chosen some
other profession than your own—a physician, for instance. Do you know I
always felt a shudder at the idea of even a destroying angel?"
"Dear, good Renee," whispered Villefort, as he gazed with unutterable
tenderness on the lovely speaker.
"Let us hope, my child," cried the marquis, "that M. de Villefort may
prove the moral and political physician of this province; if so, he will
have achieved a noble work."
"And one which will go far to efface the recollection of his father's
conduct," added the incorrigible marquise.
"Madame," replied Villefort, with a mournful smile, "I have already had
the honor to observe that my father has—at least, I hope so—abjured
his past errors, and that he is, at the present moment, a firm and
zealous friend to religion and order—a better royalist, possibly, than
his son; for he has to atone for past dereliction, while I have no other
impulse than warm, decided preference and conviction." Having made this
well-turned speech, Villefort looked carefully around to mark the effect
of his oratory, much as he would have done had he been addressing the
bench in open court.
"Do you know, my dear Villefort," cried the Comte de Salvieux, "that
is exactly what I myself said the other day at the Tuileries, when
questioned by his majesty's principal chamberlain touching the
singularity of an alliance between the son of a Girondin and the
daughter of an officer of the Duc de Conde; and I assure you he seemed
fully to comprehend that this mode of reconciling political differences
was based upon sound and excellent principles. Then the king, who,
without our suspecting it, had overheard our conversation, interrupted
us by saying, 'Villefort'—observe that the king did not pronounce the
word Noirtier, but, on the contrary, placed considerable emphasis on
that of Villefort—'Villefort,' said his majesty, 'is a young man of
great judgment and discretion, who will be sure to make a figure in his
profession; I like him much, and it gave me great pleasure to hear that
he was about to become the son-in-law of the Marquis and Marquise de
Saint-Meran. I should myself have recommended the match, had not the
noble marquis anticipated my wishes by requesting my consent to it.'"
"Is it possible the king could have condescended so far as to express
himself so favorably of me?" asked the enraptured Villefort.
"I give you his very words; and if the marquis chooses to be candid,
he will confess that they perfectly agree with what his majesty said to
him, when he went six months ago to consult him upon the subject of your
espousing his daughter."
"That is true," answered the marquis.
"How much do I owe this gracious prince! What is there I would not do to
evince my earnest gratitude!"
"That is right," cried the marquise. "I love to see you thus. Now, then,
were a conspirator to fall into your hands, he would be most welcome."
"For my part, dear mother." interposed Renee, "I trust your wishes will
not prosper, and that Providence will only permit petty offenders,
poor debtors, and miserable cheats to fall into M. de Villefort's
hands,—then I shall be contented."
"Just the same as though you prayed that a physician might only be
called upon to prescribe for headaches, measles, and the stings of
wasps, or any other slight affection of the epidermis. If you wish to
see me the king's attorney, you must desire for me some of those violent
and dangerous diseases from the cure of which so much honor redounds to
the physician."
At this moment, and as though the utterance of Villefort's wish had
sufficed to effect its accomplishment, a servant entered the room, and
whispered a few words in his ear. Villefort immediately rose from table
and quitted the room upon the plea of urgent business; he soon, however,
returned, his whole face beaming with delight. Renee regarded him with
fond affection; and certainly his handsome features, lit up as they then
were with more than usual fire and animation, seemed formed to excite
the innocent admiration with which she gazed on her graceful and
intelligent lover.
"You were wishing just now," said Villefort, addressing her, "that
I were a doctor instead of a lawyer. Well, I at least resemble the
disciples of Esculapius in one thing—that of not being able to call a
day my own, not even that of my betrothal."
"And wherefore were you called away just now?" asked Mademoiselle de
Saint-Meran, with an air of deep interest.
"For a very serious matter, which bids fair to make work for the
executioner."
"How dreadful!" exclaimed Renee, turning pale.
"Is it possible?" burst simultaneously from all who were near enough to
the magistrate to hear his words.
"Why, if my information prove correct, a sort of Bonaparte conspiracy
has just been discovered."
"Can I believe my ears?" cried the marquise.
"I will read you the letter containing the accusation, at least," said
Villefort:—
"'The king's attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and the
religions institutions of his country, that one named Edmond Dantes,
mate of the ship Pharaon, this day arrived from Smyrna, after having
touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been the bearer of a letter
from Murat to the usurper, and again taken charge of another letter from
the usurper to the Bonapartist club in Paris. Ample corroboration of
this statement may be obtained by arresting the above-mentioned Edmond
Dantes, who either carries the letter for Paris about with him, or has
it at his father's abode. Should it not be found in the possession
of father or son, then it will assuredly be discovered in the cabin
belonging to the said Dantes on board the Pharaon.'"
"But," said Renee, "this letter, which, after all, is but an anonymous
scrawl, is not even addressed to you, but to the king's attorney."
"True; but that gentleman being absent, his secretary, by his orders,
opened his letters; thinking this one of importance, he sent for me,
but not finding me, took upon himself to give the necessary orders for
arresting the accused party."
"Then the guilty person is absolutely in custody?" said the marquise.
"Nay, dear mother, say the accused person. You know we cannot yet
pronounce him guilty."
"He is in safe custody," answered Villefort; "and rely upon it, if
the letter is found, he will not be likely to be trusted abroad again,
unless he goes forth under the especial protection of the headsman."
"And where is the unfortunate being?" asked Renee.
"He is at my house."
"Come, come, my friend," interrupted the marquise, "do not neglect your
duty to linger with us. You are the king's servant, and must go wherever
that service calls you."
"O Villefort!" cried Renee, clasping her hands, and looking towards
her lover with piteous earnestness, "be merciful on this the day of our
betrothal."
The young man passed round to the side of the table where the fair
pleader sat, and leaning over her chair said tenderly,—
"To give you pleasure, my sweet Renee, I promise to show all the lenity
in my power; but if the charges brought against this Bonapartist hero
prove correct, why, then, you really must give me leave to order his
head to be cut off." Renee shuddered.
