“Yes, yes!” Villefort replied from below. “Have patience for one day more; what I have said shall be done!”
These words seemed to calm Noirtier, for he turned away his eyes. Villefort, on the other hand, tore open his coat, for it was choking him, and, passing his hand over his brow, returned to his study.
The night was cold and calm; everybody in the house had gone to bed as usual, only Villefort once more remained up and worked till five o’clock in the morning. The first sitting of the assizes was to take place the next day, which was a Monday. Villefort saw that day dawn pale and gloomy. He dropped off to sleep for a moment or two when the lamp was at its last flicker; its flickering awakened him, and he found his fingers damp and red as though they had been dipped in blood.
He opened his window; a red streak traversed the sky in the distance, and seemed to cut in two the slender poplars which stood out in black relief against the horizon. In the lucerne-field beyond the chestnut-trees, a lark rose to the sky, pouring out its clear morning song. The dews bathed Villefort’s head and refreshed his memory. “To-day,” said he with an effort, “the man who wields the knife of justice must strike wherever there is guilt!”
Involuntarily his glance fell on the window where he had seen Noirtier the previous evening. The curtains were drawn, yet his father’s image was so vividly impressed on his mind that he addressed himself to the closed window, as though it were open and he still beheld the menacing old man.
“Yes,” he muttered, “yes, it shall be done!”
His head dropped upon his chest, and, with his head thus bowed, he paced his room several times till at last he threw himself on a settee, not so much because he wanted to sleep as to rest his tired and cold limbs. By degrees everybody in the house began to stir. From his room Villefort heard all the noises that constitute the life of a house: the opening and shutting of doors, the tinkle of Mme de Villefort’s bell summoning her maid; and the shouts of his boy, who woke fully alive to the enjoyments of life, as children at that age generally do.
Villefort rang his bell. His new valet entered, bringing the newspapers, and with them a cup of chocolate.
“What have you there?” asked Villefort.
“A cup of chocolate, monsieur.”
“I did not ask for it. Who has so kindly sent it me?”
“Madame; she said you would doubtless have to do much speaking at the assizes to-day and needed to fortify yourself,” said the valet, as he placed the cup on the paper-bestrewn table near the sofa. Then he went out.
For a moment Villefort looked at the cup with a gloomy expression, then he suddenly seized it in a nervous grasp and swallowed the whole of its contents at a single draught. It appeared almost as though he hoped that the beverage was poisoned, and that he sought death to deliver him from a duty which demanded of him something which was more difficult of accomplishment than it would be to die. He rose and began walking up and down the room with a smile which would have been terrible to behold, if anyone had been there to see it. The chocolate was harmless, and M. de Villefort felt no ill effects from it.
The breakfast-hour arrived, but M. de Villefort did not make his appearance. The valet entered his room.
“Madame desires me to remind you that it has struck eleven o’clock, monsieur, and that the sitting begins at noon,” he said.
“Well, what else?”
“Madame is ready to accompany you, Monsieur.”
“Whither?”
“To the Law Courts.”
“Does she really wish to go?” said Villefort in terrifying tones.
The servant started back.
“If you wish to go alone, monsieur, I will inform madame.”
For a moment Villefort remained silent, digging his fingernails into his cheek, the paleness of which was accentuated by his ebony black hair.
“Tell madame that I wish to speak to her,” he said at length, “and that I request her to wait for me in her room. Then come and shave me.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
The valet returned almost immediately, and, after having shaved Villefort, helped him into a sombre black suit. When he had finished, he said: “Madame said she would expect you, monsieur, as soon as you were dressed.”
“I am going to her.”
With his papers under his arm and his hat in his hand, he went to his wife’s room. He paused outside for a moment to wipe his clammy forehead. Then he pushed open the door.
Mme de Villefort was sitting on an ottoman impatiently turning over the leaves of a newspaper which Edward, by way of amusing himself, was tearing to pieces before his mother had time to finish reading it. She was dressed ready to go out; her hat was lying on a chair, her gloves were on her hands.
“Ah, here you are,” she said, with a calm and natural voice. “But you are very pale! Have you been working all through the night again? Why did you not come and breakfast with us? Well, are you going to take me or shall I go alone with Edward?”
Mme de Villefort had asked one question after another in order to elicit one single answer, but to all her inquiries M. de Villefort remained as cold and mute as a statue.
“Edward, go and play in the salon,” he said, looking sternly at the child. “I wish to speak to your mother.”
Mme de Villefort trembled as she beheld his cold countenance and heard his resolute tone, which presaged some new disaster. Edward raised his head and looked at his mother, and, seeing she did not confirm his father’s orders, proceeded to cut off the heads of his lead soldiers.
“Edward, do you hear me? Go!” cried M. de Villefort, so harshly that the child jumped.
Unaccustomed to such treatment, he rose, pale and trembling, but whether from fear or anger it were difficult to say. His father went up to him, took him in his arms and, kissing him, said: “Go, my child, go!”
Edward went out, and M. de Villefort locked the door behind him.
“Oh, heavens! what is the matter?” cried the young woman, endeavouring to read her husband’s inmost thoughts, and forcing a smile which froze M. de Villefort’s impassibility.
