The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated

by Alexandre Dumas

  Chapter 108. The Judge

  We remember that the Abbé Busoni remained alone with Noirtier in thechamber of death, and that the old man and the priest were the soleguardians of the young girl’s body. Perhaps it was the Christianexhortations of the abbé, perhaps his kind charity, perhaps hispersuasive words, which had restored the courage of Noirtier, for eversince he had conversed with the priest his violent despair had yieldedto a calm resignation which surprised all who knew his excessiveaffection for Valentine.

  M. de Villefort had not seen his father since the morning of the death.The whole establishment had been changed; another valet was engaged forhimself, a new servant for Noirtier, two women had entered Madame deVillefort’s service,—in fact, everywhere, to the concierge and coachmen,new faces were presented to the different masters of the house, thuswidening the division which had always existed between the members ofthe same family. The assizes, also, were about to begin, and Villefort,shut up in his room, exerted himself with feverish anxiety in drawing upthe case against the murderer of Caderousse. This affair, like all thosein which the Count of Monte Cristo had interfered, caused a greatsensation in Paris. The proofs were certainly not convincing, since theyrested upon a few words written by an escaped galley-slave on his death-bed, and who might have been actuated by hatred or revenge in accusinghis companion. But the mind of the procureur was made up; he feltassured that Benedetto was guilty, and he hoped by his skill inconducting this aggravated case to flatter his self-love, which wasabout the only vulnerable point left in his frozen heart.

  The case was therefore prepared owing to the incessant labor ofVillefort, who wished it to be the first on the list in the comingassizes. He had been obliged to seclude himself more than ever, to evadethe enormous number of applications presented to him for the purpose ofobtaining tickets of admission to the court on the day of trial. Andthen so short a time had elapsed since the death of poor Valentine, andthe gloom which overshadowed the house was so recent, that no onewondered to see the father so absorbed in his professional duties, whichwere the only means he had of dissipating his grief.

  Once only had Villefort seen his father; it was the day after that uponwhich Bertuccio had paid his second visit to Benedetto, when the latterwas to learn his father’s name. The magistrate, harassed and fatigued,had descended to the garden of his house, and in a gloomy mood, similarto that in which Tarquin lopped off the tallest poppies, he beganknocking off with his cane the long and dying branches of the rose-trees, which, placed along the avenue, seemed like the spectres of thebrilliant flowers which had bloomed in the past season.

  More than once he had reached that part of the garden where the famousboarded gate stood overlooking the deserted enclosure, always returningby the same path, to begin his walk again, at the same pace and with thesame gesture, when he accidentally turned his eyes towards the house,whence he heard the noisy play of his son, who had returned from schoolto spend the Sunday and Monday with his mother.

  While doing so, he observed M. Noirtier at one of the open windows,where the old man had been placed that he might enjoy the last rays ofthe sun which yet yielded some heat, and was now shining upon the dyingflowers and red leaves of the creeper which twined around the balcony.

  The eye of the old man was riveted upon a spot which Villefort couldscarcely distinguish. His glance was so full of hate, of ferocity, andsavage impatience, that Villefort turned out of the path he had beenpursuing, to see upon what person this dark look was directed.

  Then he saw beneath a thick clump of linden-trees, which were nearlydivested of foliage, Madame de Villefort sitting with a book in herhand, the perusal of which she frequently interrupted to smile upon herson, or to throw back his elastic ball, which he obstinately threw fromthe drawing-room into the garden.

  Villefort became pale; he understood the old man’s meaning.

  Noirtier continued to look at the same object, but suddenly his glancewas transferred from the wife to the husband, and Villefort himself hadto submit to the searching investigation of eyes, which, while changingtheir direction and even their language, had lost none of their menacingexpression. Madame de Villefort, unconscious of the passions thatexhausted their fire over her head, at that moment held her son’s ball,and was making signs to him to reclaim it with a kiss. Edward begged fora long while, the maternal kiss probably not offering sufficientrecompense for the trouble he must take to obtain it; however at lengthhe decided, leaped out of the window into a cluster of heliotropes anddaisies, and ran to his mother, his forehead streaming withperspiration. Madame de Villefort wiped his forehead, pressed her lipsupon it, and sent him back with the ball in one hand and some bonbons inthe other.

