“Alas! if I am to believe what they tell me, I have to deal with a grave charge which may very well lead to the scaffold.”
“How dreadful!” cried Renée, turning pale.
“It appears that a little Bonapartist plot has been discovered,” Villefort continued. “Here is the letter of denunciation,” and he read as follows:
“The Procureur du Roi is hereby informed by a friend to the throne and to religion that a certain Edmond Dantès, mate on the Pharaon, which arrived this morning from Smyrna after having touched at Naples and Porto Ferrajo, has been entrusted by Muratn with a letter for the usurper, and by the usurper with a letter for the Bonapartist party in Paris. Corroboration of this crime can be found on arresting him, for the said letter will be found either on him, or at his father’s house, or in his cabin on board the Pharaon.”
“But,” Renée said, “this letter is addressed to the Procureur du Roio and not to you, and is, moreover, anonymous.”
“You are right, but the Procureur du Roi is absent, so the letter has been handed to his secretary, who has been instructed to open all correspondence. On opening this one, he sent for me and, not finding me, gave orders for the man’s arrest.”
“Then the culprit is already arrested?” the Marquise said.
“You mean the accused person,” Renée made answer. Then, turning to Villefort, “Where is the unfortunate man?”
“He is at my house.”
“Then away, my dear boy,” said the Marquis, “do not neglect your duty in order to stay with us. Go where the King’s service calls you.”
Chapter VI
THE EXAMINATION
Villefort had no sooner left the room than he discarded his jaunty manner and assumed the grave air of a man called upon to decide upon the life of his fellow-man. In reality, however, apart from the line of politics which his father had adopted, and which might influence his future if he did not separate himself altogether from him, Gérard de Villefort was at this moment as happy as it is given to any man to be. Already rich, and, although only twenty-seven years of age, occupying a high position on the bench, he was about to marry a young and beautiful girl, whom he loved, not passionately, it is true, but with calculation as befits a future Procureur du Roi; for in addition to her beauty, which was remarkable, Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran, his betrothed, belonged to one of the most influential families of the period, and furthermore had a dowry of fifty thousand crowns, besides the prospect of inheriting another half-million.
At the door he met the commissary of police, who was waiting for him. The sight of this man brought him from his seventh heaven down to earth; he composed his face and, advancing toward the officer, said: “Here I am, monsieur. I have read the letter. You were quite right in arresting this man. Now give me all the information you have discovered about him and the conspiracy.”
“As yet we know nothing about the conspiracy, monsieur; all the papers found on the man have been sealed and placed on your desk. You have seen by the letter denouncing him that the prisoner is a certain Edmond Dantès, first mate of the three-master Pharaon, trading in cotton with Alexandria and Smyrna, and belonging to Morrel and Son of Marseilles.”
“Did he serve in the navy before he joined the mercantile marine?”
“Oh, no, monsieur, he is too young. He is only nineteen or twenty at the most.”
At this moment, just as Villefort had arrived at the corner of the Rue des Conseils, a man, who seemed to be waiting for him, approached. It was M. Morrel.
“Ah, Monsieur de Villefort,” he cried, “I am very fortunate in meeting you. A most extraordinary and unaccountable mistake has been made: the mate of my ship, a certain Edmond Dantès, has just been arrested.”
“I know,” Villefort made answer, “and I am on my way to examine him.”
“Oh, monsieur!” M. Morrel continued, carried away by his friendship for the young man, “you do not know the accused, but I do. He is the gentlest and most trustworthy man imaginable, and I don’t hesitate to say he is the best seaman in the whole mercantile service. Oh, Monsieur de Villefort, with all my heart I commend him to your kindly consideration.”
“You may rest assured, monsieur, that you will not have appealed to me in vain if the prisoner is innocent, but if, on the contrary, he is guilty—we live in a difficult age, monsieur, when it would be a fatal thing to be lenient—in that case I shall be compelled to do my duty.”
