The Count of Monte Cristo

Chapter 6. The Deputy Procureur du Roi-2

executioner. I leave you to judge how far your nerves are calculated to

bear you through such a scene. Of this, however, be assured, that should

any favorable opportunity present itself, I will not fail to offer you

the choice of being present.”

“For shame, M. de Villefort!” said Renée, becoming quite pale; “don’t

you see how you are frightening us?—and yet you laugh.”

“What would you have? ’Tis like a duel. I have already recorded sentence

of death, five or six times, against the movers of political

conspiracies, 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 more

terrified; “you surely are not in earnest.”

“Indeed I am,” replied the young magistrate with a smile; “and in the

interesting trial that young lady is anxious to witness, the case would

only be still more aggravated. Suppose, for instance, the prisoner, as

is more than probable, to have served under Napoleon—well, can you

expect for an instant, that one accustomed, at the word of his

commander, to rush fearlessly on the very bayonets of his foe, will

scruple more to drive a stiletto into the heart of one he knows to be

his personal enemy, than to slaughter his fellow-creatures, merely

because bidden to do so by one he is bound to obey? Besides, one

requires the excitement of being hateful in the eyes of the accused, in

order 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, as

though 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 my

eloquence.” Renée uttered a smothered exclamation.

“Bravo!” cried one of the guests; “that is what I call talking to some

purpose.”

“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 dear

Villefort!” remarked a third; “I mean the trial of the man for murdering

his father. Upon my word, you killed him ere the executioner had laid

his hand upon him.”

“Oh, as for parricides, and such dreadful people as that,” interposed

Renée, “it matters very little what is done to them; but as regards poor

unfortunate creatures whose only crime consists in having mixed

themselves 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 who

shall plot or contrive aught against the life and safety of the parent

of thirty-two millions of souls, is a parricide upon a fearfully great

scale?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” replied Renée; “but, M. de

Villefort, you have promised me—have you not?—always to show mercy to

those I plead for.”

“Make yourself quite easy on that point,” answered Villefort, with one

of his sweetest smiles; “you and I will always consult upon our

verdicts.”

“My love,” said the marquise, “attend to your doves, your lap-dogs, and

embroidery, but do not meddle with what you do not understand. Nowadays

the military profession is in abeyance and the magisterial robe is the

badge of honor. There is a wise Latin proverb that is very much in

point.”

“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 some

other profession than your own—a physician, for instance. Do you know I

always felt a shudder at the idea of even a destroying angel?”

“Dear, good Renée,” whispered Villefort, as he gazed with unutterable

tenderness on the lovely speaker.

“Let us hope, my child,” cried the marquis, “that M. de Villefort may

prove the moral and political physician of this province; if so, he will

have achieved a noble work.”

“And one which will go far to efface the recollection of his father’s

conduct,” added the incorrigible marquise.

“Madame,” replied Villefort, with a mournful smile, “I have already had

the honor to observe that my father has—at least, I hope so—abjured his

past errors, and that he is, at the present moment, a firm and zealous

friend to religion and order—a better royalist, possibly, than his son;

for he has to atone for past dereliction, while I have no other impulse

than warm, decided preference and conviction.” Having made this well-

turned speech, Villefort looked carefully around to mark the effect of

his oratory, much as he would have done had he been addressing the bench

in open court.

“Do you know, my dear Villefort,” cried the Comte de Salvieux, “that is

exactly what I myself said the other day at the Tuileries, when

questioned by his majesty’s principal chamberlain touching the

singularity of an alliance between the son of a Girondin and the

daughter of an officer of the Duc de Condé; and I assure you he seemed

fully to comprehend that this mode of reconciling political differences

was based upon sound and excellent principles. Then the king, who,

without our suspecting it, had overheard our conversation, interrupted

us by saying, ‘Villefort’—observe that the king did not pronounce the

word Noirtier, but, on the contrary, placed considerable emphasis on

that of Villefort—‘Villefort,’ said his majesty, ‘is a young man of

great judgment and discretion, who will be sure to make a figure in his

profession; I like him much, and it gave me great pleasure to hear that

he was about to become the son-in-law of the Marquis and Marquise de

Saint-Méran. I should myself have recommended the match, had not the

noble marquis anticipated my wishes by requesting my consent to it.’”

