Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  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 underground, 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 tonight,” said he. “It is late, and the governor is asleep. Tomorrow, 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 seamen 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 someday 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 tonight, 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 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 bosom, 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 air 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.

  Villefort escorted Renee into the next room to steal away a moment without the marquis looking on. He led her to a chaise off to the side of the room, wide enough for their use. They sat, facing each other, the room dark as the curtains and shutters were drawn tight.

  “You do not plead mercy then?”

  Renee met his eyes, “I no longer feel merciful toward the man that causes your absence.”

  “My love, I will return with haste. I have no wish to be parted from you for longer than necessary”

  “Will you stay with me for a moment, allow for a proper goodbye?”

  His smile turned increasingly seductive.

  “What sort of goodbye do you have in mind?”

  “A goodbye that is not rushed behind a parlor door.”

  “Either way, my love, we will still need to make haste, I journey to Paris, remember.”

  “There is no need to tell me.” Renee entrenched in the task of removing some of the easily accessible pieces of clothing she wore. A woman’s clothing took entirely more w
ork than a man’s but Renee and Villefort adapted by leaving laces untied and hidden or folds gently rumpled. Sometimes people didn’t notice things because they didn’t care to look.

  Villefore watched his lover undress as fast as she was able and he endeavored to help when she needed it. When every pale expanse of her skin was present Villefort could no longer hold back his ardor. He would take his fiancé, ignite her passions, and leave her needing for the next time they met, so she did not forget him during his journey, short as it may be.

  Even while rushed, Villefort was capable of great pleasure. He stroked Renee to a slow burn, a frenzy, inciting panting moans with every breath. She clung to him like a leaf on a tree in autumn, with every part of her. Only once she was ready to receive him, did he lay himself between her spread thighs and make her his all over again.

  This night showed him a new side of Renee, usually her heart remained guarded while opening her affections to him. Tonight she was open, he could feel her emotions in her touch, even though time ran short the words they needed to say held aloft on the tips of their tongues.

  “Please.” It was only a whisper, an entreaty into the darkness of the room. Villefort gave her what she needed, what she yearned for. Once he was seated fully inside her, he lay wrapped in her arms, her legs encircling his own. There were only minutes left but he allowed this one small pleasure, to cherish this moment before everything changed. The whole country would be ripped apart should Napoleon land and if his efforts proved fruitful the life of him and his bride would also be forever altered.

  He pulled his mind back into the present and began to move inside Renee, slow and gentle, a far cry for their usual lovemaking. The cherished feeling he acquired in her arms was wondrous and he wanted to impart that to her as well. Slow and gentle did not last long, with her sex clenching his every thrust and her sharp nails digging into his back. He entered her in long shallow thrusts, trying to bring her to a completion unlike any she had previously. Even though he would soon be her husband, he wanted to be sure no other man eclipsed him in her mind.