The Count of Monte Cristo

Chapter 7. The Examination

Chapter 7. The Examination

No sooner had Villefort left the salon, than he assumed the grave air of

a man who holds the balance of life and death in his hands. Now, in

spite of the nobility of his countenance, the command of which, like a

finished actor, he had carefully studied before the glass, it was by no

means easy for him to assume an air of judicial severity. Except the

recollection of the line of politics his father had adopted, and which

might interfere, unless he acted with the greatest prudence, with his

own career, Gérard de Villefort was as happy as a man could be. Already

rich, he held a high official situation, though only twenty-seven. He

was about to marry a young and charming woman, whom he loved, not

passionately, but reasonably, as became a deputy attorney of the king;

and besides her personal attractions, which were very great,

Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran’s family possessed considerable political

influence, which they would, of course, exert in his favor. The dowry of

his wife amounted to fifty thousand crowns, and he had, besides, the

prospect of seeing her fortune increased to half a million at her

father’s death. These considerations naturally gave Villefort a feeling

of such complete felicity that his mind was fairly dazzled in its

contemplation.

At the door he met the commissary of police, who was waiting for him.

The sight of this officer recalled Villefort from the third heaven to

earth; he composed his face, as we have before described, and said, “I

have read the letter, sir, and you have acted rightly in arresting this

man; now inform me what you have discovered concerning him and the

conspiracy.”

“We know nothing as yet of the conspiracy, monsieur; all the papers

found have been sealed up and placed on your desk. The prisoner himself

is named Edmond Dantès, mate on board the three-master the Pharaon,

trading in cotton with Alexandria and Smyrna, and belonging to Morrel &

Son, of Marseilles.”

“Before he entered the merchant service, had he ever served in the

marines?”

“Oh, no, monsieur, he is very young.”

“How old?”

“Nineteen or twenty at the most.”

At this moment, and as Villefort had arrived at the corner of the Rue

des Conseils, a man, who seemed to have been waiting for him,

approached; it was M. Morrel.

“Ah, M. de Villefort,” cried he, “I am delighted to see you. Some of

your people have committed the strangest mistake—they have just arrested

Edmond Dantès, mate of my vessel.”

“I know it, monsieur,” replied Villefort, “and I am now going to examine

him.”

“Oh,” said Morrel, carried away by his friendship, “you do not know him,

and I do. He is the most estimable, the most trustworthy creature in the

world, and I will venture to say, there is not a better seaman in all

the merchant service. Oh, M. de Villefort, I beseech your indulgence for

him.”

Villefort, as we have seen, belonged to the aristocratic party at

Marseilles, Morrel to the plebeian; the first was a royalist, the other

suspected of Bonapartism. Villefort looked disdainfully at Morrel, and

replied coldly:

“You are aware, monsieur, that a man may be estimable and trustworthy in

private life, and the best seaman in the merchant service, and yet be,

politically speaking, a great criminal. Is it not true?”

The magistrate laid emphasis on these words, as if he wished to apply

them to the owner himself, while his eyes seemed to plunge into the

heart of one who, interceding for another, had himself need of

indulgence. Morrel reddened, for his own conscience was not quite clear

on politics; besides, what Dantès had told him of his interview with the

grand-marshal, and what the emperor had said to him, embarrassed him. He

replied, however, in a tone of deep interest:

“I entreat you, M. de Villefort, be, as you always are, kind and

equitable, and give him back to us soon.” This give us sounded

revolutionary in the deputy’s ears.

“Ah, ah,” murmured he, “is Dantès then a member of some Carbonari

society, that his protector thus employs the collective form? He was, if

I recollect, arrested in a tavern, in company with a great many others.”

Then he added, “Monsieur, you may rest assured I shall perform my duty

impartially, and that if he be innocent you shall not have appealed to

me in vain; should he, however, be guilty, in this present epoch,

impunity would furnish a dangerous example, and I must do my duty.”

As he had now arrived at the door of his own house, which adjoined the

Palais de Justice, he entered, after having, coldly saluted the

shipowner, who stood, as if petrified, on the spot where Villefort had

left him. The antechamber was full of police agents and gendarmes, in

the midst of whom, carefully watched, but calm and smiling, stood the

prisoner. Villefort traversed the antechamber, cast a side glance at

Dantès, and taking a packet which a gendarme offered him, disappeared,

saying, “Bring in the prisoner.”

