The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated

by Alexandre Dumas

  Chapter 110. The Indictment

  The judges took their places in the midst of the most profound silence;the jury took their seats; M. de Villefort, the object of unusualattention, and we had almost said of general admiration, sat in thearmchair and cast a tranquil glance around him. Everyone looked withastonishment on that grave and severe face, whose calm expressionpersonal griefs had been unable to disturb, and the aspect of a man whowas a stranger to all human emotions excited something very like terror.

  “Gendarmes,” said the president, “lead in the accused.”

  At these words the public attention became more intense, and all eyeswere turned towards the door through which Benedetto was to enter. Thedoor soon opened and the accused appeared.

  The same impression was experienced by all present, and no one wasdeceived by the expression of his countenance. His features bore no signof that deep emotion which stops the beating of the heart and blanchesthe cheek. His hands, gracefully placed, one upon his hat, the other inthe opening of his white waistcoat, were not at all tremulous; his eyewas calm and even brilliant. Scarcely had he entered the hall when heglanced at the whole body of magistrates and assistants; his eye restedlonger on the president, and still more so on the king’s attorney.

  By the side of Andrea was stationed the lawyer who was to conduct hisdefence, and who had been appointed by the court, for Andrea disdainedto pay any attention to those details, to which he appeared to attach noimportance. The lawyer was a young man with light hair whose faceexpressed a hundred times more emotion than that which characterized theprisoner.

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  The president called for the indictment, revised as we know, by theclever and implacable pen of Villefort. During the reading of this,which was long, the public attention was continually drawn towardsAndrea, who bore the inspection with Spartan unconcern. Villefort hadnever been so concise and eloquent. The crime was depicted in the mostvivid colors; the former life of the prisoner, his transformation, areview of his life from the earliest period, were set forth with all thetalent that a knowledge of human life could furnish to a mind like thatof the procureur. Benedetto was thus forever condemned in public opinionbefore the sentence of the law could be pronounced.

  Andrea paid no attention to the successive charges which were broughtagainst him. M. de Villefort, who examined him attentively, and who nodoubt practiced upon him all the psychological studies he was accustomedto use, in vain endeavored to make him lower his eyes, notwithstandingthe depth and profundity of his gaze. At length the reading of theindictment was ended.

  “Accused,” said the president, “your name and surname?”

  Andrea arose.

  “Excuse me, Mr. President,” he said, in a clear voice, “but I see youare going to adopt a course of questions through which I cannot followyou. I have an idea, which I will explain by and by, of making anexception to the usual form of accusation. Allow me, then, if youplease, to answer in different order, or I will not do so at all.”

  The astonished president looked at the jury, who in turn looked atVillefort. The whole assembly manifested great surprise, but Andreaappeared quite unmoved.

  “Your age?” said the president; “will you answer that question?”

  “I will answer that question, as well as the rest, Mr. President, but inits turn.”

  “Your age?” repeated the president.

  “I am twenty-one years old, or rather I shall be in a few days, as I wasborn the night of the 27th of September, 1817.”

  M. de Villefort, who was busy taking down some notes, raised his head atthe mention of this date.

  “Where were you born?” continued the president.

  “At Auteuil, near Paris.”

  M. de Villefort a second time raised his head, looked at Benedetto as ifhe had been gazing at the head of Medusa, and became livid. As forBenedetto, he gracefully wiped his lips with a fine cambric pocket-handkerchief.

  “Your profession?”

  “First I was a forger,” answered Andrea, as calmly as possible; “then Ibecame a thief, and lately have become an assassin.”

  A murmur, or rather storm, of indignation burst from all parts of theassembly. The judges themselves appeared to be stupefied, and the jurymanifested tokens of disgust for a cynicism so unexpected in a man offashion. M. de Villefort pressed his hand upon his brow, which, at firstpale, had become red and burning; then he suddenly arose and lookedaround as though he had lost his senses—he wanted air.

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  “Are you looking for anything, Mr. Procureur?” asked Benedetto, with hismost ingratiating smile.

  M. de Villefort answered nothing, but sat, or rather threw himself downagain upon his chair.

  “And now, prisoner, will you consent to tell your name?” said thepresident. “The brutal affectation with which you have enumerated andclassified your crimes calls for a severe reprimand on the part of thecourt, both in the name of morality, and for the respect due tohumanity. You appear to consider this a point of honor, and it may befor this reason, that you have delayed acknowledging your name. Youwished it to be preceded by all these titles.”