"Never mind that foolish girl, Villefort," said the marquise. "She will
soon get over these things." So saying, Madame de Saint-Meran extended
her dry bony hand to Villefort, who, while imprinting a son-in-law's
respectful salute on it, looked at Renee, as much as to say, "I must try
and fancy 'tis your dear hand I kiss, as it should have been."
"These are mournful auspices to accompany a betrothal," sighed poor
Renee.
"Upon my word, child!" exclaimed the angry marquise, "your folly exceeds
all bounds. I should be glad to know what connection there can possibly
be between your sickly sentimentality and the affairs of the state!"
"O mother!" murmured Renee.
"Nay, madame, I pray you pardon this little traitor. I promise you that
to make up for her want of loyalty, I will be most inflexibly severe;"
then casting an expressive glance at his betrothed, which seemed to say,
"Fear not, for your dear sake my justice shall be tempered with mercy,"
and receiving a sweet and approving smile in return, Villefort quitted
the room.
Chapter 7. The Examination.
No sooner had Villefort left the salon, than he assumed the grave air
of a man who holds the balance of life and death in his hands. Now, in
spite of the nobility of his countenance, the command of which, like a
finished actor, he had carefully studied before the glass, it was by
no means easy for him to assume an air of judicial severity. Except the
recollection of the line of politics his father had adopted, and which
might interfere, unless he acted with the greatest prudence, with his
own career, Gerard de Villefort was as happy as a man could be. Already
rich, he held a high official situation, though only twenty-seven.
He was about to marry a young and charming woman, whom he loved, not
passionately, but reasonably, as became a deputy attorney of the
king; and besides her personal attractions, which were very great,
Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran's family possessed considerable political
influence, which they would, of course, exert in his favor. The dowry
of his wife amounted to fifty thousand crowns, and he had, besides,
the prospect of seeing her fortune increased to half a million at her
father's death. These considerations naturally gave Villefort a feeling
of such complete felicity that his mind was fairly dazzled in its
contemplation.
At the door he met the commissary of police, who was waiting for him.
The sight of this officer recalled Villefort from the third heaven to
earth; he composed his face, as we have before described, and said, "I
have read the letter, sir, and you have acted rightly in arresting
this man; now inform me what you have discovered concerning him and the
conspiracy."
"We know nothing as yet of the conspiracy, monsieur; all the papers
found have been sealed up and placed on your desk. The prisoner himself
is named Edmond Dantes, mate on board the three-master the Pharaon,
trading in cotton with Alexandria and Smyrna, and belonging to Morrel &
Son, of Marseilles."
"Before he entered the merchant service, had he ever served in the
marines?"
"Oh, no, monsieur, he is very young."
"How old?"
"Nineteen or twenty at the most."
At this moment, and as Villefort had arrived at the corner of the
Rue des Conseils, a man, who seemed to have been waiting for him,
approached; it was M. Morrel.
"Ah, M. de Villefort," cried he, "I am delighted to see you. Some
of your people have committed the strangest mistake—they have just
arrested Edmond Dantes, mate of my vessel."
"I know it, monsieur," replied Villefort, "and I am now going to examine
him."
"Oh," said Morrel, carried away by his friendship, "you do not know him,
and I do. He is the most estimable, the most trustworthy creature in the
world, and I will venture to say, there is not a better *** in all
the merchant service. Oh, M. de Villefort, I beseech your indulgence for
him."
Villefort, as we have seen, belonged to the aristocratic party at
Marseilles, Morrel to the plebeian; the first was a royalist, the other
suspected of Bonapartism. Villefort looked disdainfully at Morrel, and
replied,—
"You are aware, monsieur, that a man may be estimable and trustworthy in
private life, and the best *** in the merchant service, and yet be,
politically speaking, a great criminal. Is it not true?"
The magistrate laid emphasis on these words, as if he wished to apply
them to the owner himself, while his eyes seemed to plunge into
the heart of one who, interceding for another, had himself need of
indulgence. Morrel reddened, for his own conscience was not quite clear
on politics; besides, what Dantes had told him of his interview with the
grand-marshal, and what the emperor had said to him, embarrassed him. He
replied, however,—
"I entreat you, M. de Villefort, be, as you always are, kind and
equitable, and give him back to us soon." This give us sounded
revolutionary in the deputy's ears.
"Ah, ah," murmured he, "is Dantes then a member of some Carbonari
society, that his protector thus employs the collective form? He was, if
I recollect, arrested in a tavern, in company with a great many others."
Then he added, "Monsieur, you may rest assured I shall perform my duty
impartially, and that if he be innocent you shall not have appealed
to me in vain; should he, however, be guilty, in this present epoch,
impunity would furnish a dangerous example, and I must do my duty."
As he had now arrived at the door of his own house, which adjoined
the Palais de Justice, he entered, after having, coldly saluted the
shipowner, who stood, as if petrified, on the spot where Villefort had
left him. The ante-chamber was full of police agents and gendarmes, in
the midst of whom, carefully watched, but calm and smiling, stood the
prisoner. Villefort traversed the ante-chamber, cast a side glance at
Dantes, and taking a packet which a gendarme offered him, disappeared,
saying, "Bring in the prisoner."
Rapid as had been Villefort's glance, it had served to give him an idea
of the man he was about to interrogate. He had recognized intelligence
in the high forehead, courage in the dark eye and bent brow, and
frankness in the thick lips that showed a set of pearly teeth.
Villefort's first impression was favorable; but he had been so often
warned to mistrust first impulses, that he applied the maxim to the
impression, forgetting the difference between the two words. He stifled,
therefore, the feelings of compassion that were rising, composed his
features, and sat down, grim and sombre, at his desk. An instant after
Dantes entered. He was pale, but calm and collected, and saluting his
judge with easy politeness, looked round for a seat, as if he had been
in M. Morrel's salon. It was then that he encountered for the first
time Villefort's look,—that look peculiar to the magistrate, who, while
seeming to read the thoughts of others, betrays nothing of his own.
"Who and what are you?" demanded Villefort, turning over a pile of
papers, containing information relative to the prisoner, that a police
agent had given to him on his entry, and that, already, in an hour's
time, had swelled to voluminous proportions, thanks to the corrupt
espionage of which "the accused" is always made the victim.
