Chapter 6. The Deputy Procureur du Roi
In one of the aristocratic mansions built by Puget in the Rue du GrandCours opposite the Medusa fountain, a second marriage feast was beingcelebrated, almost at the same hour with the nuptial repast given byDantès. In this case, however, although the occasion of theentertainment was similar, the company was strikingly dissimilar.Instead of a rude mixture of sailors, soldiers, and those belonging tothe humblest grade of life, the present assembly was composed of thevery flower of Marseilles society,—magistrates who had resigned theiroffice during the usurper’s reign; officers who had deserted from theimperial army and joined forces with Condé; and younger members offamilies, brought up to hate and execrate the man whom five years ofexile would convert into a martyr, and fifteen of restoration elevate tothe rank of a god.
The guests were still at table, and the heated and energeticconversation that prevailed betrayed the violent and vindictive passionsthat then agitated each dweller of the South, where unhappily, for fivecenturies religious strife had long given increased bitterness to theviolence of party feeling.
The emperor, now king of the petty Island of Elba, after having heldsovereign sway over one-half of the world, counting as his subjects asmall population of five or six thousand souls,—after having beenaccustomed to hear the “Vive Napoléons” of a hundred and twenty millionsof human beings, uttered in ten different languages,—was looked uponhere as a ruined man, separated forever from any fresh connection withFrance or claim to her throne.
The magistrates freely discussed their political views; the militarypart of the company talked unreservedly of Moscow and Leipsic, while thewomen commented on the divorce of Josephine. It was not over thedownfall of the man, but over the defeat of the Napoleonic idea, thatthey rejoiced, and in this they foresaw for themselves the bright andcheering prospect of a revivified political existence.
An old man, decorated with the cross of Saint Louis, now rose andproposed the health of King Louis XVIII. It was the Marquis de Saint-Méran. This toast, recalling at once the patient exile of Hartwell andthe peace-loving King of France, excited universal enthusiasm; glasseswere elevated in the air à l’Anglaise, and the ladies, snatching theirbouquets from their fair bosoms, strewed the table with their floraltreasures. In a word, an almost poetical fervor prevailed.
“Ah,” said the Marquise de Saint-Méran, a woman with a stern, forbiddingeye, though still noble and distinguished in appearance, despite herfifty years—“ah, these revolutionists, who have driven us from thosevery possessions they afterwards purchased for a mere trifle during theReign of Terror, would be compelled to own, were they here, that alltrue devotion was on our side, since we were content to follow thefortunes of a falling monarch, while they, on the contrary, made theirfortune by worshipping the rising sun; yes, yes, they could not helpadmitting that the king, for whom we sacrificed rank, wealth, andstation was truly our ‘Louis the well-beloved,’ while their wretchedusurper has 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—intruth—I was not attending to the conversation.”
“Marquise, marquise!” interposed the old nobleman who had proposed thetoast, “let the young people alone; let me tell you, on one’s weddingday there are more agreeable subjects of conversation than drypolitics.”
“Never mind, dearest mother,” said a young and lovely girl, with aprofusion of light brown hair, and eyes that seemed to float in liquidcrystal, “’tis all my fault for seizing upon M. de Villefort, so as toprevent his listening to what you said. But there—now take him—he isyour own for as long as you like. M. Villefort, I beg to remind you mymother speaks to you.”
“If the marquise will deign to repeat the words I but imperfectlycaught, I shall be delighted to answer,” said M. de Villefort.
“Never mind, Renée,” replied the marquise, with a look of tendernessthat seemed out of keeping with her harsh dry features; but, however allother feelings may be withered in a woman’s nature, there is always onebright smiling spot in the desert of her heart, and that is the shrineof 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 Mahometof the West, and is worshipped by his commonplace but ambitiousfollowers, not only as a leader and lawgiver, but also as thepersonification of equality.”
“He!” cried the marquise: “Napoleon the type of equality! For mercy’ssake, then, what would you call Robespierre? Come, come, do not stripthe latter of his just rights to bestow them on the Corsican, who, to mymind, has usurped quite enough.”
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“Nay, madame; I would place each of these heroes on his rightpedestal—that of Robespierre on his scaffold in the Place Louis Quinze;that of Napoleon on the column of the Place Vendôme. The only differenceconsists in the opposite character of the equality advocated by thesetwo men; one is the equality that elevates, the other is the equalitythat degrades; one brings a king within reach of the guillotine, theother elevates the people to a level with the throne. Observe,” saidVillefort, smiling, “I do not mean to deny that both these men wererevolutionary scoundrels, and that the 9th Thermidor and the 4th ofApril, in the year 1814, were lucky days for France, worthy of beinggratefully remembered by every friend to monarchy and civil order; andthat explains how it comes to pass that, fallen, as I trust he isforever, Napoleon has still retained a train of parasitical satellites.Still, marquise, it has been so with other usurpers—Cromwell, forinstance, who was not half so bad as Napoleon, had his partisans andadvocates.”