  Villefort, drawn by an irresistible attraction, like that of the bird tothe serpent, walked towards the house. As he approached it, Noirtier’sgaze followed him, and his eyes appeared of such a fiery brightness thatVillefort felt them pierce to the depths of his heart. In that earnestlook might be read a deep reproach, as well as a terrible menace. ThenNoirtier raised his eyes to heaven, as though to remind his son of aforgotten oath.

  “It is well, sir,” replied Villefort from below,—“it is well; havepatience but one day longer; what I have said I will do.”

  Noirtier seemed to be calmed by these words, and turned his eyes withindifference to the other side. Villefort violently unbuttoned hisgreatcoat, which seemed to strangle him, and passing his livid handacross his forehead, entered his study.

  The night was cold and still; the family had all retired to rest butVillefort, who alone remained up, and worked till five o’clock in themorning, reviewing the last interrogatories made the night before by theexamining magistrates, compiling the depositions of the witnesses, andputting the finishing stroke to the deed of accusation, which was one ofthe most energetic and best conceived of any he had yet delivered.

  The next day, Monday, was the first sitting of the assizes. The morningdawned dull and gloomy, and Villefort saw the dim gray light shine uponthe lines he had traced in red ink. The magistrate had slept for a shorttime while the lamp sent forth its final struggles; its flickeringsawoke him, and he found his fingers as damp and purple as though theyhad been dipped in blood.

  He opened the window; a bright yellow streak crossed the sky, and seemedto divide in half the poplars, which stood out in black relief on thehorizon. In the clover-fields beyond the chestnut-trees, a lark wasmounting up to heaven, while pouring out her clear morning song. Thedamps of the dew bathed the head of Villefort, and refreshed his memory.

  “Today,” he said with an effort,—“today the man who holds the blade ofjustice must strike wherever there is guilt.”

  Involuntarily his eyes wandered towards the window of Noirtier’s room,where he had seen him the preceding night. The curtain was drawn, andyet the image of his father was so vivid to his mind that he addressedthe closed window as though it had been open, and as if through theopening he had beheld the menacing old man.

  “Yes,” he murmured,—“yes, be satisfied.”

  His head dropped upon his chest, and in this position he paced hisstudy; then he threw himself, dressed as he was, upon a sofa, less tosleep than to rest his limbs, cramped with cold and study. By degreeseveryone awoke. Villefort, from his study, heard the successive noiseswhich accompany the life of a house,—the opening and shutting of doors,the ringing of Madame de Villefort’s bell, to summon the waiting-maid,mingled with the first shouts of the child, who rose full of theenjoyment of his age. Villefort also rang; his new valet brought him thepapers, and with them a cup of chocolate.

  “What are you bringing me?” said he.

  “A cup of chocolate.”

  “I did not ask for it. Who has paid me this attention?”

  “My mistress, sir. She said you would have to speak a great deal in themurder case, and that you should take something to keep up yourstrength;” and the valet placed the cup on the table nearest to thesofa, which was, like all the rest, covered with papers.

&
nbsp; The valet then left the room. Villefort looked for an instant with agloomy expression, then, suddenly, taking it up with a nervous motion,he swallowed its contents at one draught. It might have been thoughtthat he hoped the beverage would be mortal, and that he sought for deathto deliver him from a duty which he would rather die than fulfil. Hethen rose, and paced his room with a smile it would have been terribleto witness. The chocolate was inoffensive, for M. de Villefort felt noeffects.

  The breakfast-hour arrived, but M. de Villefort was not at table. Thevalet re-entered.

  “Madame de Villefort wishes to remind you, sir,” he said, “that eleveno’clock has just struck, and that the trial commences at twelve.”

  “Well,” said Villefort, “what then?”

  “Madame de Villefort is dressed; she is quite ready, and wishes to knowif she is to accompany you, sir?”

  “Where to?”

  “To the Palais.”

  “What to do?”

  “My mistress wishes much to be present at the trial.”

  “Ah,” said Villefort, with a startling accent; “does she wish that?”

  The servant drew back and said, “If you wish to go alone, sir, I will goand tell my mistress.”

  Villefort remained silent for a moment, and dented his pale cheeks withhis nails.

  “Tell your mistress,” he at length answered, “that I wish to speak toher, and I beg she will wait for me in her own room.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then come to dress and shave me.”

  “Directly, sir.”