"My name is Edmond Dantes," replied the young man calmly; "I am mate of
the Pharaon, belonging to Messrs. Morrel & Son."
"Your age?" continued Villefort.
"Nineteen," returned Dantes.
"What were you doing at the moment you were arrested?"
"I was at the festival of my marriage, monsieur," said the young man,
his voice slightly tremulous, so great was the contrast between that
happy moment and the painful ceremony he was now undergoing; so great
was the contrast between the sombre aspect of M. de Villefort and the
radiant face of Mercedes.
"You were at the festival of your marriage?" said the deputy, shuddering
in spite of himself.
"Yes, monsieur; I am on the point of marrying a young girl I have been
attached to for three years." Villefort, impassive as he was, was struck
with this coincidence; and the tremulous voice of Dantes, surprised
in the midst of his happiness, struck a sympathetic chord in his own
***—he also was on the point of being married, and he was summoned
from his own happiness to destroy that of another. "This philosophic
reflection," thought he, "will make a great sensation at M. de
Saint-Meran's;" and he arranged mentally, while Dantes awaited further
questions, the antithesis by which orators often create a reputation for
eloquence. When this speech was arranged, Villefort turned to Dantes.
"Go on, sir," said he.
"What would you have me say?"
"Give all the information in your power."
"Tell me on which point you desire information, and I will tell all I
know; only," added he, with a smile, "I warn you I know very little."
"Have you served under the usurper?"
"I was about to be mustered into the Royal Marines when he fell."
"It is reported your political opinions are extreme," said Villefort,
who had never heard anything of the kind, but was not sorry to make this
inquiry, as if it were an accusation.
"My political opinions!" replied Dantes. "Alas, sir, I never had any
opinions. I am hardly nineteen; I know nothing; I have no part to play.
If I obtain the situation I desire, I shall owe it to M. Morrel. Thus
all my opinions—I will not say public, but private—are confined to
these three sentiments,—I love my father, I respect M. Morrel, and
I adore Mercedes. This, sir, is all I can tell you, and you see how
uninteresting it is." As Dantes spoke, Villefort gazed at his ingenuous
and open countenance, and recollected the words of Renee, who, without
knowing who the culprit was, had besought his indulgence for him. With
the deputy's knowledge of crime and criminals, every word the young man
uttered convinced him more and more of his innocence. This lad, for he
was scarcely a man,—simple, natural, eloquent with that eloquence of
the heart never found when sought for; full of affection for everybody,
because he was happy, and because happiness renders even the wicked
good—extended his affection even to his judge, spite of Villefort's
severe look and stern accent. Dantes seemed full of kindness.
"Pardieu," said Villefort, "he is a noble fellow. I hope I shall gain
Renee's favor easily by obeying the first command she ever imposed on
me. I shall have at least a pressure of the hand in public, and a sweet
kiss in private." Full of this idea, Villefort's face became so joyous,
that when he turned to Dantes, the latter, who had watched the change on
his physiognomy, was smiling also.
"Sir," said Villefort, "have you any enemies, at least, that you know."
"I have enemies?" replied Dantes; "my position is not sufficiently
elevated for that. As for my disposition, that is, perhaps, somewhat
too hasty; but I have striven to repress it. I have had ten or twelve
sailors under me, and if you question them, they will tell you that
they love and respect me, not as a father, for I am too young, but as an
elder brother."
"But you may have excited jealousy. You are about to become captain at
nineteen—an elevated post; you are about to marry a pretty girl, who
loves you; and these two pieces of good fortune may have excited the
envy of some one."
"You are right; you know men better than I do, and what you say may
possibly be the case, I confess; but if such persons are among my
acquaintances I prefer not to know it, because then I should be forced
to hate them."
"You are wrong; you should always strive to see clearly around you. You
seem a worthy young man; I will depart from the strict line of my duty
to aid you in discovering the author of this accusation. Here is the
paper; do you know the writing?" As he spoke, Villefort drew the letter
from his pocket, and presented it to Dantes. Dantes read it. A cloud
passed over his brow as he said,—
"No, monsieur, I do not know the writing, and yet it is tolerably plain.
Whoever did it writes well. I am very fortunate," added he, looking
gratefully at Villefort, "to be examined by such a man as you; for this
envious person is a real enemy." And by the rapid glance that the young
man's eyes shot forth, Villefort saw how much energy lay hid beneath
this mildness.
"Now," said the deputy, "answer me frankly, not as a prisoner to a
judge, but as one man to another who takes an interest in him, what
truth is there in the accusation contained in this anonymous letter?"
And Villefort threw disdainfully on his desk the letter Dantes had just
given back to him.
"None at all. I will tell you the real facts. I swear by my honor as a
sailor, by my love for Mercedes, by the life of my father"—
"Speak, monsieur," said Villefort. Then, internally, "If Renee could
see me, I hope she would be satisfied, and would no longer call me a
decapitator."
"Well, when we quitted Naples, Captain Leclere was attacked with a brain
fever. As we had no doctor on board, and he was so anxious to arrive at
Elba, that he would not touch at any other port, his disorder rose to
such a height, that at the end of the third day, feeling he was dying,
he called me to him. 'My dear Dantes,' said he, 'swear to perform what I
am going to tell you, for it is a matter of the deepest importance.'
"'I swear, captain,' replied I.
"'Well, as after my death the command devolves on you as mate,
assume the command, and bear up for the Island of Elba, disembark at
Porto-Ferrajo, ask for the grand-marshal, give him this letter—perhaps
they will give you another letter, and charge you with a commission. You
will accomplish what I was to have done, and derive all the honor and
profit from it.'
"'I will do it, captain; but perhaps I shall not be admitted to the
grand marshal's presence as easily as you expect?'
"'Here is a ring that will obtain audience of him, and remove every
difficulty,' said the captain. At these words he gave me a ring. It was
time—two hours after he was delirious; the next day he died."
"And what did you do then?"
