No sooner were they seated than the dishes were handed round. Arles sausages, brown of meat and piquant of flavour, lobsters and prawns in brilliant red shells, sea-urchins whose prickly exteriors resemble chestnuts just fallen from the trees, cockles esteemed by the epicure of the South as surpassing the oyster of the North, in fact every delicacy which the sea washes up on to the sandy beach, and which the fishermen call sea-fruit.
“What a silent party!” old Dantès remarked as he caught a whiff of the fragrant yellow wine that old Pamphile himself had just put before Mercédès. “Who would think there are thirty light-hearted and merry people assembled here!”
“A husband is not always light-hearted,” Caderousse replied.
“The fact is,” said Dantès, “at the present moment I am too happy to be gay. If that is what you mean by your remark, neighbour Caderousse, you are quite right. Joy has that peculiar effect that at times it oppresses us just as much as grief.”
Danglars looked at Fernand, whose impressionable nature was keenly alive to every emotion.
“Well, I never!” said he; “are you anticipating trouble? It seems to me you have everything you can desire.”
“That is just what alarms me,” said Dantès. “I cannot help thinking it is not man’s lot to attain happiness so easily. Good fortune is like the palaces of the enchanted isles, the gates of which were guarded by dragons. Happiness could only be obtained by overcoming these dragons, and I, I know not how I have deserved the honour of becoming Mercédès’ husband.”
“Husband?” said Caderousse, laughing. “Nay, captain, not yet. Act towards her as if you were husband, and you will see how she will like it.”
Mercédès blushed, but made no reply. Fernand grew very restless: he started at every sound, and from time to time wiped away the perspiration that gathered on his brow like large drops of rain, the precursors of a storm.
“Upon my word, neighbour Caderousse, it is hardly worth while taking notice of such a little slip on my part,” Dantès said. “’Tis true that Mercédès is not yet my wife, but . . .” here he pulled out his watch—“she will be in an hour and a half. Yes, my friends, thanks to the influence of Monsieur Morrel, to whom, after my father, I owe all I possess, every difficulty has been removed. We have got a special licence, and at half-past two the Mayor of Marseilles will be awaiting us at the Hôtel de Ville. As it has just struck a quarter-past one I think I am quite right in saying that in another hour and thirty minutes Mercédès will have changed her name to Madame Dantès.”
Fernand closed his eyes, for they gave him a burning pain; he leant against the table to save himself from falling, but in spite of his effort he could not restrain a groan, which, however, was lost amid the noisy congratulations of the company.
“This feast, then, is not in honour of your betrothal, as we supposed, but is your wedding breakfast?”
“Not at all,” said Dantès. “I leave for Paris to-morrow morning. Four days to go, four days to return, one day to execute my commission, and I shall be back again on the first of March. We will have our real wedding breakfast the very next day.”
At this moment Danglars noticed that Fernand, on whom he had kept an observant eye and who was seated at the window overlooking the street, suddenly opened his haggard eyes, rose with a convulsive movement and staggered back on to his seat. Almost at the same moment a confused noise was heard on the stairs. The tread of heavy steps and the hubbub of many voices, together with the clanking of swords and military accoutrements, drowned the merry voices of the bridal party. The laughter died away. An ominous silence fell on all as the noise drew nearer, and when three peremptory knocks resounded on the door, they looked at each other with uneasy glances.
“Open in the name of the law!” cried a peremptory voice. There was no answer.
The door opened, and a police commissary entered, followed by four armed soldiers and a corporal.
“What is all this about?” the shipowner asked, advancing toward the commissary, whom he knew. “I fear there must be some mistake.”
“If there is a mistake, Monsieur Morrel,” the commissary replied, “you may rest assured that it will be promptly put right. In the meantime I am the bearer of a warrant for arrest, and, though I regret the task assigned me, it must nevertheless be carried out. Which of you gentlemen answers to the name of Edmond Dantès?”
Every eye was turned on the young man as he stepped forward, obviously agitated, but with great dignity of bearing, and said:
“I do, monsieur. What do you want of me?”
“Edmond Dantès, I arrest you in the name of the law.”
“You arrest me?” said Dantès, changing colour. “Why, I pray?”
“I know not, monsieur. Your first examination will give you all information on that score.”
Resistance was useless, but old Dantès did not comprehend this. There are certain things the heart of a father or a mother will never understand. He threw himself at the officer’s feet and begged and implored, but his tears and supplications were of no avail.
“There is no call for alarm, monsieur,” the commissary said at last, touched by the old man’s despair. “Perhaps your son has but neglected to carry out some customs formality or health regulation, in which case he will probably be released as soon as he has given the desired information.”
In the meantime Dantès, with a smile on his face, had shaken hands with all his friends and had surrendered himself to the officer, saying:
“Do not be alarmed. You may depend on it there is some mistake which will probably be cleared up even before I reach the prison.”
“To be sure. I am ready to vouch for your innocence,” Danglars said as he joined the group round the prisoner.
Dantés descended the stairs preceded by the police officer and surrounded by soldiers. A carriage stood at the door. He got in, followed by two soldiers and the commissary. The door was shut, and the carriage took the road back to Marseilles.