Rapid as had been Villefort’s glance, it had served to give him an idea

of the man he was about to interrogate. He had recognized intelligence

in the high forehead, courage in the dark eye and bent brow, and

frankness in the thick lips that showed a set of pearly teeth.

Villefort’s first impression was favorable; but he had been so often

warned to mistrust first impulses, that he applied the maxim to the

impression, forgetting the difference between the two words. He stifled,

therefore, the feelings of compassion that were rising, composed his

features, and sat down, grim and sombre, at his desk. An instant after

Dantès entered. He was pale, but calm and collected, and saluting his

judge with easy politeness, looked round for a seat, as if he had been

in M. Morrel’s salon. It was then that he encountered for the first time

Villefort’s look,—that look peculiar to the magistrate, who, while

seeming to read the thoughts of others, betrays nothing of his own.

“Who and what are you?” demanded Villefort, turning over a pile of

papers, containing information relative to the prisoner, that a police

agent had given to him on his entry, and that, already, in an hour’s

time, had swelled to voluminous proportions, thanks to the corrupt

espionage of which “the accused” is always made the victim.

“My name is Edmond Dantès,” replied the young man calmly; “I am mate of

the Pharaon, belonging to Messrs. Morrel & Son.”

“Your age?” continued Villefort.

“Nineteen,” returned Dantès.

“What were you doing at the moment you were arrested?”

“I was at the festival of my marriage, monsieur,” said the young man,

his voice slightly tremulous, so great was the contrast between that

happy moment and the painful ceremony he was now undergoing; so great

was the contrast between the sombre aspect of M. de Villefort and the

radiant face of Mercédès.

“You were at the festival of your marriage?” said the deputy, shuddering

in spite of himself.

“Yes, monsieur; I am on the point of marrying a young girl I have been

attached to for three years.” Villefort, impassive as he was, was struck

with this coincidence; and the tremulous voice of Dantès, surprised in

the midst of his happiness, struck a sympathetic chord in his own

bosom—he also was on the point of being married, and he was summoned

from his own happiness to destroy that of another. “This philosophic

reflection,” thought he, “will make a great sensation at M. de Saint-

Méran’s;” and he arranged mentally, while Dantès awaited further

questions, the antithesis by which orators often create a reputation for

eloquence. When this speech was arranged, Villefort turned to Dantès.

“Go on, sir,” said he.

“What would you have me say?”

“Give all the information in your power.”

“Tell me on which point you desire information, and I will tell all I

know; only,” added he, with a smile, “I warn you I know very little.”

“Have you served under the usurper?”

“I was about to be mustered into the Royal Marines when he fell.”

“It is reported your political opinions are extreme,” said Villefort,

who had never heard anything of the kind, but was not sorry to make this

inquiry, as if it were an accusation.

“My political opinions!” replied Dantès. “Alas, sir, I never had any

opinions. I am hardly nineteen; I know nothing; I have no part to play.

If I obtain the situation I desire, I shall owe it to M. Morrel. Thus

all my opinions—I will not say public, but private—are confined to these

three sentiments,—I love my father, I respect M. Morrel, and I adore

Mercédès. This, sir, is all I can tell you, and you see how

uninteresting it is.” As Dantès spoke, Villefort gazed at his ingenuous

and open countenance, and recollected the words of Renée, who, without

knowing who the culprit was, had besought his indulgence for him. With

the deputy’s knowledge of crime and criminals, every word the young man

uttered convinced him more and more of his innocence. This lad, for he

was scarcely a man,—simple, natural, eloquent with that eloquence of the

heart never found when sought for; full of affection for everybody,

because he was happy, and because happiness renders even the wicked

good—extended his affection even to his judge, spite of Villefort’s

severe look and stern accent. Dantès seemed full of kindness.

“Pardieu!” said Villefort, “he is a noble fellow. I hope I shall gain

Renée’s favor easily by obeying the first command she ever imposed on

me. I shall have at least a pressure of the hand in public, and a sweet

kiss in private.” Full of this idea, Villefort’s face became so joyous,

that when he turned to Dantès, the latter, who had watched the change on

his physiognomy, was smiling also.

“Sir,” said Villefort, “have you any enemies, at least, that you know.”

“I have enemies?” replied Dantès; “my position is not sufficiently

elevated for that. As for my disposition, that is, perhaps, somewhat too

hasty; but I have striven to repress it. I have had ten or twelve

sailors under me, and if you question them, they will tell you that they

love and respect me, not as a father, for I am too young, but as an

elder brother.”