As he had just arrived at his own house beside the law courts, he entered with a lordly air, after having saluted with icy politeness the unhappy shipowner who stood petrified on the spot where Villefort had left him.
The antechamber was full of gendarmes and policemen, and in their midst stood the prisoner, carefully guarded.
Villefort crossed the room, threw a glance at Dantès, and, after taking a packet of papers from one of the gendarmes, disappeared. His first impression of the young man was favourable, but he had been warned so often against trusting first impulses that he applied the maxim to the term impression, forgetting the difference between the two words. He therefore stifled the feelings of pity that were uppermost in his heart, assumed the expression which he reserved for important occasions, and sat down at his desk with a frown on his brow.
“Bring in the prisoner.”
An instant later Dantès was before him. Saluting his judge with an easy politeness, he looked round for a seat as if he were in M. Morrel’s drawing-room.
“Who are you, and what is your name?” asked Villefort, as he fingered the papers which he received from the police officer on his entry.
“My name is Edmond Dantès,” replied the young man calmly. “I am mate of the Pharaon owned by Messrs Morrel and Son.”
“Your age?” continued Villefort.
“Nineteen.”
“What were you doing when you were arrested?”
“I was at my betrothal breakfast, monsieur,” the young man said, and his voice trembled slightly as he thought of the contrast between those happy moments and the painful ordeal he was now undergoing.
“You were at your betrothal feast?” the Deputy said, shuddering in spite of himself.
“Yes, monsieur, I am about to marry a woman I have loved for three years.”
Villefort, impassive though he usually was, was struck with this coincidence; and the passionate voice of Dantès, who had been seized in the midst of his happiness, touched a sympathetic chord in his own heart. He also was about to be married, he also was happy, and his happiness had been interrupted in order that he might kill the happiness of another.
“Now I want all the information in your possession,” he said. “Have you served under the usurper?”
“I was about to be drafted into the marines when he fell.”
“I have been told you have extreme political views,” said Villefort, who had never been told anything of the kind but was not sorry to put forward the statement in the form of an accusation.
“Extreme political views, monsieur? Alas! I am almost ashamed to say it, but I have never had what one calls a view; I am barely nineteen years of age, as I have already had the honour to tell you. I know nothing, for I am not destined to play any great rôle in life. The little I am and ever shall be, if I am given the position I desire, I owe to Monsieur Morrel. My opinions, I do not say political, but private, are limited to these three sentiments: I love my father, I respect Monsieur Morrel, and I adore Mercédès. That, monsieur, is all I have to tell you. You see for yourself that it is not very interesting.”
As Dantès spoke, Villefort looked at his genial and frank countenance, and, with his experience of crime and criminals, he recognized that every word Dantès spoke convinced him of his innocence. In spite of Villefort’s severity, Edmond had not once expressed in his looks, his words, or his gestures anything but kindness and respect for his interrogator.
“This is indeed a charming young man,” Villefort said to himself, but aloud he said: “Have you any enemies?”
&
nbsp; “Enemies, monsieur? My position is happily not important enough to make me any enemies. As regards my character, I am perhaps too hasty, but I always try to curb my temper in my dealings with my subordinates. I have ten or twelve sailors under me: if you ask them, monsieur, you will find that they love and respect me, not as a father, for I am too young, but as an elder brother.”
“Perhaps you have no enemies, but you may have aroused feelings of jealousy. At the early age of nineteen you are about to receive a captaincy, you are going to marry a beautiful girl who loves you; these two pieces of good fortune may have been the cause of envy.”
“You are right. No doubt you understand men better than I do, and possibly it is so, but if any of my friends cherish any such envious feelings towards me, I would rather not know lest my friendship should turn into hatred.”
“You are wrong, you should always strive to see clearly around you, and indeed, you seem such a worthy young man that I am going to depart from the ordinary rule by showing you the denunciation which has brought you before me. Here is the paper. Do you recognize the writing?”