"What I ought to have done, and what every one would have done in my
place. Everywhere the last requests of a dying man are sacred; but with
a sailor the last requests of his superior are commands. I sailed for
the Island of Elba, where I arrived the next day; I ordered everybody
to remain on board, and went on shore alone. As I had expected, I found
some difficulty in obtaining access to the grand-marshal; but I sent the
ring I had received from the captain to him, and was instantly admitted.
He questioned me concerning Captain Leclere's death; and, as the latter
had told me, gave me a letter to carry on to a person in Paris. I
undertook it because it was what my captain had bade me do. I landed
here, regulated the affairs of the vessel, and hastened to visit my
affianced bride, whom I found more lovely than ever. Thanks to M.
Morrel, all the forms were got over; in a word I was, as I told you,
at my marriage-feast; and I should have been married in an hour, and
to-morrow I intended to start for Paris, had I not been arrested on this
charge which you as well as I now see to be unjust."
"Ah," said Villefort, "this seems to me the truth. If you have been
culpable, it was imprudence, and this imprudence was in obedience to the
orders of your captain. Give up this letter you have brought from Elba,
and pass your word you will appear should you be required, and go and
rejoin your friends.
"I am free, then, sir?" cried Dantes joyfully.
"Yes; but first give me this letter."
"You have it already, for it was taken from me with some others which I
see in that packet."
"Stop a moment," said the deputy, as Dantes took his hat and gloves. "To
whom is it addressed?"
"To Monsieur Noirtier, Rue Coq-Heron, Paris." Had a thunderbolt fallen
into the room, Villefort could not have been more stupefied. He sank
into his seat, and hastily turning over the packet, drew forth the fatal
letter, at which he glanced with an expression of terror.
"M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Heron, No. 13," murmured he, growing still paler.
"Yes," said Dantes; "do you know him?"
"No," replied Villefort; "a faithful servant of the king does not know
conspirators."
"It is a conspiracy, then?" asked Dantes, who after believing himself
free, now began to feel a tenfold alarm. "I have, however, already told
you, sir, I was entirely ignorant of the contents of the letter."
"Yes; but you knew the name of the person to whom it was addressed,"
said Villefort.
"I was forced to read the address to know to whom to give it."
"Have you shown this letter to any one?" asked Villefort, becoming still
more pale.
"To no one, on my honor."
"Everybody is ignorant that you are the bearer of a letter from the
Island of Elba, and addressed to M. Noirtier?"
"Everybody, except the person who gave it to me."
"And that was too much, far too much," murmured Villefort. Villefort's
brow darkened more and more, his white lips and clinched teeth filled
Dantes with apprehension. After reading the letter, Villefort covered
his face with his hands.
"Oh," said Dantes timidly, "what is the matter?" Villefort made no
answer, but raised his head at the expiration of a few seconds, and
again perused the letter.
"And you say that you are ignorant of the contents of this letter?"
"I give you my word of honor, sir," said Dantes; "but what is the
matter? You are ill—shall I ring for assistance?—shall I call?"
"No," said Villefort, rising hastily; "stay where you are. It is for me
to give orders here, and not you."
"Monsieur," replied Dantes proudly, "it was only to summon assistance
for you."
"I want none; it was a temporary indisposition. Attend to yourself;
answer me." Dantes waited, expecting a question, but in vain. Villefort
fell back on his chair, passed his hand over his brow, moist with
perspiration, and, for the third time, read the letter.
"Oh, if he knows the contents of this!" murmured he, "and that Noirtier
is the father of Villefort, I am lost!" And he fixed his eyes upon
Edmond as if he would have penetrated his thoughts.
"Oh, it is impossible to doubt it," cried he, suddenly.
"In heaven's name!" cried the unhappy young man, "if you doubt me,
question me; I will answer you." Villefort made a violent effort, and in
a tone he strove to render firm,—
"Sir," said he, "I am no longer able, as I had hoped, to restore you
immediately to liberty; before doing so, I must consult the trial
justice; what my own feeling is you already know."
"Oh, monsieur," cried Dantes, "you have been rather a friend than a
judge."
"Well, I must detain you some time longer, but I will strive to make it
as short as possible. The principal charge against you is this letter,
and you see"—Villefort approached the fire, cast it in, and waited
until it was entirely consumed.
"You see, I destroy it?"
"Oh," exclaimed Dantes, "you are goodness itself."
"Listen," continued Villefort; "you can now have confidence in me after
what I have done."
"Oh, command, and I will obey."
"Listen; this is not a command, but advice I give you."
"Speak, and I will follow your advice."
"I shall detain you until this evening in the Palais de Justice. Should
any one else interrogate you, say to him what you have said to me, but
do not breathe a word of this letter."
"I promise." It was Villefort who seemed to entreat, and the prisoner
who reassured him.
"You see," continued he, glancing toward the grate, where fragments of
burnt paper fluttered in the flames, "the letter is destroyed; you and I
alone know of its existence; should you, therefore, be questioned, deny
all knowledge of it—deny it boldly, and you are saved."
"Be satisfied; I will deny it."
"It was the only letter you had?"
"It was."
"Swear it."
"I swear it."
Villefort rang. A police agent entered. Villefort whispered some words
in his ear, to which the officer replied by a motion of his head.
"Follow him," said Villefort to Dantes. Dantes saluted Villefort
and retired. Hardly had the door closed when Villefort threw himself
half-fainting into a chair.
"Alas, alas," murmured he, "if the procureur himself had been at
Marseilles I should have been ruined. This accursed letter would have
destroyed all my hopes. Oh, my father, must your past career always
interfere with my successes?" Suddenly a light passed over his face,
a smile played round his set mouth, and his haggard eyes were fixed in
thought.
"This will do," said he, "and from this letter, which might have ruined
me, I will make my fortune. Now to the work I have in hand." And after
having assured himself that the prisoner was gone, the deputy procureur
hastened to the house of his betrothed.
Chapter 8. The Chateau D'If.