“But you may have excited jealousy. You are about to become captain at

nineteen—an elevated post; you are about to marry a pretty girl, who

loves you; and these two pieces of good fortune may have excited the

envy of someone.”

“You are right; you know men better than I do, and what you say may

possibly be the case, I confess; but if such persons are among my

acquaintances I prefer not to know it, because then I should be forced

to hate them.”

“You are wrong; you should always strive to see clearly around you. You

seem a worthy young man; I will depart from the strict line of my duty

to aid you in discovering the author of this accusation. Here is the

paper; do you know the writing?” As he spoke, Villefort drew the letter

from his pocket, and presented it to Dantès. Dantès read it. A cloud

passed over his brow as he said:

“No, monsieur, I do not know the writing, and yet it is tolerably plain.

Whoever did it writes well. I am very fortunate,” added he, looking

gratefully at Villefort, “to be examined by such a man as you; for this

envious person is a real enemy.” And by the rapid glance that the young

man’s eyes shot forth, Villefort saw how much energy lay hid beneath

this mildness.

“Now,” said the deputy, “answer me frankly, not as a prisoner to a

judge, but as one man to another who takes an interest in him, what

truth is there in the accusation contained in this anonymous letter?”

And Villefort threw disdainfully on his desk the letter Dantès had just

given back to him.

“None at all. I will tell you the real facts. I swear by my honor as a

sailor, by my love for Mercédès, by the life of my father——”

“Speak, monsieur,” said Villefort. Then, internally, “If Renée could see

me, I hope she would be satisfied, and would no longer call me a

decapitator.”

“Well, when we quitted Naples, Captain Leclere was attacked with a brain

fever. As we had no doctor on board, and he was so anxious to arrive at

Elba, that he would not touch at any other port, his disorder rose to

such a height, that at the end of the third day, feeling he was dying,

he called me to him. ‘My dear Dantès,’ said he, ‘swear to perform what I

am going to tell you, for it is a matter of the deepest importance.’

“‘I swear, captain,’ replied I.

“‘Well, as after my death the command devolves on you as mate, assume

the command, and bear up for the Island of Elba, disembark at Porto-

Ferrajo, ask for the grand-marshal, give him this letter—perhaps they

will give you another letter, and charge you with a commission. You will

accomplish what I was to have done, and derive all the honor and profit

from it.’

“‘I will do it, captain; but perhaps I shall not be admitted to the

grand-marshal’s presence as easily as you expect?’

“‘Here is a ring that will obtain audience of him, and remove every

difficulty,’ said the captain. At these words he gave me a ring. It was

time—two hours after he was delirious; the next day he died.”

“And what did you do then?”

“What I ought to have done, and what everyone would have done in my

place. Everywhere the last requests of a dying man are sacred; but with

a sailor the last requests of his superior are commands. I sailed for

the Island of Elba, where I arrived the next day; I ordered everybody to

remain on board, and went on shore alone. As I had expected, I found

some difficulty in obtaining access to the grand-marshal; but I sent the

ring I had received from the captain to him, and was instantly admitted.

He questioned me concerning Captain Leclere’s death; and, as the latter

had told me, gave me a letter to carry on to a person in Paris. I

undertook it because it was what my captain had bade me do. I landed

here, regulated the affairs of the vessel, and hastened to visit my

affianced bride, whom I found more lovely than ever. Thanks to M.

Morrel, all the forms were got over; in a word I was, as I told you, at

my marriage feast; and I should have been married in an hour, and

tomorrow I intended to start for Paris, had I not been arrested on this

charge which you as well as I now see to be unjust.”

“Ah,” said Villefort, “this seems to me the truth. If you have been

culpable, it was imprudence, and this imprudence was in obedience to the

orders of your captain. Give up this letter you have brought from Elba,

and pass your word you will appear should you be required, and go and

rejoin your friends.

“I am free, then, sir?” cried Dantès joyfully.

“Yes; but first give me this letter.”

“You have it already, for it was taken from me with some others which I

see in that packet.”

“Stop a moment,” said the deputy, as Dantès took his hat and gloves. “To

whom is it addressed?”

“To Monsieur Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, Paris.” Had a thunderbolt fallen

into the room, Villefort could not have been more stupefied. He sank

into his seat, and hastily turning over the packet, drew forth the fatal

letter, at which he glanced with an expression of terror.