“Do you know, Villefort, that you are talking in a most dreadfullyrevolutionary strain? But I excuse it, it is impossible to expect theson of a Girondin to be free from a small spice of the old leaven.” Adeep crimson suffused the countenance of Villefort.
“’Tis true, madame,” answered he, “that my father was a Girondin, but hewas not among the number of those who voted for the king’s death; he wasan equal sufferer with yourself during the Reign of Terror, and hadwell-nigh lost his head on the same scaffold on which your fatherperished.”
“True,” replied the marquise, without wincing in the slightest degree atthe tragic remembrance thus called up; “but bear in mind, if you please,that our respective parents underwent persecution and proscription fromdiametrically opposite principles; in proof of which I may remark, thatwhile my family remained among the staunchest adherents of the exiledprinces, your father lost no time in joining the new government; andthat while the Citizen Noirtier was a Girondin, the Count Noirtierbecame a senator.”
“Dear mother,” interposed Renée, “you know very well it was agreed thatall these disagreeable reminiscences should forever be laid aside.”
“Suffer me, also, madame,” replied Villefort, “to add my earnest requestto Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran’s, that you will kindly allow the veil ofoblivion to cover and conceal the past. What avails recrimination overmatters wholly past recall? For my own part, I have laid aside even thename of my father, and altogether disown his political principles. Hewas—nay, probably may still be—a Bonapartist, and is called Noirtier; I,on the contrary, am a staunch royalist, and style myself de Villefort.Let what may remain of revolutionary sap exhaust itself and die awaywith the old trunk, and condescend only to regard the young shoot whichhas started up at a distance from the parent tree, without having thepower, any more than the wish, to separate entirely from the stock fromwhich it sprung.”
“Bravo, Villefort!” cried the marquis; “excellently well said! Come,now, I have hopes of obtaining what I have been for years endeavoring topersuade the marquise to promise; namely, a perfect amnesty andforgetfulness of the past.”
“With all my heart,” replied the marquise; “let the past be for
everforgotten. I promise you it affords me as little pleasure to revive itas it does you. All I ask is, that Villefort will be firm and inflexiblefor the future in his political principles. Remember, also, Villefort,that we have pledged ourselves to his majesty for your fealty and strictloyalty, and that at our recommendation the king consented to forget thepast, as I do” (and here she extended to him her hand)—“as I now do atyour entreaty. But bear in mind, that should there fall in your wayanyone guilty of conspiring against the government, you will be so muchthe more bound to visit the offence with rigorous punishment, as it isknown you belong to a suspected family.”
“Alas, madame,” returned Villefort, “my profession, as well as the timesin which we live, compels me to be severe. I have already successfullyconducted several public prosecutions, and brought the offenders tomerited punishment. But we have not done with the thing yet.”
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“Do you, indeed, think so?” inquired the marquise.
“I am, at least, fearful of it. Napoleon, in the Island of Elba, is toonear France, and his proximity keeps up the hopes of his partisans.Marseilles is filled with half-pay officers, who are daily, under onefrivolous pretext or other, getting up quarrels with the royalists; fromhence arise continual and fatal duels among the higher classes ofpersons, and assassinations in the lower.”
“You have heard, perhaps,” said the Comte de Salvieux, one of M. deSaint-Méran’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-Méran; “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 twothousand leagues from here,” replied the count.
“So much the better. As Villefort observes, it is a great act of follyto 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, thesovereignty of which he coveted for his son.”
“Unfortunately,” said Villefort, “there are the treaties of 1814, and wecannot molest 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 ofshooting the poor Duc d’Enghien.”
“Well,” said the marquise, “it seems probable that, by the aid of theHoly Alliance, we shall be rid of Napoleon; and we must trust to thevigilance of M. de Villefort to purify Marseilles of his partisans. Theking is either a king or no king; if he be acknowledged as sovereign ofFrance, he should be upheld in peace and tranquillity; and this can bestbe effected by employing the most inflexible agents to put down everyattempt at conspiracy—’tis the best and surest means of preventingmischief.”
“Unfortunately, madame,” answered Villefort, “the strong arm of the lawis 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 cando is to avenge the wrong done.”