  “It is quite wonderful, Mr. President, how entirely you have read mythoughts,” said Benedetto, in his softest voice and most polite manner.“This is, indeed, the reason why I begged you to alter the order of thequestions.”

  The public astonishment had reached its height. There was no longer anydeceit or bravado in the manner of the accused. The audience felt that astartling revelation was to follow this ominous prelude.

  “Well,” said the president; “your name?”

  “I cannot tell you my name, since I do not know it; but I know myfather’s, and can tell it to you.”

  A painful giddiness overwhelmed Villefort; great drops of acrid sweatfell from his face upon the papers which he held in his convulsed hand.

  “Repeat your father’s name,” said the president.

  Not a whisper, not a breath, was heard in that vast assembly; everyonewaited anxiously.

  “My father is king’s attorney,” replied Andrea calmly.

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  “King’s attorney?” said the president, stupefied, and without noticingthe agitation which spread over the face of M. de Villefort; “king’sattorney?”

  “Yes; and if you wish to know his name, I will tell it,—he is namedVillefort.”

  The explosion, which had been so long restrained from a feeling ofrespect to the court of justice, now burst forth like thunder from thebreasts of all present; the court itself did not seek to restrain thefeelings of the audience. The exclamations, the insults addressed toBenedetto, who remained perfectly unconcerned, the energetic gestures,the movement of the gendarmes, the sneers of the scum of the crowdalways sure to rise to the surface in case of any disturbance—all thislasted five minutes, before the door-keepers and magistrates were ableto restore silence. In the midst of this tumult the voice ofthepresident was heard to exclaim:

  “Are you playing with justice, accused, and do you dare set your fellow-citizens an example of disorder which even in these times has never beenequalled?”

  Several persons hurried up to M. de Villefort, who sat half bowed overin his chair, offering him consolation, encouragement, and protestationsof zeal and sympathy. Order was re-established in the hall, except thata few people still moved about and whispered to one another. A lady, itwas said, had just fainted; they had supplied her with a smelling-bottle, and she had recovered. During the scene of tumult, Andrea hadturned his smiling face towards the assembly; then, leaning with onehand on the oaken rail of the dock, in the most graceful attitudepossible, he said:

  “Gentlemen, I assure you I had no idea of insulting the court, or ofmaking a useless disturbance in the presence of this honorable assembly.They ask my age; I tell it. They ask where I was born; I answer. Theyask my name, I cannot give it, since my parents abandoned me. But thoughI cannot give my own name, not possessing one, I can tell them myfather’s. Now I repeat, my father
is named M. de Villefort, and I amready to prove it.”

  There was an energy, a conviction, and a sincerity in the manner of theyoung man, which silenced the tumult. All eyes were turned for a momenttowards the procureur, who sat as motionless as though a thunderbolt hadchanged him into a corpse.

  “Gentlemen,” said Andrea, commanding silence by his voice and manner; “Iowe you the proofs and explanations of what I have said.”

  “But,” said the irritated president, “you called yourself Benedetto,declared yourself an orphan, and claimed Corsica as your country.”

  “I said anything I pleased, in order that the solemn declaration I havejust made should not be withheld, which otherwise would certainly havebeen the case. I now repeat that I was born at Auteuil on the night ofthe 27th of September, 1817, and that I am the son of the procureur, M.de Villefort. Do you wish for any further details? I will give them. Iwas born in No. 28, Rue de la Fontaine, in a room hung with red damask;my father took me in his arms, telling my mother I was dead, wrapped mein a napkin marked with an H and an N, and carried me into a garden,where he buried me alive.”

  A shudder ran through the assembly when they saw that the confidence ofthe prisoner increased in proportion to the terror of M. de Villefort.

  “But how have you become acquainted with all these details?” asked thepresident.

  “I will tell you, Mr. President. A man who had sworn vengeance againstmy father, and had long watched his opportunity to kill him, hadintroduced himself that night into the garden in which my father buriedme. He was concealed in a thicket; he saw my father bury something inthe ground, and stabbed him; then thinking the deposit might containsome treasure he turned up the ground, and found me still living. Theman carried me to the foundling asylum, where I was registered under thenumber 37. Three months afterwards, a woman travelled from Rogliano toParis to fetch me, and having claimed me as her son, carried me away.Thus, you see, though born in Paris, I was brought up in Corsica.”