“M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, No. 13,” murmured he, growing still paler.

“Yes,” said Dantès; “do you know him?”

“No,” replied Villefort; “a faithful servant of the king does not know

conspirators.”

“It is a conspiracy, then?” asked Dantès, who after believing himself

free, now began to feel a tenfold alarm. “I have, however, already told

you, sir, I was entirely ignorant of the contents of the letter.”

“Yes; but you knew the name of the person to whom it was addressed,”

said Villefort.

“I was forced to read the address to know to whom to give it.”

“Have you shown this letter to anyone?” asked Villefort, becoming still

more pale.

“To no one, on my honor.”

“Everybody is ignorant that you are the bearer of a letter from the

Island of Elba, and addressed to M. Noirtier?”

“Everybody, except the person who gave it to me.”

“And that was too much, far too much,” murmured Villefort. Villefort’s

brow darkened more and more, his white lips and clenched teeth filled

Dantès with apprehension. After reading the letter, Villefort covered

his face with his hands.

“Oh,” said Dantès timidly, “what is the matter?” Villefort made no

answer, but raised his head at the expiration of a few seconds, and

again perused the letter.

“And you say that you are ignorant of the contents of this letter?”

“I give you my word of honor, sir,” said Dantès; “but what is the

matter? You are ill—shall I ring for assistance?—shall I call?”

“No,” said Villefort, rising hastily; “stay where you are. It is for me

to give orders here, and not you.”

“Monsieur,” replied Dantès proudly, “it was only to summon assistance

for you.”

“I want none; it was a temporary indisposition. Attend to yourself;

answer me.” Dantès waited, expecting a question, but in vain. Villefort

fell back on his chair, passed his hand over his brow, moist with

perspiration, and, for the third time, read the letter.

“Oh, if he knows the contents of this!” murmured he, “and that Noirtier

is the father of Villefort, I am lost!” And he fixed his eyes upon

Edmond as if he would have penetrated his thoughts.

“Oh, it is impossible to doubt it,” cried he, suddenly.

“In heaven’s name!” cried the unhappy young man, “if you doubt me,

question me; I will answer you.” Villefort made a violent effort, and in

a tone he strove to render firm:

“Sir,” said he, “I am no longer able, as I had hoped, to restore you

immediately to liberty; before doing so, I must consult the trial

justice; what my own feeling is you already know.”

“Oh, monsieur,” cried Dantès, “you have been rather a friend than a

judge.”

“Well, I must detain you some time longer, but I will strive to make it

as short as possible. The principal charge against you is this letter,

and you see——” Villefort approached the fire, cast it in, and waited

until it was entirely consumed.

“You see, I destroy it?”

“Oh,” exclaimed Dantès, “you are goodness itself.”

“Listen,” continued Villefort; “you can now have confidence in me after

what I have done.”

“Oh, command, and I will obey.”

“Listen; this is not a command, but advice I give you.”

“Speak, and I will follow your advice.”

“I shall detain you until this evening in the Palais de Justice. Should

anyone else interrogate you, say to him what you have said to me, but do

not breathe a word of this letter.”

“I promise.” It was Villefort who seemed to entreat, and the prisoner

who reassured him.

“You see,” continued he, glancing toward the grate, where fragments of

burnt paper fluttered in the flames, “the letter is destroyed; you and I

alone know of its existence; should you, therefore, be questioned, deny

all knowledge of it—deny it boldly, and you are saved.”

“Be satisfied; I will deny it.”

“It was the only letter you had?”

“It was.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear it.”

Villefort rang. A police agent entered. Villefort whispered some words

in his ear, to which the officer replied by a motion of his head.

“Follow him,” said Villefort to Dantès. Dantès saluted Villefort and

retired. Hardly had the door closed when Villefort threw himself half-

fainting into a chair.

“Alas, alas,” murmured he, “if the procureur himself had been at

Marseilles I should have been ruined. This accursed letter would have

destroyed all my hopes. Oh, my father, must your past career always

interfere with my successes?” Suddenly a light passed over his face, a

smile played round his set mouth, and his haggard eyes were fixed in

thought.

“This will do,” said he, “and from this letter, which might have ruined

me, I will make my fortune. Now to the work I have in hand.” And after

having assured himself that the prisoner was gone, the deputy procureur

hastened to the house of his betrothed.