So saying, Villefort took the letter from his pocket and handed it to Dantès. Dantès looked at it and read it. His brow darkened as he said:
“No, monsieur, I do not know this writing. It is disguised and yet it is very plainly written. At any rate it is a clever hand that wrote it. I am very lucky,” he continued, looking at Villefort with an expression of gratitude, “in having you to examine me, for there can be no doubt that this envious person is indeed my enemy.”
And the light that shone in the young man’s eyes as he said this revealed to Villefort how much energy and deep feeling lay concealed beneath his apparent gentleness.
“Very well, then,” said the Deputy, “answer me quite frankly, not as a prisoner before his judge, but as a man in a false position to another man who has his interest at heart. What truth is there in this anonymous accusation?”
“It is partly true and partly false, monsieur. Here is the plain truth. I swear it by my honour as a sailor, by my love for Mercédès, and by my father’s life! When we left Naples, Captain Leclère fell ill of brain-fever; as we had no doctor on board and as he would not put in at any port, since he was very anxious to reach Elba, he became so very ill that towards the end of the third day, feeling that he was dying, he called me to him. ‘My dear Dantès,’ he said, ‘swear to me on your honour that you will do what I bid you, for it is a matter of the utmost importance.’
“‘I swear it, captain,’ I said.
“‘After my death the command of the ship devolves upon you as mate; take command, head for the Isle of Elba, go ashore at Porto Ferrajo, ask for the Maréchal and give him this letter. You may be given another letter and be entrusted with a mission. That mission was to have been mine, Dantès, but you will carry it out in my stead and get all the glory of it.’
“‘I shall carry out your instructions, captain, but perhaps I shall not be admitted into the Maréchal’s presence as easily as you think.’
“‘Here is a ring which will give you admittance and remove all difficulties.’
“He then gave me a ring. It was only just in time. Two hours later he was delirious and the next day he died.”
“What did you do then?”
“What I was bound to do, and what everyone would have done in my place. In any circumstances the requests of a dying man are sacred, but with a sailor a superior’s request is an order that has to be carried out. So I headed for Elba, where I arrived the next day. I gave orders for everybody to remain on board while I went ashore alone. The ring gained admittance for me to the Maréchal’s presence. He asked me about poor Captain Leclère’s death and gave me a letter which he charged me to deliver in person at an address in Paris. I gave him my promise in accordance with the last request of my captain. I landed here, rapidly settled all the ship’s business, and hastened to my betrothed, whom I found more beautiful and loving than ever. Finally, monsieur, I was partaking of my betrothal breakfast, was to have been married in an hour, and was counting on going to Paris to-morrow, when, owing to this denunciation, which you seem to treat as lightly as I do, I was arrested.”
“I believe you have told me the truth,” was Villefort’s answer, “and if you have been guilty it is through imprudence, an imprudence justified by your captain’s orders. Hand me the letter that was given you at Elba, give me your word of honour that you will appear directly you are summoned to do so, and you may rejoin your friends.”
“I am free, monsieur!” Dantès cried out, overcome with joy.
“Certainly, but first give me the letter.”
“It must be in front of you, monsieur. It was taken along with my other papers, and I recognize some of them in that bundle.”
“Wait a moment,” the Deputy said as Dantès was taking his hat and gloves. “To whom was it addressed?”
“To Monsieur Noirtier, Rue Coq Héron, Paris.”
These words fell on Villefort’s ears with the rapidity and unexpectedness of a thunderbolt. He sank into his chair from which he had risen to reach the packet of letters, drew the fatal letter from the bundle and glanced over it with a look of inexpressible terror.
“Monsieur Noirtier, Rue Coq Héron, number thirteen,” he murmured, growing paler and paler. “Have you shown this letter to anyone?”
“To no one, monsieur, on my honour!”