The commissary of police, as he traversed the ante-chamber, made a sign
to two gendarmes, who placed themselves one on Dantes' right and the
other on his left. A door that communicated with the Palais de Justice
was opened, and they went through a long range of gloomy corridors,
whose appearance might have made even the boldest shudder. The Palais de
Justice communicated with the prison,—a sombre edifice, that from
its grated windows looks on the clock-tower of the Accoules. After
numberless windings, Dantes saw a door with an iron wicket. The
commissary took up an iron mallet and knocked thrice, every blow seeming
to Dantes as if struck on his heart. The door opened, the two gendarmes
gently pushed him forward, and the door closed with a loud sound behind
him. The air he inhaled was no longer pure, but thick and mephitic,—he
was in prison. He was conducted to a tolerably neat chamber, but grated
and barred, and its appearance, therefore, did not greatly alarm him;
besides, the words of Villefort, who seemed to interest himself so
much, resounded still in his ears like a promise of freedom. It was four
o'clock when Dantes was placed in this chamber. It was, as we have said,
the 1st of March, and the prisoner was soon buried in darkness. The
obscurity augmented the acuteness of his hearing; at the slightest sound
he rose and hastened to the door, convinced they were about to liberate
him, but the sound died away, and Dantes sank again into his seat. At
last, about ten o'clock, and just as Dantes began to despair, steps were
heard in the corridor, a key turned in the lock, the bolts creaked,
the massy oaken door flew open, and a flood of light from two torches
pervaded the apartment. By the torchlight Dantes saw the glittering
sabres and carbines of four gendarmes. He had advanced at first, but
stopped at the sight of this display of force.
"Are you come to fetch me?" asked he.
"Yes," replied a gendarme.
"By the orders of the deputy procureur?"
"I believe so." The conviction that they came from M. de Villefort
relieved all Dantes' apprehensions; he advanced calmly, and placed
himself in the centre of the escort. A carriage waited at the door, the
coachman was on the box, and a police officer sat beside him.
"Is this carriage for me?" said Dantes.
"It is for you," replied a gendarme.
Dantes was about to speak; but feeling himself urged forward, and having
neither the power nor the intention to resist, he mounted the steps, and
was in an instant seated inside between two gendarmes; the two others
took their places opposite, and the carriage rolled heavily over the
stones.
The prisoner glanced at the windows—they were grated; he had changed
his prison for another that was conveying him he knew not whither.
Through the grating, however, Dantes saw they were passing through the
Rue Caisserie, and by the Rue Saint-Laurent and the Rue Taramis, to the
port. Soon he saw the lights of La Consigne.
The carriage stopped, the officer descended, approached the guardhouse,
a dozen soldiers came out and formed themselves in order; Dantes saw the
reflection of their muskets by the light of the lamps on the quay.
"Can all this force be summoned on my account?" thought he.
The officer opened the door, which was locked, and, without speaking
a word, answered Dantes' question; for he saw between the ranks of
the soldiers a passage formed from the carriage to the port. The two
gendarmes who were opposite to him descended first, then he was ordered
to alight and the gendarmes on each side of him followed his example.
They advanced towards a boat, which a custom-house officer held by a
chain, near the quay.
The soldiers looked at Dantes with an air of stupid curiosity. In an
instant he was placed in the stern-sheets of the boat, between the
gendarmes, while the officer stationed himself at the bow; a shove sent
the boat adrift, and four sturdy oarsmen impelled it rapidly towards the
Pilon. At a shout from the boat, the chain that closes the mouth of
the port was lowered and in a second they were, as Dantes knew, in the
Frioul and outside the inner harbor.
The prisoner's first feeling was of joy at again breathing the pure
air—for air is freedom; but he soon sighed, for he passed before La
Reserve, where he had that morning been so happy, and now through the
open windows came the laughter and revelry of a ball. Dantes folded his
hands, raised his eyes to heaven, and prayed fervently.
The boat continued her voyage. They had passed the Tete de Morte,
were now off the Anse du Pharo, and about to double the battery. This
manoeuvre was incomprehensible to Dantes.
"Whither are you taking me?" asked he.
"You will soon know."
"But still"—
"We are forbidden to give you any explanation." Dantes, trained in
discipline, knew that nothing would be more absurd than to question
subordinates, who were forbidden to reply; and so he remained silent.
The most vague and wild thoughts passed through his mind. The boat they
were in could not make a long voyage; there was no vessel at anchor
outside the harbor; he thought, perhaps, they were going to leave him on
some distant point. He was not bound, nor had they made any attempt to
handcuff him; this seemed a good augury. Besides, had not the deputy,
who had been so kind to him, told him that provided he did not pronounce
the dreaded name of Noirtier, he had nothing to apprehend? Had not
Villefort in his presence destroyed the fatal letter, the only proof
against him?
He waited silently, striving to pierce through the darkness.
They had left the Ile Ratonneau, where the lighthouse stood, on the
right, and were now opposite the Point des Catalans. It seemed to the
prisoner that he could distinguish a feminine form on the beach, for it
was there Mercedes dwelt. How was it that a presentiment did not warn
Mercedes that her lover was within three hundred yards of her?
One light alone was visible; and Dantes saw that it came from Mercedes'
chamber. Mercedes was the only one awake in the whole settlement. A loud
cry could be heard by her. But pride restrained him and he did not utter
it. What would his guards think if they heard him shout like a madman?
He remained silent, his eyes fixed upon the light; the boat went on, but
the prisoner thought only of Mercedes. An intervening elevation of land
hid the light. Dantes turned and perceived that they had got out to sea.
While he had been absorbed in thought, they had shipped their oars and
hoisted sail; the boat was now moving with the wind.
In spite of his repugnance to address the guards, Dantes turned to the
nearest gendarme, and taking his hand,—
"Comrade," said he, "I adjure you, as a Christian and a soldier, to tell
me where we are going. I am Captain Dantes, a loyal Frenchman, thought
accused of treason; tell me where you are conducting me, and I promise
you on my honor I will submit to my fate."
The gendarme looked irresolutely at his companion, who returned for
answer a sign that said, "I see no great harm in telling him now," and
the gendarme replied,—
"You are a native of Marseilles, and a sailor, and yet you do not know
where you are going?"