  The valet re-appeared almost instantly, and, having shaved his master,assisted him to dress entirely in black. When he had finished, he said:

  “My mistress said she should expect you, sir, as soon as you hadfinished dressing.”

  “I am going to her.”

  And Villefort, with his papers under his arm and hat in hand, directedhis steps toward the apartment of his wife.

  At the door he paused for a moment to wipe his damp, pale brow. He thenentered the room. Madame de Villefort was sitting on an ottoman andimpatiently turning over the leaves of some newspapers and pamphletswhich young Edward, by way of amusing himself, was tearing to piecesbefore his mother could finish reading them. She was dressed to go out,her bonnet was placed beside her on a chair, and her gloves were on herhands.

  “Ah, here you are, monsieur,” she said in her naturally calm voice; “buthow pale you are! Have you been working all night? Why did you not comedown to breakfast? Well, will you take me, or shall I take Edward?”

  Madame de Villefort had multiplied her questions in order to gain oneanswer, but to all her inquiries M. de Villefort remained mute and coldas a statue.

  “Edward,” said Villefort, fixing an imperious glance on the child, “goand play in the drawing-room, my dear; I wish to speak to your mamma.”

  Madame de Villefort shuddered at the sight of that cold countenance,that resolute tone, and the awfully strange preliminaries. Edward raisedhis head, looked at his mother, and then, finding that she did notconfirm the order, began cutting off the heads of his leaden soldiers.

  “Edward,” cried M. de Villefort, so harshly that the child started upfrom the floor, “do you hear me?—Go!”

  The child, unaccustomed to such treatment, arose, pale and trembling; itwould be difficult to say whether his emotion were caused by fear orpassion. His father went up to him, took him in his arms, and kissed hisforehead.

  “Go,” he said: “go, my child.” Edward ran out.

  M. de Villefort went to the door, which he closed behind the child, andbolted.

  “Dear me!” said the young woman, endeavoring to read her husband’sinmost thoughts, while a smile passed over her countenance which frozethe impassibility of Villefort; “what is the matter?”

  “Madame, where do you keep the poison you generally use?” said themagistrate, without any introduction, placing himself between his wifeand the door.

  Madame de Villefort must have experienced something of the sensation ofa bird which, looking up, sees the murderous trap closing over its head.

  A hoarse, broken tone, which was neither a cry nor a sigh, escaped fromher, while she became deadly pale.

  “Monsieur,” she said, “I—I do not understand you.”

  And, in her first paroxysm of terror, she had raised herself from thesofa, in the next, stronger very likely than the other, she fell downagain on the cushions.

  “I asked you,” continued Villefort, in a perfectly calm tone, “where youconceal the poison by the aid of which you have killed my father-in-law,M. de Saint-Méran, my mother-in-law, Madame de Saint-Méran, Barrois, andmy daughter Valentine.”

  “Ah, sir,” exclaimed Madame de Villefort, clasping her hands, “what doyou say?”

  “It is not for you to interrogate, but to answer.”

  “Is it to the judge or to the husband?” stammered Madame de Villefort.

  “To the judge—to the judge, madame!” It was terrible to behold thefrightful pallor of that woman, the anguish of her look, the tremblingof her whole frame.

  “Ah, sir,” she muttered, “ah, sir,” and this was all.

  “You do not answer, madame!” exclaimed the terrible interrogator. Thenhe added, with a smile yet more terrible than his anger, “It is true,then; you do not deny it!” She moved forward. “And you cannot deny it!”added Villefort, extending his hand toward her, as though to seize herin the name of justice. “You have accomplished these different crimeswith impudent address, but which could only deceive those whoseaffections for you blinded them. Since the death of Madame de Saint-Méran, I have known that a poisoner lived in my house. M. d’Avrignywarned me of it. After the death of Barrois my suspicions were directedtowards an angel,—those suspicions which, even when there is no crime,are always alive in my heart; but after the death of Valentine, therehas been no doubt in my mind, madame, and not only in mine, but in thoseof others; thus your crime, known by two persons, suspected by many,will soon become public, and, as I told you just now, you no longerspeak to the husband, but to the judge.”

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  The young woman hid her face in her hands.

  “Oh, sir,” she stammered, “I beseech you, do not believe appearances.”

  “Are you, then, a coward?” cried Villefort, in a contemptuous voice.“But I have always observed that poisoners were cowards. Can you be acoward, you, who have had the courage to witness the death of two oldmen and a young girl murdered by you?”

