Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  Any one else would have hastened to receive him; but Villefort was a man of ability, and he knew this would be a sign of weakness. He made Morrel wait in the antechamber, although he had no one with him, for the simple reason that the king’s procureur always makes everyone wait, and after passing a quarter of an hour in reading the papers, he ordered M. Morrel to be admitted.

  Morrel expected Villefort would be dejected; he found him as he had found him six weeks before, calm, firm, and full of that glacial politeness, that most insurmountable barrier which separates the well-bred from the vulgar man.

  He had entered Villefort’s office expecting that the magistrate would tremble at the sight of him; on the contrary, he felt a cold shudder all over him when he saw Villefort sitting there with his elbow on his desk, and his head leaning on his hand. He stopped at the door; Villefort gazed at him as if he had some difficulty in recognizing him; then, after a brief interval, during which the honest shipowner turned his hat in his hands, —

  “M. Morrel, I believe?” said Villefort.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come nearer,” said the magistrate, with a patronizing wave of the hand, “and tell me to what circumstance I owe the honor of this visit.”

  “Do you not guess, monsieur?” asked Morrel.

  “Not in the least; but if I can serve you in any way I shall be delighted.”

  “Everything depends on you.”

  “Explain yourself, pray.”

  “Monsieur,” said Morrel, recovering his assurance as he proceeded, “do you recollect that a few days before the landing of his majesty the emperor, I came to intercede for a young man, the mate of my ship, who was accused of being concerned in correspondence with the Island of Elba? What was the other day a crime is to-day a title to favor. You then served Louis XVIII., and you did not show any favor — it was your duty; to-day you serve Napoleon, and you ought to protect him — it is equally your duty; I come, therefore, to ask what has become of him?”

  Villefort by a strong effort sought to control himself. “What is his name?” said he. “Tell me his name.”

  “Edmond Dantes.”

  Villefort would probably have rather stood opposite the muzzle of a pistol at five-and-twenty paces than have heard this name spoken; but he did not blanch.

  “Dantes,” repeated he, “Edmond Dantes.”

  “Yes, monsieur.” Villefort opened a large register, then went to a table, from the table turned to his registers, and then, turning to Morrel, —

  “Are you quite sure you are not mistaken, monsieur?” said he, in the most natural tone in the world.

  Had Morrel been a more quick-sighted man, or better versed in these matters, he would have been surprised at the king’s procureur answering him on such a subject, instead of referring him to the governors of the prison or the prefect of the department. But Morrel, disappointed in his expectations of exciting fear, was conscious only of the other’s condescension. Villefort had calculated rightly.

  “No,” said Morrel; “I am not mistaken. I have known him for ten years, the last four of which he was in my service. Do not you recollect, I came about six weeks ago to plead for clemency, as I come to-day to plead for justice. You received me very coldly. Oh, the royalists were very severe with the Bonapartists in those days.”

  “Monsieur,” returned Villefort, “I was then a royalist, because I believed the Bourbons not only the heirs to the throne, but the chosen of the nation. The miraculous return of Napoleon has conquered me, the legitimate monarch is he who is loved by his people.”

  “That’s right!” cried Morrel. “I like to hear you speak thus, and I augur well for Edmond from it.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Villefort, turning over the leaves of a register; “I have it — a sailor, who was about to marry a young Catalan girl. I recollect now; it was a very serious charge.”

  “How so?”

  “You know that when he left here he was taken to the Palais de Justice.”

  “Well?”

  “I made my report to the authorities at Paris, and a week after he was carried off.”

  “Carried off!” said Morrel. “What can they have done with him?”

  “Oh, he has been taken to Fenestrelles, to Pignerol, or to the Sainte-Marguerite islands. Some fine morning he will return to take command of your vessel.”

  “Come when he will, it shall be kept for him. But how is it he is not already returned? It seems to me the first care of government should be to set at liberty those who have suffered for their adherence to it.”