“Good-bye, Edmond, oh, my Edmond! Good-bye!” Mercédès called out, leaning over the balcony.
The prisoner heard these last words sobbed from his sweetheart’s breast, and, putting his head out of the window, simply called out: “Au revoir, my Mercédès!”
The carriage then disappeared round the corner of Fort Saint-Nicholas.
“Await me here,” M. Morrel said to the rest of the party. “I shall take the first carriage I can find to take me to Marseilles, and shall bring you back news.”
“Yes, do go,” they all cried out. “Go, and come back with all possible speed.”
The guests, who had been making merry but a short time before, now gave way to a feeling of terror. They feverishly discussed the arrest from every point of view. Danglars was loud in his assertion that it was merely a trifling case of suspected smuggling: the customs officials had been aboard the Pharaon during their absence and something had aroused their suspicion: M. the purser was sure of it. But Mercédès felt, rather than knew, that the arrest had some deeper significance. She suddenly gave way to a wild fit of sobbing.
“Come, come, my child, do not give up hope,” said old Dantès, hardly knowing what he was saying.
“Hope!” repeated Danglars.
Fernand also tried to repeat this word of comfort, but it seemed to choke him; his lips moved but no word came from them.
“A carriage! A carriage!” cried one of the guests, who had stayed on the balcony on the look-out. “It is Monsieur Morrel. Cheer up! He is no doubt bringing us good news.”
Mercédès and the old father rushed out to the door to meet the shipowner. The latter entered, looking very grave.
“My friends,” he said, with a gloomy shake of the head, “it is a far more serious matter than we supposed.”
“Oh, Monsieur Morrel,” Mercédès exclaimed. “I know he is innocent!”
“I also believe in his innocence,” replied the shipowner, “but he is accused of being an agent of the Bonapartist faction!”
> Those of my readers who are well acquainted with the period of my story must be aware of the gravity of such an announcement. Consternation and dismay were written on the faces of the assembled guests as the party silently and sadly broke up.
Fernand, who had now become the horror-stricken girl’s only protector, led her home, while some of Edmond’s friends took charge of the brokenhearted father; and it was soon rumoured in the town that Dantès had been arrested as a Bonapartist agent.
“Would you have believed it, Danglars?” M. Morrel asked as he hastened to the town with his purser and Caderousse in the hopes of receiving direct news of Edmond through his acquaintance, M. de Villefort, the Deputy of the Procureur du Roi.
“Why, monsieur, you may perhaps remember I told you that Dantès anchored off the Isle of Elba without any apparent reason. I had my suspicions at the time.”
“Did you mention these suspicions to anyone but myself ?”
“God forbid,” exclaimed Danglars; and then in a low whisper he added: “You know, monsieur, that on account of your uncle who served under the old Government and does not attempt to hide his feelings, you are also suspected of sympathizing with Napoleon; so if I mentioned my suspicions, I should be afraid of injuring not only Edmond, but you also. There are certain things it is the duty of a subordinate to tell his master, but to conceal from everyone else.”
“Quite right, Danglars. You are a good fellow. I had not forgotten your interests in the event of poor Dantès becoming captain.”
“In what respect, monsieur?”
“I asked Dantès to give me his opinion of you and to say whether he would have any objection to your retaining your post, for it seemed to me that I had noticed a certain coolness between you two of late.”
“What answer did he give you?”
“He merely referred to some personal grievance he had against you, but said that any person who enjoyed his master’s confidence was also sure of his.”
“The hypocrite!” Danglars muttered.
“Poor Dantès!” said Caderousse. “He’s the right sort, and that’s a fact.”
“Quite agreed,” said M. Morrel, “but in the meantime the Pharaon is captainless.”
“We cannot put to sea for another three months,” Danglars added, “and it is to be hoped that Dantès will be released before then.”
“No doubt, but in the meantime . . . ?”
“I am at your service. You know that I am as capable of managing a ship as the most experienced captain. Then when Dantès comes out of prison, he can take his post and I will resume mine.”
“Thanks, Danglars, that would be a way out of the difficulty. I therefore authorize you to assume command of the Pharaon and superintend the loading of the cargo. No matter what misfortune befalls any one of us, we cannot let business suffer.” So saying, he proceeded in the direction of the law courts.
“So far everything is succeeding wonderfully,” Danglars said to himself. “I am already temporary captain, and if that fool of a Caderousse can be persuaded to hold his tongue, I shall soon have the job for good and all.”
Chapter V
THE DEPUTY PROCUREUR DU ROI
In one of the old mansions built by Puget in the Rue du Grand Cours, opposite the fountain of the Medusa, another betrothal feast was being celebrated on the same day, and at the same hour, as that which took place in the humble inn. There was, however, a great difference in the company present. Instead of members of the working class and soldiers and sailors, there was to be seen the flower of Marseilles society: former magistrates, who had resigned their office under the usurper’s reign, old officers who had deserted their posts to join Condé’si army, young men in whom their families had kindled a hatred for the man whom five years of exile were to convert into a martyr and fifteen years of restoration into a demi-god.