“Oh, M. de Villefort,” cried a beautiful young creature, daughter to theComte de Salvieux, and the cherished friend of Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran, “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 ofshedding 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 oflife. The prisoner whom you there see pale, agitated, and alarmed,instead of—as is the case when a curtain falls on a tragedy—going hometo sup peacefully with his family, and then retiring to rest, that hemay recommence his mimic woes on the morrow,—is removed from your sightmerely to be reconducted to his prison and delivered up to theexecutioner. I leave you to judge how far your nerves are calculated tobear you through such a scene. Of this, however, be assured, that shouldany favorable opportunity present itself, I will not fail to offer youthe choice of being present.”
“For shame, M. de Villefort!” said Renée, becoming quite pale; “don’tyou see how you are frightening us?—and yet you laugh.”
“What would you have? ’Tis like a duel. I have already recorded sentenceof death, five or six times, against the movers of politicalconspiracies, 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 Renée, becoming more and moreterrified; “you surely are not in earnest.”
“Indeed I am,” replied the young magistrate with a smile; “and in theinteresting trial that young lady is anxious to witness, the case wouldonly be still more aggravated. Suppose, for instance, the prisoner, asis more than probable, to have served under Napoleon—well, can youexpect for an instant, that one accustomed, at the word of hiscommander, to rush fearlessly on the very bayonets of his foe, willscruple more to drive a stiletto into the heart of one he knows to behis personal enemy, than to slaughter his fellow-creatures, merelybecause bidden to do so by one he is bound to obey? Besides, onerequires the excitement of being hateful in the eyes of the accused, inorder 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, asthough 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 myeloquence.” Renée uttered a smothered exclamation.
“Bravo!” cried one of the guests; “that is what I call talking to somepurpose.”
“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 dearVillefort!” remarked a third; “I mean the trial of the man for murderinghis father. Upon my word, you killed him ere the executioner had laidhis hand upon him.”
“Oh, as for parricides, and such dreadful people as that,” interposedRenée, “it matters very little what is done to them; but as regards poorunfortunate creatures whose only crime consists in having mixedthemselves up in political intrigues——”
“Why, that is the very worst offence they could possibly commit; for,don’t you see, Renée, the king is the father of his people, and he whoshall plot or contrive aught against the life and safety of the parentof thirty-two millions of souls, is a parricide upon a fearfully greatscale?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” replied Renée; “but, M. deVillefort, you have promised me—have you not?—always to show mercy tothose I plead for.”
“Make yourself quite easy on that point,” answered Villefort, with oneof his sweetest smiles; “you and I will always consult upon ourverdicts.”
“My love,” said the marquise, “attend to your doves, your lap-dogs, andembroidery, but do not meddle with what you do not understand. Nowadaysthe military profession is in abeyance and the magisterial robe is thebadge of honor. There is a wise Latin proverb that is very much inpoint.”
“Cedant arma togæ,” said Villefort with a bow.
“I cannot speak Latin,” responded the marquise.
“Well,” said Renée, “I cannot help regretting you had not chosen someother profession than your own—a physician, for instance. Do you know Ialways felt a shudder at the idea of even a destroying angel?”
“Dear, good Renée,” whispered Villefort, as he gazed with unutterabletenderness on the lovely speaker.
“Let us hope, my child,” cried the marquis, “that M. de Villefort mayprove the moral and political physician of this province; if so, he willhave achieved a noble work.”
“And one which will go far to efface the recollection of his father’sconduct,” added the incorrigible marquise.
“Madame,�
�� replied Villefort, with a mournful smile, “I have already hadthe honor to observe that my father has—at least, I hope so—abjured hispast errors, and that he is, at the present moment, a firm and zealousfriend to religion and order—a better royalist, possibly, than his son;for he has to atone for past dereliction, while I have no other impulsethan warm, decided preference and conviction.” Having made this well-turned speech, Villefort looked carefully around to mark the effect ofhis oratory, much as he would have done had he been addressing the benchin open court.
“Do you know, my dear Villefort,” cried the Comte de Salvieux, “that isexactly what I myself said the other day at the Tuileries, whenquestioned by his majesty’s principal chamberlain touching thesingularity of an alliance between the son of a Girondin and thedaughter of an officer of the Duc de Condé; and I assure you he seemedfully to comprehend that this mode of reconciling political differenceswas based upon sound and excellent principles. Then the king, who,without our suspecting it, had overheard our conversation, interruptedus by saying, ‘Villefort’—observe that the king did not pronounce theword Noirtier, but, on the contrary, placed considerable emphasis onthat of Villefort—‘Villefort,’ said his majesty, ‘is a young man ofgreat judgment and discretion, who will be sure to make a figure in hisprofession; I like him much, and it gave me great pleasure to hear thathe was about to become the son-in-law of the Marquis and Marquise deSaint-Méran. I should myself have recommended the match, had not thenoble marquis anticipated my wishes by requesting my consent to it.’”