  There was a moment’s silence, during which one could have fancied thehall empty, so profound was the stillness.

  “Proceed,” said the president.

  “Certainly, I might have lived happily amongst those good people, whoadored me, but my perverse disposition prevailed over the virtues whichmy adopted mother endeavored to instil into my heart. I increased inwickedness till I committed crime. One day when I cursed Providence formaking me so wicked, and ordaining me to such a fate, my adopted fathersaid to me, ‘Do not blaspheme, unhappy child, the crime is that of yourfather, not yours,—of your father, who consigned you to hell if youdied, and to misery if a miracle preserved you alive.’ After that Iceased to blaspheme, but I cursed my father. That is why I have utteredthe words for which you blame me; that is why I have filled this wholeassembly with horror. If I have committed an additional crime, punishme, but if you will allow that ever since the day of my birth my fatehas been sad, bitter, and lamentable, then pity me.”

  “But your mother?” asked the president.

  “My mother thought me dead; she is not guilty. I did not even wish toknow her name, nor do I know it.”

  Just then a piercing cry, ending in a sob, burst from the centre of thecrowd, who encircled the lady who had before fainted, and who now fellinto a violent fit of hysterics. She was carried out of the hall, thethick veil which concealed her face dropped off, and Madame Danglars wasrecognized. Notwithstanding his shattered nerves, the ringing sensationin his ears, and the madness which turned his brain, Villefort rose ashe perceived her.

  “The proofs, the proofs!” said the president; “remember this tissue ofhorrors must be supported by the clearest proofs.”

  “The proofs?” said Benedetto, laughing; “do you want proofs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, look at M. de Villefort, and then ask me for proofs.”

  Everyone turned towards the procureur, who, unable to bear the universalgaze now riveted on him alone, advanced staggering into the midst of thetribunal, with his hair dishevelled and his face indented with the markof his nails. The whole assembly uttered a long murmur of astonishment.

  “Father,” said Benedetto, “I am asked for proofs, do you wish me to givethem?”

  “No, no, it is useless,” stammered M. de Villefort in a hoarse voice;“no, it is useless!”

  “How useless?” cried the president, “what do you mean?”

  “I mean that I feel it impossible to struggle against this deadly weightwhich crushes me. Gentlemen, I know I am in the hands of an avengingGod! We need no proofs; everything relating to this young man is true.”

  A dull, gloomy silence, like that which precedes some awful phenomenonof nature, pervaded the assembly, who shuddered in dismay.

  “What, M. de Villefort,” cried the president, “do you yield to anhallucination? What, are you no longer in possession of your senses?This strange, unexpected, terrible accusation has disordered yourreason. Come, recover.”

  The procureur dropped his head; his teeth chattered like those of a manunder a violent attack of fever, and yet he was deadly pale.

  “I am in possession of all my senses, sir,” he said; “my body alonesuffers, as you may suppose. I acknowledge myself guilty of all theyoung man has brought against me, and from this hour hold myself underthe authority of the procureur who will succeed me.”

  And as he spoke these words with a hoarse, choking voice, he staggeredtowards the door, which was mechanically opened by a door-keeper. Thewhole assembly were dumb with astonishment at the revelation andconfession which had produced a catastrophe so different from that whichhad been expected during the last fortnight by the Parisian world.

  “Well,” said Beauchamp, “let them now say that drama is unnatural!”

  “Ma foi!” said Château-Renaud, “I would rather end my career like M. deMorcerf; a pistol-shot seems quite delightful compared with thiscatastrophe.”

  “And moreover, it kills,” said Beauchamp.

  “And to think that I had an idea of marrying his daughter,” said Debray.“She did well to die, poor girl!”

  “The sitting is adjourned, gentlemen,” said the president; “freshinquiries will be made, and the case will be tried next session byanother magistrate.”

  As for Andrea, who was calm and more interesting than ever, he left thehall, escorted by gendarmes, who involuntarily paid him some attention.

  “Well, what do you think of this, my fine fellow?” asked Debray of thesergeant-at-arms, slipping a louis into his hand.

  “There will be extenuating circumstances,” he replied.