The guests were still at table. Their heated and excitable conversation betrayed the passions of the period, passions which in the South had been so much more terrible and unrestrained during the past five years, since religious hatred had been added to political hatred. The Emperor, king of the Isle of Elba after having held sovereign sway over one half of the world, now reigning over five or six thousand souls after having heard “Long live Napoleon” uttered by a hundred and twenty million subjects, and in ten different languages—the Emperor was regarded as a man that was lost to the throne of France for ever. The magistrates recounted political blunders, the military officers discussed Moscow and Leipzig,j the ladies aired their views on his divorce from Josephine.k It was not in the downfall of the man that these royalists rejoiced and gloried, but rather in the annihilation of the principle, for it seemed to them that they were awakening from a dreadful nightmare and were about to enter upon a new life.
An old man, the Marquis of Saint-Méran, wearing the cross of Saint-Louis, rose and proposed the health of King Louis XVIII.
The toast, recalling the exiled but peace-loving King of France, elicited an enthusiastic and almost poetic response; glasses were raised after the English fashion, and the ladies, taking their bouquets from their dresses, strewed the table with flowers.
“Ah,” said the Marquise de Saint-Méran, a woman with a forbidding eye, thin lips, and an aristocratic and elegant bearing despite her fifty years, “if those revolutionists were here who drove us out of our old castles, which they bought for a mere song, and in which we left them to conspire against each other during the Reign of Terror, they would have to own that true devotion was on our side. We attached ourselves to a crumbling monarchy; they, on the contrary, worshipped the rising sun and made their fortunes, while we lost all we possessed. They would be compelled to own that our king was truly Louis the Well-beloved to us, while their usurper has never been more to them than Napoleon the Accursed! Don’t you agree with me, de Villefort?”
“What did you say, madame? I must crave your pardon. I was not listening to the conversation.”
“Leave the young people alone,” interposed the old gentleman who had proposed the toast. “They are thinking of their approaching wedding, and naturally they have more interesting subjects of conversation than politics.”
“I am sorry, Mother,” said a beautiful, fair-haired girl with eyes of velvet floating in a pool of mother-o’-pearl. “I will give up Monsieur de Villefort to you, for I have been monopolizing him for some few minutes. Monsieur de Villefort, my mother is speaking to you.”
“I am at your service, madame, if you would be kind enough to repeat your question,” M. de Villefort said.
“You are forgiven, Renée,” said the Marquise with a smile of tenderness that one hardly expected to see on that dry hard face. “I was saying, Villefort, that the Bonapartists had neither our conviction, nor our enthusiasm, nor our devotion.”
“No, madame, but they had fanaticism to take the place of all those other virtues. Napoleon is the Mahometl of the West to all those plebeian but highly ambitious people; he is not only a legislator and a master, he is a type, the personification of equality.”
“Equality?” exclaimed the Marquise. “Napoleon the personification of equality! Do you know, Villefort, that what you say has a very strong revolutionary flavour? But I excuse you; one cannot expect the son of a Girondinm to be quite free from a spice of the old leaven.”
A deep crimson suffused the countenance of Villefort.
“It is true that my father was a Girondin, madame, but he did not vote for the King’s death. My father was an equal sufferer with yourself during the Reign of Terror, and he well-nigh lost his head on the same scaffold which saw your father’s head fall.”
“True,” said the Marquise, “but they would have mounted the scaffold for reasons diametrically opposed, the proof being that whereas my family have all adhered to the exiled princes, your father lost no time in rallying to the new government, and that after Citizen Noirtier had been a Girondin, Count Noirtier became a senator.”
“Mother,” said Renée, “you know we agreed not to
discuss such painful reminiscences any more.”
“I quite agree with Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran,” de Villefort replied. “For my own part, I have discarded not only the views, but also the name of my father. My father has been, and possibly still is, a Bonapartist and bears the name of Noirtier. I am a royalist and style myself de Villefort.”
“Well said, Villefort!” the Marquis replied. “I have always urged the Marquise to forget the past, but I have never been able to prevail upon her to do so. I hope you will be more fortunate than I.”
“Very well, then,” the Marquise rejoined. “Let it be agreed that we forget the past. But, Villefort, should a conspirator fall into your hands, remember that there will be so many more eyes watching you since it is known that you come of a family which is perhaps in league with the conspirators.”
“Alas, madame,” Villefort replied, “my profession and especially the times in which we live compel me to be severe. I have already had several political prosecutions which have given me the opportunity of proving my convictions. Unfortunately we have not yet done with such offenders.”
“Don’t you think so?” the Marquise inquired.
“I am afraid not. Napoleon on the Isle of Elba is very near to France; his presence there, almost in view of our coasts, stimulates the hopes of his partisans.”
At this moment a servant entered and whispered something into his ear. Villefort, excusing himself, left the table, returning a few minutes later.
“Renée,” he said, as he looked tenderly on his betrothed, “who would have a lawyer for her husband? I have no moment to call my own. I am even called away from my betrothal feast.”
“Why are you called away?” the girl asked anxiously.