  “Sir! sir!”

  “Can you be a coward?” continued Villefort, with increasing excitement,“you, who could count, one by one, the minutes of four death agonies?You, who have arranged your infernal plans, and removed the beverageswith a talent and precision almost miraculous? Have you, then, who havecalculated everything with such nicety, have you forgotten to calculateone thing—I mean where the revelation of your crimes will lead you to?Oh, it is impossible—you must have saved some surer, more subtle anddeadly poison than any other, that you might escape the punishment thatyou deserve. You have done this—I hope so, at least.”

  Madame de Villefort stretched out her hands, and fell on her knees.

  “I understand,” he said, “you confess; but a confession made to thejudges, a confession made at the last moment, extorted when the crimecannot be denied, diminishes not the punishment inflicted on theguilty!”

  “The punishment?” exclaimed Madame de Villefort, “the punishment,monsieur? Twice you have pronounced that word!”

  “Certainly. Did you hope to escape it because you were four timesguilty? Did you think the punishment would be withheld because you arethe wife of him who pronounces it?—No, madame, no; the scaffold awaitsthe poisoner, whoever she may be, unless, as I just said, the poisonerhas taken the precaution of keeping for herself a few drops of herdeadliest poison.”

  Madame de Villefort uttered a wild cry, and a hideous and uncontrollableterror spread over her distorted features.

  “Oh,
do not fear the scaffold, madame,” said the magistrate; “I will notdishonor you, since that would be dishonor to myself; no, if you haveheard me distinctly, you will understand that you are not to die on thescaffold.”

  “No, I do not understand; what do you mean?” stammered the unhappywoman, completely overwhelmed.

  “I mean that the wife of the first magistrate in the capital shall not,by her infamy, soil an unblemished name; that she shall not, with oneblow, dishonor her husband and her child.”

  “No, no—oh, no!”

  “Well, madame, it will be a laudable action on your part, and I willthank you for it!”

  “You will thank me—for what?”

  “For what you have just said.”

  “What did I say? Oh, my brain whirls; I no longer understand anything.Oh, my God, my God!”

  And she rose, with her hair dishevelled, and her lips foaming.

  “Have you answered the question I put to you on entering the room?—wheredo you keep the poison you generally use, madame?”

  Madame de Villefort raised her arms to heaven, and convulsively struckone hand against the other.

  “No, no,” she vociferated, “no, you cannot wish that!”

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  “What I do not wish, madame, is that you should perish on the scaffold.Do you understand?” asked Villefort.

  “Oh, mercy, mercy, monsieur!”

  “What I require is, that justice be done. I am on the earth to punish,madame,” he added, with a flaming glance; “any other woman, were it thequeen herself, I would send to the executioner; but to you I shall bemerciful. To you I will say, ‘Have you not, madame, put aside some ofthe surest, deadliest, most speedy poison?’”

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  “Oh, pardon me, sir; let me live!”

  “She is cowardly,” said Villefort.

  “Reflect that I am your wife!”

  “You are a poisoner.”

  “In the name of Heaven!”

  “No!”

  “In the name of the love you once bore me!”

  “No, no!”

  “In the name of our child! Ah, for the sake of our child, let me live!”

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  “No, no, no, I tell you; one day, if I allow you to live, you willperhaps kill him, as you have the others!”

  “I?—I kill my boy?” cried the distracted mother, rushing towardVillefort; “I kill my son? Ha, ha, ha!” and a frightful, demoniac laughfinished the sentence, which was lost in a hoarse rattle.

  Madame de Villefort fell at her husband’s feet. He approached her.

  “Think of it, madame,” he said; “if, on my return, justice has not beensatisfied, I will denounce you with my own mouth, and arrest you with myown hands!”

  She listened, panting, overwhelmed, crushed; her eye alone lived, andglared horribly.

  “Do you understand me?” he said. “I am going down there to pronounce thesentence of death against a murderer. If I find you alive on my return,you shall sleep tonight in the conciergerie.”

  Madame de Villefort sighed; her nerves gave way, and she sunk on thecarpet. The king’s attorney seemed to experience a sensation of pity; helooked upon her less severely, and, bowing to her, said slowly:

  “Farewell, madame, farewell!”

  That farewell struck Madame de Villefort like the executioner’s knife.She fainted. The procureur went out, after having double-locked thedoor.