“Is it possible the king could have condescended so far as to expresshimself so favorably of me?” asked the enraptured Villefort.
“I give you his very words; and if the marquis chooses to be candid, hewill confess that they perfectly agree with what his majesty said tohim, when he went six months ago to consult him upon the subject of yourespousing his daughter.”
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“That is true,” answered the marquis.
“How much do I owe this gracious prince! What is there I would not do toevince 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 Renée, “I trust your wishes willnot prosper, and that Providence will only permit petty offenders, poordebtors, and miserable cheats to fall into M. de Villefort’s hands,—thenI shall be contented.”
“Just the same as though you prayed that a physician might only becalled upon to prescribe for headaches, measles, and the stings ofwasps, or any other slight affection of the epidermis. If you wish tosee me the king’s attorney, you must desire for me some of those violentand dangerous diseases from the cure of which so much honor redounds tothe physician.”
At this moment, and as though the utterance of Villefort’s wish hadsufficed to effect its accomplishment, a servant entered the room, andwhispered a few words in his ear. Villefort immediately rose from tableand quitted the room upon the plea of urgent business; he soon, however,returned, his whole face beaming with delight. Renée regarded him withfond affection; and certainly his handsome features, lit up as they thenwere with more than usual fire and animation, seemed formed to excitethe innocent admiration with which she gazed on her graceful andintelligent lover.
“You were wishing just now,” said Villefort, addressing her, “that Iwere a doctor instead of a lawyer. Well, I at least resemble thedisciples of Esculapius in one thing [people spoke in this style in1815], that of not being able to call a day my own, not even that of mybetrothal.”
“And wherefore were you called away just now?” asked Mademoiselle deSaint-Méran, with an air of deep interest.
“For a very serious matter, which bids fair to make work for theexecutioner.”
“How dreadful!” exclaimed Renée, turning pale.
“Is it possible?” burst simultaneously from all who were near enough tothe magistrate to hear his words.
“Why, if my information prove correct, a sort of Bonapartist conspiracyhas just been discovered.”
“Can I believe my ears?” cried the marquise.
“I will read you the letter containing the accusation, at least,” saidVillefort:
“‘The king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and thereligious institutions of his country, that one named Edmond Dantès,mate of the ship Pharaon, this day arrived from Smyrna, after havingtouched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been the bearer of a letterfrom Murat to the usurper, and again taken charge of another letter fromthe usurper to the Bonapartist club in Paris. Ample corroboration ofthis statement may be obtained by arresting the above-mentioned EdmondDantès, who either carries the letter for Paris about with him, or hasit at his father’s abode. Should it not be found in the possession offather or son, then it will assuredly be discovered in the cabinbelonging to the said Dantès on board the Pharaon.’”
“But,” said Renée, “this letter, which, after all, is but an anonymousscrawl, is not even addressed to you, but to the king’s attorney.”
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“True; but that gentleman being absent, his secretary, by his orders,opened his letters; thinking this one of importance, he sent for me, butnot finding me, took upon himself to give the necessary orders forarresting 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 yetpronounce him guilty.”
“He is in safe custody,” answered Villefort; “and rely upon it, if theletter 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 Renée.
“He is at my house.”
“Come, come, my friend,” interrupted the marquise, “do not neglect yourduty to linger with us. You are the king’s servant, and must go whereverthat service calls you.”
“Oh, Villefort!” cried Renée, clasping her hands, and looking towardsher lover with piteous earnestness, “be merciful on this the day of ourbetrothal.”
The young man passed round to the side of the table where the fairpleader sat, and leaning over her chair said tenderly:
“To give you pleasure, my sweet Renée, I promise to show all the lenityin my power; but if the charges brought against this Bonapartist heroprove correct, why, then, you really must give me leave to order hishead to be cut off.”
Renée shuddered at the word cut, for the growth in question had a head.
“Never mind that foolish girl, Villefort,” said the marquise. “She willsoon get over these things.” So saying, Madame de Saint-Méran extendedher dry bony hand to Villefort, who, while imprinting a son-in-law’srespectful salute on it, looked at Renée, as much as to say, “I must tryand fancy ’tis your dear hand I kiss, as it should have been.”
“These are mournful auspices to accompany a betrothal,” sighed poorRenée.
“Upon my word, child!” exclaimed the angry marquise, “your folly exceedsall bounds. I should be glad to know what connection there can possiblybe between your sickly sentimentality and the affairs of the state!”
“Oh, mother!” murmured Renée.
“Nay, madame, I pray you pardon this little traitor. I promise you thatto 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 departedwith paradise in his heart.
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