“Madame, where do you keep the poison you generally use?” the magistrate said slowly without any preamble, as he placed himself between his wife and the door.
Madame’s feelings were those of the lark when it sees the kite over its head making ready to swoop down upon it. A harsh, stifled sound, which was neither a cry nor a sigh, escaped from her lips, and she turned deathly white.
“I . . . I do not understand,” she said, sinking back on to her cushions.
“I asked you,” continued Villefort in a perfectly calm voice, “where you hide the poison by means of which you have killed my father-in-law, my mother-in-law, Barrois, and my daughter Valentine.”
“Whatever are you saying?” cried Mme de Villefort, clasping her hands.
“It is not for you to question, but to answer.”
“My husband, or the judge?” stammered Mme de Villefort.
“The judge, madame, the judge.”
The pallor of the woman, the anguish in her look, and the trembling of her whole frame, were frightful to behold.
“You do not answer, madame?” cried her terrible examiner. Then, with a smile which was more terrifying than his anger, he added: “It must be true since you do not deny it.”
She made a movement.
“And you cannot deny it,” added Villefort, extending his hand toward her as though to arrest her in the name of the law. “You have accomplished these crimes with impudent skill, nevertheless, you have only been able to deceive those who were blinded by their affection for you. Ever since the death of Madame de Saint-Méran have I known that there was a poisoner in my house—Monsieur d’Avrigny warned me of it. After the death of Barrois—may God forgive me!—my suspicions fell on someone, an angel, for I am ever suspicious, even where there is no crime. But since the death of Valentine there has been no doubt in my mind, madame, or in that of others. Thus your crime, known by two persons
and suspected by many, will be made public. Moreover, as I told you just now, I do not speak to you as your husband, but as your judge!”
The young woman hid her face in her hands.
“Oh, I beg of you, do not trust to appearances,” she stammered.
“Are you a coward?” cried Villefort in a contemptuous tone. “Indeed, I have always remarked that poisoners are cowards. Is it possible, though, that you are a coward, you who have had the awful courage to watch the death agony of three old people and a young girl, your victims? Is it possible that you are a coward, you who have counted the minutes while four people were slowly done to death? Is it possible that you, who were able to lay your plans so admirably, forgot to reckon on one thing, namely, where the discovery of your crimes would lead you? No, it is impossible! You must have kept some poison, more potent, subtle, and deadly than all the rest, to save you from the punishment you deserve! At all events I hope so!”
Mme de Villefort wrung her hands and fell on her knees.
“I understand, oh yes! I understand that you own your guilt,” he continued. “But a confession made to your judges at the eleventh hour when it is impossible to deny the crime in no way diminishes the punishment they inflict on the guilty one.”
“Punishment!” cried Mme de Villefort, “Punishment! Twice have you said that word!”
“Yes, twice. Did you think you would escape because you had been guilty four times? Did you think that because you were the wife of him who demands retribution it would be withheld you? No, madame, no! The poisoner shall go to the scaffold whoever she may be, unless, as I said just now, she was cautious enough to keep for herself a few drops of the deadliest poison.”
Mme de Villefort uttered a wild scream, and a hideous and invincible terror laid hold of her distorted features.
“Oh, do not fear the scaffold, madame,” resumed the magistrate. “I do not wish to dishonour you, for in doing so, I should bring dishonour on myself. On the contrary, if you have heard me correctly, you must understand that you are not to die on the scaffold!”
“No, I do not understand. What do you mean?” stammered the unhappy woman, completely overwhelmed.
“I mean that the wife of the first magistrate will not, by her infamy, sully an unblemished name and, with one blow, bring dishonour on her husband and her child.”
“No . . . Oh, no . . . !”
“Well, madame, it will be a kind action on your part, and I thank you for it.”
“You thank me? For what?”
“For what you have just told me.”
“What did I say? My head is in a whirl, and I can understand nothing. Oh, my God! My God!”
She rose from her seat, foaming at the mouth and her hair all dishevelled.
“You have not answered the question that I put to you when I came in, madame. Where is the poison you generally use, madame?”
She raised her arms to Heaven, and wringing her hands in despair, exclaimed: “No, no! You could not wish that!”
“What I do not wish, madame, is that you should perish on the scaffold, do you understand?” replied Villefort.
“Have mercy!”
“What I demand, madame, is that justice shall be done. My mission on earth is to punish,” he added with a fierce look in his eyes. “I should send the executioner to any other woman were she the Queen herself, but to you I am merciful! To you I say: ‘Madame, have you not put aside a few drops of the most potent, the swiftest, and deadliest poison?’”
“Oh, forgive me! Let me live! Remember that I am your wife!”
“You are a poisoner.”
“For heaven’s sake . . . ! for the sake of the love you once bore me! for our child’s sake! Oh, let me live for our child’s sake!”
“No! no! no! I tell you. If I let you live, you will perhaps kill him like the rest.”
“I kill my son!” cried the desperate mother, throwing herself upon Villefort. “I kill my Edward! Ha! ha!” She finished the sentence with a frightful laugh, a mad, demoniacal laugh, which ended in a terrible rattle. She had fallen at her husband’s feet! Villefort bent down to her.