“Is it possible the king could have condescended so far as to express

himself so favorably of me?” asked the enraptured Villefort.

“I give you his very words; and if the marquis chooses to be candid, he

will confess that they perfectly agree with what his majesty said to

him, when he went six months ago to consult him upon the subject of your

espousing his daughter.”

“That is true,” answered the marquis.

“How much do I owe this gracious prince! What is there I would not do to

evince 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 will

not prosper, and that Providence will only permit petty offenders, poor

debtors, and miserable cheats to fall into M. de Villefort’s hands,—then

I shall be contented.”

“Just the same as though you prayed that a physician might only be

called upon to prescribe for headaches, measles, and the stings of

wasps, or any other slight affection of the epidermis. If you wish to

see me the king’s attorney, you must desire for me some of those violent

and dangerous diseases from the cure of which so much honor redounds to

the physician.”

At this moment, and as though the utterance of Villefort’s wish had

sufficed to effect its accomplishment, a servant entered the room, and

whispered a few words in his ear. Villefort immediately rose from table

and quitted the room upon the plea of urgent business; he soon, however,

returned, his whole face beaming with delight. Renée regarded him with

fond affection; and certainly his handsome features, lit up as they then

were with more than usual fire and animation, seemed formed to excite

the innocent admiration with which she gazed on her graceful and

intelligent lover.

“You were wishing just now,” said Villefort, addressing her, “that I

were a doctor instead of a lawyer. Well, I at least resemble the

disciples of Esculapius in one thing [people spoke in this style in

1815], that of not being able to call a day my own, not even that of my

betrothal.”

“And wherefore were you called away just now?” asked Mademoiselle de

Saint-Méran, with an air of deep interest.

“For a very serious matter, which bids fair to make work for the

executioner.”

“How dreadful!” exclaimed Renée, turning pale.

“Is it possible?” burst simultaneously from all who were near enough to

the magistrate to hear his words.

“Why, if my information prove correct, a sort of Bonapartist conspiracy

has just been discovered.”

“Can I believe my ears?” cried the marquise.

“I will read you the letter containing the accusation, at least,” said

Villefort:

“‘The king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and the

religious institutions of his country, that one named Edmond Dantès,

mate of the ship Pharaon, this day arrived from Smyrna, after having

touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been the bearer of a letter

from Murat to the usurper, and again taken charge of another letter from

the usurper to the Bonapartist club in Paris. Ample corroboration of

this statement may be obtained by arresting the above-mentioned Edmond

Dantès, who either carries the letter for Paris about with him, or has

it at his father’s abode. Should it not be found in the possession of

father or son, then it will assuredly be discovered in the cabin

belonging to the said Dantès on board the Pharaon.’”

“But,” said Renée, “this letter, which, after all, is but an anonymous

scrawl, is not even addressed to you, but to the king’s attorney.”

“True; but that gentleman being absent, his secretary, by his orders,

opened his letters; thinking this one of importance, he sent for me, but

not finding me, took upon himself to give the necessary orders for

arresting 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 yet

pronounce him guilty.”

“He is in safe custody,” answered Villefort; “and rely upon it, if the

letter 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 your

duty to linger with us. You are the king’s servant, and must go wherever

that service calls you.”

“Oh, Villefort!” cried Renée, clasping her hands, and looking towards

her lover with piteous earnestness, “be merciful on this the day of our

betrothal.”

The young man passed round to the side of the table where the fair

pleader sat, and leaning over her chair said tenderly:

“To give you pleasure, my sweet Renée, I promise to show all the lenity

in my power; but if the charges brought against this Bonapartist hero

prove correct, why, then, you really must give me leave to order his

head 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 will

soon get over these things.” So saying, Madame de Saint-Méran extended

her dry bony hand to Villefort, who, while imprinting a son-in-law’s

respectful salute on it, looked at Renée, as much as to say, “I must try

and fancy ’tis your dear hand I kiss, as it should have been.”

“These are mournful auspices to accompany a betrothal,” sighed poor

Renée.

“Upon my word, child!” exclaimed the angry marquise, “your folly exceeds

all bounds. I should be glad to know what connection there can possibly

be 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 that

to 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 departed

with paradise in his heart.