  “Do not be too hasty, M. Morrel,” replied Villefort. “The order of imprisonment came from high authority, and the order for his liberation must proceed from the same source; and, as Napoleon has scarcely been reinstated a fortnight, the letters have not yet been forwarded.”

  “But,” said Morrel, “is there no way of expediting all these formalities — of releasing him from arrest?”

  “There has been no arrest.”

  “How?”

  “It is sometimes essential to government to cause a man’s disappearance without leaving any traces, so that no written forms or documents may defeat their wishes.”

  “It might be so under the Bourbons, but at present” —

  “It has always been so, my dear Morrel, since the reign of Louis XIV. The emperor is more strict in prison discipline than even Louis himself, and the number of prisoners whose names are not on the register is incalculable.” Had Morrel even any suspicions, so much kindness would have dispelled them.

  “Well, M. de Villefort, how would you advise me to act?” asked he.

  “Petition the minister.”

  “Oh, I know what that is; the minister receives two hundred petitions every day, and does not read three.”

  “That is true; but he will read a petition countersigned and presented by me.”

  “And will you undertake to deliver it?”

  “With the greatest pleasure. Dantes was then guilty, and now he is innocent, and it is as much my duty to free him as it was to condemn him.” Villefort thus forestalled any danger of an inquiry, which, however improbable it might be, if it did take place would leave him defenceless.

  “But how shall I address the minister?”

  “Sit down there,” said Villefort, giving up his place to Morrel, “and write what I dictate.”

  “Will you be so good?”

  “Certainly. But lose no time; we have lost too much already.”

  “That is true. Only think what the poor fellow may even now be suffering.” Villefort shuddered at the suggestion; but he had gone too far to draw back. Dantes must be crushed to gratify Villefort’s ambition.

  Villefort dictated a petition, in which, from an excellent intention, no doubt, Dantes’ patriotic services were exaggerated, and he was made out one of the most active agents of Napoleon’s return. It was evident that at the sight of this document the minister would instantly release him. The petition finished, Villefort read it aloud.

  “That will do,” said he; “leave the rest to me.”

  “Will the petition go soon?”

  “To-day.”

  “Countersigned by you?”

  “The best thing I can do will be to certify the truth of the contents of your petition.” And, sitting down, Villefort wrote the certificate at the bottom.

  “What more is to be done?”

  “I will do whatever is necessary.” This assurance delighted Morrel, who took leave of Villefort, and hastened to announce to old Dantes that he would soon see his son.

  As for Villefort, instead of sending to Paris, he carefully preserved the petition that so fearfully compromised Dantes, in the hopes of an event that seemed not unlikely, — that is, a second restoration. Dantes remained a prisoner, and heard not the noise of the fall of Louis XVIII.’s throne, or the still more tragic destruction of the empire.

  Twice during the Hundred Days had Morrel renewed his demand, and twice had Villefort soothed him wi
th promises. At last there was Waterloo, and Morrel came no more; he had done all that was in his power, and any fresh attempt would only compromise himself uselessly.

  Louis XVIII. remounted the throne; Villefort, to whom Marseilles had become filled with remorseful memories, sought and obtained the situation of king’s procureur at Toulouse, and a fortnight afterwards he married Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran, whose father now stood higher at court than ever.

  And so Dantes, after the Hundred Days and after Waterloo, remained in his dungeon, forgotten of earth and heaven. Danglars comprehended the full extent of the wretched fate that overwhelmed Dantes; and, when Napoleon returned to France, he, after the manner of mediocre minds, termed the coincidence, “a decree of Providence.” But when Napoleon returned to Paris, Danglars’ heart failed him, and he lived in constant fear of Dantes’ return on a mission of vengeance. He therefore informed M. Morrel of his wish to quit the sea, and obtained a recommendation from him to a Spanish merchant, into whose service he entered at the end of March, that is, ten or twelve days after Napoleon’s return. He then left for Madrid, and was no more heard of.