"On my honor, I have no idea."
"Have you no idea whatever?"
"None at all."
"That is impossible."
"I swear to you it is true. Tell me, I entreat."
"But my orders."
"Your orders do not forbid your telling me what I must know in ten
minutes, in half an hour, or an hour. You see I cannot escape, even if I
intended."
"Unless you are blind, or have never been outside the harbor, you must
know."
"I do not."
"Look round you then." Dantes rose and looked forward, when he saw
rise within a hundred yards of him the black and frowning rock on which
stands the Chateau d'If. This gloomy fortress, which has for more than
three hundred years furnished food for so many wild legends, seemed to
Dantes like a scaffold to a malefactor.
"The Chateau d'If?" cried he, "what are we going there for?" The
gendarme smiled.
"I am not going there to be imprisoned," said Dantes; "it is only
used for political prisoners. I have committed no crime. Are there any
magistrates or judges at the Chateau d'If?"
"There are only," said the gendarme, "a governor, a garrison, turnkeys,
and good thick walls. Come, come, do not look so astonished, or you
will make me think you are laughing at me in return for my good nature."
Dantes pressed the gendarme's hand as though he would crush it.
"You think, then," said he, "that I am taken to the Chateau d'If to be
imprisoned there?"
"It is probable; but there is no occasion to squeeze so hard."
"Without any inquiry, without any formality?"
"All the formalities have been gone through; the inquiry is already
made."
"And so, in spite of M. de Villefort's promises?"
"I do not know what M. de Villefort promised you," said the gendarme,
"but I know we are taking you to the Chateau d'If. But what are you
doing? Help, comrades, help!"
By a rapid movement, which the gendarme's practiced eye had perceived,
Dantes sprang forward to precipitate himself into the sea; but four
vigorous arms seized him as his feet quitted the bottom of the boat. He
fell back cursing with rage.
"Good!" said the gendarme, placing his knee on his chest; "believe
soft-spoken gentlemen again! Harkye, my friend, I have disobeyed my
first order, but I will not disobey the second; and if you move, I will
blow your brains out." And he levelled his carbine at Dantes, who felt
the muzzle against his temple.
For a moment the idea of struggling crossed his mind, and of so ending
the unexpected evil that had overtaken him. But he bethought him of M.
de Villefort's promise; and, besides, death in a boat from the hand of
a gendarme seemed too terrible. He remained motionless, but gnashing his
teeth and wringing his hands with fury.
At this moment the boat came to a landing with a violent shock. One of
the sailors leaped on shore, a cord creaked as it ran through a pulley,
and Dantes guessed they were at the end of the voyage, and that they
were mooring the boat.
His guards, taking him by the arms and coat-collar, forced him to rise,
and dragged him towards the steps that lead to the gate of the fortress,
while the police officer carrying a musket with fixed bayonet followed
behind.
Dantes made no resistance; he was like a man in a dream: he saw soldiers
drawn up on the embankment; he knew vaguely that he was ascending a
flight of steps; he was conscious that he passed through a door, and
that the door closed behind him; but all this indistinctly as through
a mist. He did not even see the ocean, that terrible barrier against
freedom, which the prisoners look upon with utter despair.
They halted for a minute, during which he strove to collect his
thoughts. He looked around; he was in a court surrounded by high walls;
he heard the measured tread of sentinels, and as they passed before the
light he saw the barrels of their muskets shine.
They waited upwards of ten minutes. Certain Dantes could not escape, the
gendarmes released him. They seemed awaiting orders. The orders came.
"Where is the prisoner?" said a voice.
"Here," replied the gendarmes.
"Let him follow me; I will take him to his cell."
"Go!" said the gendarmes, thrusting Dantes forward.
The prisoner followed his guide, who led him into a room almost under
ground, whose bare and reeking walls seemed as though impregnated with
tears; a lamp placed on a stool illumined the apartment faintly,
and showed Dantes the features of his conductor, an under-jailer,
ill-clothed, and of sullen appearance.
"Here is your chamber for to-night," said he. "It is late, and the
governor is asleep. To-morrow, perhaps, he may change you. In the
meantime there is bread, water, and fresh straw; and that is all a
prisoner can wish for. Goodnight." And before Dantes could open his
mouth—before he had noticed where the jailer placed his bread or the
water—before he had glanced towards the corner where the straw was,
the jailer disappeared, taking with him the lamp and closing the door,
leaving stamped upon the prisoner's mind the dim reflection of the
dripping walls of his dungeon.
Dantes was alone in darkness and in silence—cold as the shadows that
he felt breathe on his burning forehead. With the first dawn of day the
jailer returned, with orders to leave Dantes where he was. He found the
prisoner in the same position, as if fixed there, his eyes swollen with
weeping. He had passed the night standing, and without sleep. The jailer
advanced; Dantes appeared not to perceive him. He touched him on the
shoulder. Edmond started.
"Have you not slept?" said the jailer.
"I do not know," replied Dantes. The jailer stared.
"Are you hungry?" continued he.
"I do not know."
"Do you wish for anything?"
"I wish to see the governor." The jailer shrugged his shoulders and left
the chamber.
Dantes followed him with his eyes, and stretched forth his hands towards
the open door; but the door closed. All his emotion then burst forth;
he cast himself on the ground, weeping bitterly, and asking himself what
crime he had committed that he was thus punished.
The day passed thus; he scarcely tasted food, but walked round and
round the cell like a wild beast in its cage. One thought in particular
tormented him: namely, that during his journey hither he had sat so
still, whereas he might, a dozen times, have plunged into the sea, and,
thanks to his powers of swimming, for which he was famous, have gained
the shore, concealed himself until the arrival of a Genoese or Spanish
vessel, escaped to Spain or Italy, where Mercedes and his father could
have joined him. He had no fears as to how he should live—good ***
are welcome everywhere. He spoke Italian like a Tuscan, and Spanish like
a Castilian; he would have been free, and happy with Mercedes and
his father, whereas he was now confined in the Chateau d'If, that
impregnable fortress, ignorant of the future destiny of his father and
Mercedes; and all this because he had trusted to Villefort's promise.