Villefort’s brow darkened more and more. When he had finished reading the letter his head fell into his hands, and he remained thus for a moment quite overcome. After a while he composed himself and said:
“You say you do not know the contents of this letter?”
“On my honour, monsieur, I am in complete ignorance of its contents.”
Dantès waited for the next question, but no question came. Villefort again sank into his chair, passed his hand over his brow dripping with perspiration, and read the letter for the third time.
“Oh! if he should know the contents of this letter!” he murmured, “and if he ever gets to know that Noirtier is the father of Villefort I am lost, lost for ever!”
Villefort made a violent effort to pull himself together, and said in as steady a voice as possible:
“I cannot set you at liberty at once as I had hoped. I must first consult the Juge d’Instruction.p You see how I have tried to help you, but I must detain you a prisoner for some time longer. I will make that time as short as possible. The principal charge against you has to do with this letter, and you see—” Villefort went to the fire, threw the letter into the flames, and remained watching it until it was reduced to ashes.
“You see,” he continued, “I have destroyed it.”
“Oh, monsieur,” Dantès exclaimed, “you are more than just, you are kindness itself!”
“But listen,” Villefort went on, “after what I have done you feel you can have confidence in me, don’t you? I only wish to advise you. I shall keep you here until this evening. Possibly someone else will come to examine you: in that event, repeat all that you have told me, but say not a word about this letter.”
“I promise, monsieur.”
“You understand,” he continued, “the letter is destroyed, and you and I alone know of its existence; should you be questioned about it, firmly deny all knowledge of it, and you are saved.”
Villefort rang and the commissary entered. The Deputy whispered a few words into his ear, and the officer nodded in answer.
“Follow the commissary!” Villefort said to Dantès.
Dantès bowed, cast a look of gratitude at Villefort, and did as he was bid.
The door was hardly closed when Villefort’s strength failed him, and he sank half fainting into his chair.
After a few moments he muttered to himself: “Alas! alas! if the Procureur du Roi had been here, if the Juge d’Instruction had been called instead of me, I should have been lost! This little bit of paper would have spelt my ruin. Oh! Father, Father, will you always stand in the way of
my happiness in this world, and must I eternally fight against your past!”
Suddenly an unexpected light appeared to flash across his mind, illuminating his whole face; a smile played around his drawn mouth, and his haggard eyes became fixed as though arrested by a thought.
“The very thing!” he said. “Yes, this letter which was to have spelt my ruin will probably make my fortune. Quick to work, Villefort!”
And after having assured himself that the prisoner had left the antechamber, the Deputy hastened to the house of his betrothed.
Chapter VII
THE CHTEAU D’IF
As he passed through the antechamber, the commissary of police made a sign to two gendarmes, who instantly placed themselves on either side of Dantès; a door communicating with the law courts was opened; they passed down one of those long, dark passages which make all those who enter them give an involuntary shudder.
In the same way as Villefort’s chambers communicated with the law courts, the law courts communicated with the prison, that sombre edifice overlooking the clock-tower of the Accoules. They wound their way along the passage and at last they came to a door; the commissary knocked on it thrice with an iron knocker, and it seemed to Dantès as if each blow had been aimed at his heart. The door was opened, the gendarmes gave their hesitating prisoner a push forward, Dantès crossed the formidable threshold, and the door closed behind him with a loud bang. He now breathed a different air, a thick and mephitic air. He was in a prison.
His cell was clean enough, though it was barred and bolted, and its appearance did not fill him with any dread. Why should it? The words of the Deputy, who seemed to show so much interest in him, rang in his ears like a sweet promise of hope.
It was four o’clock when Dantès was taken to his cell, and, as it was the first of March, the prisoner soon found himself in utter darkness. With loss of sight, his hearing became more acute: at the least sound he rose quickly and advanced toward the door in the firm conviction that they had come to set him free; but the noise died away in another direction and Dantès sank back on to his stool.
Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 7