  Fernand understood nothing except that Dantes was absent. What had become of him he cared not to inquire. Only, during the respite the absence of his rival afforded him, he reflected, partly on the means of deceiving Mercedes as to the cause of his absence, partly on plans of emigration and abduction, as from time to time he sat sad and motionless on the summit of Cape Pharo, at the spot from whence Marseilles and the Catalans are visible, watching for the apparition of a young and handsome man, who was for him also the messenger of vengeance. Fernand’s mind was made up; he would shoot Dantes, and then kill himself. But Fernand was mistaken; a man of his disposition never kills himself, for he constantly hopes.

  During this time the empire made its last conscription, and every man in France capable of bearing arms rushed to obey the summons of the emperor. Fernand departed with the rest, bearing with him the terrible thought that while he was away, his rival would perhaps return and marry Mercedes. Had Fernand really meant to kill himself, he would have done so when he parted from Mercedes. His devotion, and the compassion he showed for her misfortunes, produced the effect they always produce on noble minds — Mercedes had always had a sincere regard for Fernand, and this was now strengthened by gratitude.

  “My brother,” said she as she placed his knapsack on his shoulders, “be careful of yourself, for if you are killed, I shall be alone in the world.” These words carried a ray of hope into Fernand’s heart. Should Dantes not return, Mercedes might one day be his.

  Mercedes was left alone face to face with the vast plain that had never seemed so barren, and the sea that had never seemed so vast. Bathed in tears she wandered about the Catalan village. Sometimes she stood mute and motionless as a statue, looking towards Marseilles, at other times gazing on the sea, and debating as to whether it were not better to cast herself into the abyss of the ocean, and thus end her woes. It was not want of courage that prevented her putting this resolution into execution; but her religious feelings came to her aid and saved her. Caderousse was, like Fernand, enrolled in the army, but, being married and eight years older, he was merely sent to the frontier. Old Dantes, who was only sustained by hope, lost all hope at Napoleon’s downfall. Five months after he had been separated from his son, and almost at the hour of his arrest, he breathed his last in Mercedes’ arms. M. Morrel paid the expenses of his funeral, and a few small debts the poor old man had contracted.

  There was more than benevolence in this action; there was courage; the south was aflame, and to assist, even on his deathbed, the father of so dangerous a Bonapartist as Dantes, was stigmatized as a crime.

  Chapter 14. The Two Prisoners.

  A year after Louis XVIII.’s restoration, a visit was made by the inspector-general of prisons. Dantes in his cell heard the noise of preparation, — sounds that at the depth where he lay would have been inaudible to any but the ear of a prisoner, who could hear the splash of the drop of water that every hour fell from the roof of his dungeon. He guessed something uncommon was passing among the living; but he had so long ceased to have any intercourse with the world, that he looked upon himself as dead.

  The inspector visited, one after another, the cells and dungeons of several of the prisoners, whose good behavior or stupidity recommended them to the clemency of the government. He inquired how they were fed, and if they had any request to make. The universal response was, that the fare was detestable, and that they wanted to be set free.

  The inspector asked if they had anything else to ask for. They shook their heads. What could they desire beyond their liberty? The inspector turned smilingly to the governor.

  “I do not know what reason government can assign for these useless visits; when you see one prisoner, you see all, — always the same thing, — ill fed and innocent. Are there any others?”

  “Yes; the dangerous and mad prisoners are in the dungeons.”

  “Let us visit them,” said the inspector with an air of fatigue. “We must play the farce to the end. Let us see the dungeons.”

  “Let us first send for two soldiers,” said the governor. “The prisoners sometimes, through mere uneasiness of life, and in order to be sentenced to death, commit acts of useless violence, and you might fall a victim.”

  “Take all needful precautions,” replied the inspector.

  Two soldiers were accordingly sent for, and the inspector descended a stairway, so foul, so humid, so dark, as to be loathsome to sight, smell, and respiration.

  “Oh,” cried the inspector, “who can live here?”

  “A most dangerous conspirator, a man we are ordered to keep the most strict watch over, as he is daring and resolute.”