The thought was maddening, and Dantes threw himself furiously down on
his straw. The next morning at the same hour, the jailer came again.
"Well," said the jailer, "are you more reasonable to-day?" Dantes made
no reply.
"Come, cheer up; is there anything that I can do for you?"
"I wish to see the governor."
"I have already told you it was impossible."
"Why so?"
"Because it is against prison rules, and prisoners must not even ask for
it."
"What is allowed, then?"
"Better fare, if you pay for it, books, and leave to walk about."
"I do not want books, I am satisfied with my food, and do not care to
walk about; but I wish to see the governor."
"If you worry me by repeating the same thing, I will not bring you any
more to eat."
"Well, then," said Edmond, "if you do not, I shall die of hunger—that
is all."
The jailer saw by his tone he would be happy to die; and as every
prisoner is worth ten sous a day to his jailer, he replied in a more
subdued tone.
"What you ask is impossible; but if you are very well behaved you will
be allowed to walk about, and some day you will meet the governor, and
if he chooses to reply, that is his affair."
"But," asked Dantes, "how long shall I have to wait?"
"Ah, a month—six months—a year."
"It is too long a time. I wish to see him at once."
"Ah," said the jailer, "do not always brood over what is impossible, or
you will be mad in a fortnight."
"You think so?"
"Yes; we have an instance here; it was by always offering a million of
francs to the governor for his liberty that an abbe became mad, who was
in this chamber before you."
"How long has he left it?"
"Two years."
"Was he liberated, then?"
"No; he was put in a dungeon."
"Listen!" said Dantes. "I am not an abbe, I am not mad; perhaps I shall
be, but at present, unfortunately, I am not. I will make you another
offer."
"What is that?"
"I do not offer you a million, because I have it not; but I will give
you a hundred crowns if, the first time you go to Marseilles, you will
seek out a young girl named Mercedes, at the Catalans, and give her two
lines from me."
"If I took them, and were detected, I should lose my place, which is
worth two thousand francs a year; so that I should be a great fool to
run such a risk for three hundred."
"Well," said Dantes, "mark this; if you refuse at least to tell Mercedes
I am here, I will some day hide myself behind the door, and when you
enter I will dash out your brains with this stool."
"Threats!" cried the jailer, retreating and putting himself on the
defensive; "you are certainly going mad. The abbe began like you, and in
three days you will be like him, mad enough to tie up; but, fortunately,
there are dungeons here." Dantes whirled the stool round his head.
"All right, all right," said the jailer; "all right, since you will have
it so. I will send word to the governor."
"Very well," returned Dantes, dropping the stool and sitting on it as if
he were in reality mad. The jailer went out, and returned in an instant
with a corporal and four soldiers.
"By the governor's orders," said he, "conduct the prisoner to the tier
beneath."
"To the dungeon, then," said the corporal.
"Yes; we must put the madman with the madmen." The soldiers seized
Dantes, who followed passively.
He descended fifteen steps, and the door of a dungeon was opened, and
he was thrust in. The door closed, and Dantes advanced with outstretched
hands until he touched the wall; he then sat down in the corner until
his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. The jailer was right; Dantes
wanted but little of being utterly mad.
Chapter 9. The Evening of the Betrothal.
Villefort had, as we have said, hastened back to Madame de Saint-Meran's
in the Place du Grand Cours, and on entering the house found that the
guests whom he had left at table were taking coffee in the salon. Renee
was, with all the rest of the company, anxiously awaiting him, and his
entrance was followed by a general exclamation.
"Well, Decapitator, Guardian of the State, Royalist, Brutus, what is the
matter?" said one. "Speak out."
"Are we threatened with a fresh Reign of Terror?" asked another.
"Has the Corsican ogre broken loose?" cried a third.
"Marquise," said Villefort, approaching his future mother-in-law, "I
request your pardon for thus leaving you. Will the marquis honor me by a
few moments' private conversation?"
"Ah, it is really a serious matter, then?" asked the marquis, remarking
the cloud on Villefort's brow.
"So serious that I must take leave of you for a few days; so," added he,
turning to Renee, "judge for yourself if it be not important."
"You are going to leave us?" cried Renee, unable to hide her emotion at
this unexpected announcement.
"Alas," returned Villefort, "I must!"
"Where, then, are you going?" asked the marquise.
"That, madame, is an official secret; but if you have any commissions
for Paris, a friend of mine is going there to-night, and will with
pleasure undertake them." The guests looked at each other.
"You wish to speak to me alone?" said the marquis.
"Yes, let us go to the library, please." The marquis took his arm, and
they left the salon.
"Well," asked he, as soon as they were by themselves, "tell me what it
is?"
"An affair of the greatest importance, that demands my immediate
presence in Paris. Now, excuse the indiscretion, marquis, but have you
any landed property?"
"All my fortune is in the funds; seven or eight hundred thousand
francs."
"Then sell out—sell out, marquis, or you will lose it all."
"But how can I sell out here?"
"You have a broker, have you not?"
"Yes."
"Then give me a letter to him, and tell him to sell out without an
instant's delay, perhaps even now I shall arrive too late."
"The deuce you say!" replied the marquis, "let us lose no time, then!"
And, sitting down, he wrote a letter to his broker, ordering him to sell
out at the market price.
"Now, then," said Villefort, placing the letter in his pocketbook, "I
must have another!"
"To whom?"
"To the king."
"To the king?"
"Yes."
"I dare not write to his majesty."
"I do not ask you to write to his majesty, but ask M. de Salvieux to
do so. I want a letter that will enable me to reach the king's presence
without all the formalities of demanding an audience; that would
occasion a loss of precious time."
"But address yourself to the keeper of the seals; he has the right of
entry at the Tuileries, and can procure you audience at any hour of the
day or night."
"Doubtless; but there is no occasion to divide the honors of my
discovery with him. The keeper would leave me in the background, and
take all the glory to himself. I tell you, marquis, my fortune is made
if I only reach the Tuileries the first, for the king will not forget
the service I do him."