“Remember, madame,” he said, “if justice has not been done when I return, I shall denounce you with my own lips and arrest you with my own hands!”
She listened panting, overwhelmed, crushed; only her eyes had any life in them, and they glared horribly.
“Remember what I say,” said Villefort. “I am going to the Courts to pass sentence of death upon a murderer . . . If I find you alive upon my return, you will spend the night in a prison cell.”
Mme de Villefort groaned, her nerves relaxed, and she sank upon the floor exhausted.
For a moment the magistrate appeared to feel pity for her; he looked at her less sternly, and, slightly bending toward her, he said: “Good-bye, madame, good-bye!”
This farewell fell upon Mme de Villefort like the knife of an executioner, and she fainted.
The judge went out and double-locked the door behind him.
Chapter LXIX
EXPIATION
The Court had risen, and as the Procureur du Roi drove home through the crowded streets, the tumultuous thoughts of the morning surged through and through his weary brain. His wife a murderess! Doubtless she was at this moment recalling all her crimes to her memory and imploring God’s mercy; perhaps she was writing a letter asking her virtuous husband’s forgiveness. Suddenly he said to himself: “That woman must live. She must repent and bring up my son, my poor son, the sole survivor of my unfortunate family except the indestructible old man. She loved him. It was for him that she committed the crimes. One must never despair of the heart of a mother who loves her child. She will repent, and no one shall know of her guilt. She shall take her son and her treasures far away from here, and she will be happy, for all her happiness is centred round her love for her son, and her son will never leave her. I shall have done a good deed, and that will ease my mind.”
The carriage stopped in the yard. He stepped out and ran into the house. When passing Noirtier’s door, which was half open, he saw two men, but he did not trouble himself about who was with his father, his thoughts were elsewhere. He went into the salon—it was empty!
He rushed up to her bedroom. The door was locked. A shudder went through him, and he stood still.
“Héloïse!” he cried, and he thought he heard some furniture move.
“Héloïse!” he repeated.
“Who is there?” asked a voice.
“Open quickly!” called Villefort. “It is I.”
But, notwithstanding the request and the tones of anguish in which it was made, the door remained closed, and he broke it open with a violent kick.
Mme de Villefort was standing at the entrance to the room which led to her boudoir. She was pale and her face was contracted; she looked at him with a terrifying glare.
“Héloïse! Héloïse!” he cried. “What ails you? Speak!”
The young woman stretched out her stiff and lifeless hand.
“It is done, monsieur,” she said with a rattling which seemed to tear her very throat. “What more do you want?” And with that she fell her full length on the carpet. Villefort ran up to her and seized her hand, which held in a convulsive grasp a glass bottle with a gold stopper. Mme de Villefort was dead!
Frantic with horror, Villefort started back to the door and contemplated the corpse.
“My son!” he called out. “Where is my son? Edward! Edward!”
He rushed out of the room calling out, “Edward! Edward!” in tones of such anguish that the servants came crowding round him in alarm.
“My son—where is my son?” asked Villefort. “Send him out of the house! Do not let him see . . .”
“Monsieur Edward is not downstairs, monsieur,” said the valet.
“He is probably playing in the garden. Go and see quickly.”
“Madame called her son in nearly half an hour ago, monsieur. Monsieur Edward came to madame and has not been down since.
”
A cold sweat broke out on Villefort’s forehead; his legs gave way under him, and thoughts began to chase each other across his mind like the uncontrollable wheels of a broken clock.
“He came into Madame de Villefort’s room?” he murmured, as he slowly retraced his steps, wiping his forehead with one hand and supporting himself against the wall with the other.
“Edward! Edward!” he muttered. There was no answer. Villefort went farther. Mme de Villefort’s body was lying across the doorway leading to the boudoir in which Edward must be; the corpse seemed to guard the threshold with wide staring eyes, while the lips held an expression of terrible and mysterious irony. Behind the body the raised curtain permitted one to see into part of the boudoir: an upright piano and the end of a blue satin sofa. Villefort advanced two or three steps, and on this sofa—no doubt asleep—he perceived his child lying. The unhappy man had a feeling of inexpressible joy; a ray of pure light descended into the depths in which he was struggling. All he had to do was to step across the dead body, take the child in his arms, and flee far, far away.
He was no longer the exquisite degenerate typified by the man of modern civilization; he had become like a tiger wounded unto death. It was not prejudice he now feared, but phantoms. He jumped over his wife’s body as though it were a yawning furnace of red-hot coals. Taking the boy in his arms, he pressed him to his heart, called him, shook him, but the child made no response. He pressed his eager lips to the child’s cheeks—they were cold and livid; he felt the stiffened limbs; he placed his hand over his heart—it beat no more. The child was dead.
Terror-stricken, Villefort dropped upon his knees; the child fell from his arms and rolled beside his mother. A folded paper fell from his breast; Villefort picked it up and recognized his wife’s handwriting, and eagerly read the following:
You know that I have been a good mother, since it was for my son’s sake that I became a criminal. A good mother never leaves her son!
Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 58