  “He is alone?”

  “Certainly.”

  “How long has he been there?”

  “Nearly a year.”

  “Was he placed here when he first arrived?”

  “No; not until he attempted to kill the turnkey, who took his food to him.”

  “To kill the turnkey?”

  “Yes, the very one who is lighting us. Is it not true, Antoine?” asked the governor.

  “True enough; he wanted to kill me!” returned the turnkey.

  “He must be mad,” said the inspector.

  “He is worse than that, — he is a devil!” returned the turnkey.

  “Shall I complain of him?” demanded the inspector.

  “Oh, no; it is useless. Besides, he is almost mad now, and in another year he will be quite so.”

  “So much the better for him, — he will suffer less,” said the inspector. He was, as this remark shows, a man full of philanthropy, and in every way fit for his office.

  “You are right, sir,” replied the governor; “and this remark proves that you have deeply considered the subject. Now we have in a dungeon about twenty feet distant, and to which you descend by another stair, an abbe, formerly leader of a party in Italy, who has been here since 1811, and in 1813 he went mad, and the change is astonishing. He used to weep, he now laughs; he grew thin, he now grows fat. You had better see him, for his madness is amusing.”

  “I will see them both,” returned the inspector; “I must conscientiously perform my duty.” This was the inspector’s first visit; he wished to display his authority.

  “Let us visit this one first,” added he.

  “By all means,” replied the governor, and he signed to the turnkey to open the door. At the sound of the key turning in the lock, and the creaking of the hinges, Dantes, who was crouched in a corner of the dungeon, whence he could see the ray of light that came through a narrow iron grating above, raised his head. Seeing a stranger, escorted by two turnkeys holding torches and accompanied by two soldiers, and to whom the governor spoke bareheaded, Dantes, who guessed the truth, and that the moment to address himself to the superior authorities was come, sprang forward with clasped hands.

  The soldiers interposed their bayonets, for
they thought that he was about to attack the inspector, and the latter recoiled two or three steps. Dantes saw that he was looked upon as dangerous. Then, infusing all the humility he possessed into his eyes and voice, he addressed the inspector, and sought to inspire him with pity.

  The inspector listened attentively; then, turning to the governor, observed, “He will become religious — he is already more gentle; he is afraid, and retreated before the bayonets — madmen are not afraid of anything; I made some curious observations on this at Charenton.” Then, turning to the prisoner, “What is it you want?” said he.

  “I want to know what crime I have committed — to be tried; and if I am guilty, to be shot; if innocent, to be set at liberty.”

  “Are you well fed?” said the inspector.

  “I believe so; I don’t know; it’s of no consequence. What matters really, not only to me, but to officers of justice and the king, is that an innocent man should languish in prison, the victim of an infamous denunciation, to die here cursing his executioners.”

  “You are very humble to-day,” remarked the governor; “you are not so always; the other day, for instance, when you tried to kill the turnkey.”

  “It is true, sir, and I beg his pardon, for he has always been very good to me, but I was mad.”

  “And you are not so any longer?”

  “No; captivity has subdued me — I have been here so long.”

  “So long? — when were you arrested, then?” asked the inspector.

  “The 28th of February, 1815, at half-past two in the afternoon.”

  “To-day is the 30th of July, 1816, — why it is but seventeen months.”

  “Only seventeen months,” replied Dantes. “Oh, you do not know what is seventeen months in prison! — seventeen ages rather, especially to a man who, like me, had arrived at the summit of his ambition — to a man, who, like me, was on the point of marrying a woman he adored, who saw an honorable career opened before him, and who loses all in an instant — who sees his prospects destroyed, and is ignorant of the fate of his affianced wife, and whether his aged father be still living! Seventeen months’ captivity to a sailor accustomed to the boundless ocean, is a worse punishment than human crime ever merited. Have pity on me, then, and ask for me, not intelligence, but a trial; not pardon, but a verdict — a trial, sir, I ask only for a trial; that, surely, cannot be denied to one who is accused!”