"In that case go and get ready. I will call Salvieux and make him write
the letter."
"Be as quick as possible, I must be on the road in a quarter of an
hour."
"Tell your coachman to stop at the door."
"You will present my excuses to the marquise and Mademoiselle Renee,
whom I leave on such a day with great regret."
"You will find them both here, and can make your farewells in person."
"A thousand thanks—and now for the letter."
The marquis rang, a servant entered.
"Say to the Comte de Salvieux that I would like to see him."
"Now, then, go," said the marquis.
"I shall be gone only a few moments."
Villefort hastily quitted the apartment, but reflecting that the sight
of the deputy procureur running through the streets would be enough to
throw the whole city into confusion, he resumed his ordinary pace. At
his door he perceived a figure in the shadow that seemed to wait for
him. It was Mercedes, who, hearing no news of her lover, had come
unobserved to inquire after him.
As Villefort drew near, she advanced and stood before him. Dantes had
spoken of Mercedes, and Villefort instantly recognized her. Her beauty
and high bearing surprised him, and when she inquired what had become of
her lover, it seemed to him that she was the judge, and he the accused.
"The young man you speak of," said Villefort abruptly, "is a great
criminal, and I can do nothing for him, mademoiselle." Mercedes burst
into tears, and, as Villefort strove to pass her, again addressed him.
"But, at least, tell me where he is, that I may know whether he is alive
or dead," said she.
"I do not know; he is no longer in my hands," replied Villefort.
And desirous of putting an end to the interview, he pushed by her, and
closed the door, as if to exclude the pain he felt. But remorse is not
thus banished; like Virgil's wounded hero, he carried the arrow in his
wound, and, arrived at the salon, Villefort uttered a sigh that was
almost a sob, and sank into a chair.
Then the first pangs of an unending torture seized upon his heart. The
man he sacrificed to his ambition, that innocent victim immolated on
the altar of his father's faults, appeared to him pale and threatening,
leading his affianced bride by the hand, and bringing with him remorse,
not such as the ancients figured, furious and terrible, but that slow
and consuming agony whose pangs are intensified from hour to hour up
to the very moment of death. Then he had a moment's hesitation. He had
frequently called for capital punishment on criminals, and owing to his
irresistible eloquence they had been condemned, and yet the slightest
shadow of remorse had never clouded Villefort's brow, because they were
guilty; at least, he believed so; but here was an innocent man whose
happiness he had destroyed: in this case he was not the judge, but the
executioner.
As he thus reflected, he felt the sensation we have described, and which
had hitherto been unknown to him, arise in his ***, and fill him
with vague apprehensions. It is thus that a wounded man trembles
instinctively at the approach of the finger to his wound until it be
healed, but Villefort's was one of those that never close, or if they
do, only close to reopen more agonizing than ever. If at this moment the
sweet voice of Renee had sounded in his ears pleading for mercy, or the
fair Mercedes had entered and said, "In the name of God, I conjure you
to restore me my affianced husband," his cold and trembling hands
would have signed his release; but no voice broke the stillness of the
chamber, and the door was opened only by Villefort's valet, who came to
tell him that the travelling carriage was in readiness.
Villefort rose, or rather sprang, from his chair, hastily opened one
of the drawers of his desk, emptied all the gold it contained into
his pocket, stood motionless an instant, his hand pressed to his head,
muttered a few inarticulate sounds, and then, perceiving that his
servant had placed his cloak on his shoulders, he sprang into the
carriage, ordering the postilions to drive to M. de Saint-Meran's. The
hapless Dantes was doomed.
As the marquis had promised, Villefort found the marquise and Renee
in waiting. He started when he saw Renee, for he fancied she was again
about to plead for Dantes. Alas, her emotions were wholly personal: she
was thinking only of Villefort's departure.
She loved Villefort, and he left her at the moment he was about to
become her husband. Villefort knew not when he should return, and Renee,
far from pleading for Dantes, hated the man whose crime separated her
from her lover.
Meanwhile what of Mercedes? She had met Fernand at the corner of the Rue
de la Loge; she had returned to the Catalans, and had despairingly cast
herself on her couch. Fernand, kneeling by her side, took her hand, and
covered it with kisses that Mercedes did not even feel. She passed the
night thus. The lamp went out for want of oil, but she paid no heed to
the darkness, and dawn came, but she knew not that it was day. Grief had
made her blind to all but one object—that was Edmond.
"Ah, you are there," said she, at length, turning towards Fernand.
"I have not quitted you since yesterday," returned Fernand sorrowfully.
M. Morrel had not readily given up the fight. He had learned that Dantes
had been taken to prison, and he had gone to all his friends, and
the influential persons of the city; but the report was already in
circulation that Dantes was arrested as a Bonapartist agent; and as the
most sanguine looked upon any attempt of Napoleon to remount the throne
as impossible, he met with nothing but refusal, and had returned home
in despair, declaring that the matter was serious and that nothing more
could be done.
Caderousse was equally restless and uneasy, but instead of seeking, like
M. Morrel, to aid Dantes, he had shut himself up with two bottles of
black currant brandy, in the hope of drowning reflection. But he did not
succeed, and became too intoxicated to fetch any more drink, and yet not
so intoxicated as to forget what had happened. With his elbows on the
table he sat between the two empty bottles, while spectres danced in the
light of the unsnuffed candle—spectres such as Hoffmann strews over his
punch-drenched pages, like black, fantastic dust.
Danglars alone was content and joyous—he had got rid of an enemy and
made his own situation on the Pharaon secure. Danglars was one of those
men born with a pen behind the ear, and an inkstand in place of a heart.
Everything with him was multiplication or subtraction. The life of a man
was to him of far less value than a numeral, especially when, by taking
it away, he could increase the sum total of his own desires. He went to
bed at his usual hour, and slept in peace.
Villefort, after having received M. de Salvieux' letter, embraced Renee,
kissed the marquise's hand, and shaken that of the marquis, started for
Paris along the Aix road.
Old Dantes was dying with anxiety to know what had become of Edmond. But
we know very well what had become of Edmond.
End of Chapter 9 