The Count of Monte Cristo (Penguin Classics eBook)

  ‘Excuse me, Monsieur,’ Franz said, in the voice of a man who has made up his mind. ‘I should not like to miss this opportunity to prove to Monsieur Noirtier how wrong he would be to harbour any hostility towards me – and I am determined to overcome it, whatever the cause may be, by showing him my profound devotion.’

  Without allowing Villefort to detain him any longer, Franz got up and followed Valentine, who was already going down the stairs with the joy of a drowning person whose hand has touched a rock. M. de Villefort followed them.

  Château-Renaud and Morcerf exchanged a third look which was even more astonished than the first two.

  LXXV

  THE JUDICIAL ENQUIRY

  Noirtier was waiting, dressed in black and seated in his chair.

  When the three people he was expecting to see had entered, he looked at the door, which his valet immediately closed.

  ‘Mind what I say,’ Villefort whispered to Valentine, who could not disguise her joy. ‘If Monsieur Noirtier wants to tell you something that will prevent your marriage, I forbid you to understand him.’

  Valentine blushed but did not reply. Villefort went across to Noirtier. ‘Here is Monsieur Franz d’Epinay,’ he said. ‘You asked to see him, Monsieur, and he has acceded to your wishes. We have all doubtless wanted this interview to take place for a long time and I shall be delighted if it proves to you how ill-founded was your opposition to Valentine’s marriage.’

  Noirtier replied only with a look that turned Villefort’s blood to ice. Then the same eyes asked Valentine to come over to him. In a moment, thanks to the means which she usually employed in her conversations with her grandfather, she had found the word ‘key’. Then she looked at the invalid, who was staring hard at the drawer in a little table between the two windows. She opened the drawer and did indeed find a key inside it.

  Once she had the key and the old man had shown her that it was the right one, his eyes turned towards an old, long-forgotten writing-desk which everyone assumed to be full of useless papers.

  ‘Should I open the writing-desk?’ Valentine asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the old man indicated.

  ‘Should I open the drawers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The ones at the side?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The one in the middle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Valentine opened it and took out a bundle. ‘Is this what you want, grandfather?’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  She took out all the other papers in turn, until there was absolutely nothing left in the drawer. ‘It’s empty now,’ she said.

  Noirtier’s eyes were fastened on the dictionary.

  ‘Yes, grandpa, I understand,’ the young woman said. And she repeated each letter of the alphabet, one after another. At the letter ‘S’, Noirtier stopped her. She opened the dictionary and went down to the word ‘secret’.

  ‘Ah, there’s a secret!’ said Valentine.

  ‘Yes,’ Noirtier replied.

  ‘Who knows it?’

  Noirtier looked towards the door, through which the servant had just left.

  ‘Barrois?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Noirtier.

  ‘Should I call him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She went to the door and called Barrois.

  Meanwhile Villefort was sweating with impatience and Franz was struck dumb with astonishment.

  The old servant appeared.

  ‘Barrois,’ said Valentine, ‘my grandfather has asked me to take the key out of this console, open the desk and pull out this drawer. Now there is some secret compartment to this drawer which, it appears, you know; please open it.’

  Barrois looked at the old man.

  ‘Obey,’ said Noirtier’s intelligent eye. Barrois did so. A hidden compartment opened and revealed a bundle of papers, tied with a black ribbon.

  ‘Is this what you want, Monsieur?’ Barrois asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Noirtier.

  ‘To whom should I give these papers? To Monsieur de Villefort?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘To Mademoiselle Valentine?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘To Monsieur Franz d’Epinay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Franz, in astonishment, took a step backwards. ‘To me, Monsieur?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Barrois handed him the papers and, looking at the cover, Franz read:

  To be entrusted after my death to my friend General Durand, who will himself, when he dies, bequeath this packet to his son, with instructions to keep it, since it contains a document of the greatest importance.

  ‘Well, then, Monsieur,’ Franz asked, ‘what would you like me to do with this document?’

  ‘To preserve it, sealed, as it is, no doubt,’ said the crown prosecutor.

  ‘No, no,’ Noirtier replied vigorously.

  ‘Perhaps you would like the gentleman to read it?’ Valentine asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the old man replied.

  ‘Did you understand, Baron? My grandfather is asking you to read the paper,’ Valentine said.

  ‘In that case, let’s sit down,’ Villefort said impatiently. ‘This will take some time.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said the old man’s eye.

  Villefort did so, but Valentine remained standing beside her father and leaning on the back of his chair, with Franz in front of him. The mysterious piece of paper was in his hand.

  ‘Read,’ said the old man’s look.

  Franz unwrapped the envelope and everything in the room fell silent. In the midst of this, he read: ‘Abstract of the proceedings of the session of the Bonapartist Club in the Rue Saint-Jacques, held on February the fifth, 1815.’ At that, Franz paused and exclaimed: ‘February the fifth, 1815! That is the day on which my father was assassinated!’

  Valentine and Villefort said nothing; only the old man’s eye clearly commanded him to read on.

  ‘But it was after he left this very club that my father disappeared,’ Franz said.

  Noirtier’s look still said: ‘Read!’

  Franz continued: ‘We, the undersigned Louis-Jacques Beaurepaire, lieutenant-colonel in the artillery, Etienne Duchampy, brigadier, and Claude Lecharpal, director of forestry,

  ‘Hereby declare that on February the fourth, 1815, a letter reached us from the island of Elba, recommending to the members of the Bonapartist Club, General Flavien de Quesnel who, having served the emperor from 1804 to 1815, was worthy of their trust and goodwill, as being entirely devoted to the Napoleonic dynasty, despite the title of baron with which King Louis XVIII had just endowed his estate of Epinay.

  ‘A letter was consequently sent to General de Quesnel inviting him to take part in the following day’s session, February the fifth. This letter did not inform the general of either the street or the number of the house in which the meeting was to be held, but asked him to be ready for someone to collect him at nine o’clock in the evening. Meetings were held between nine and midnight.

  ‘At nine o’clock the president of the club called on the general. The latter was ready. The president told him that one condition of his admission was that he should always remain ignorant of the venue for the meeting, and that he should allow his eyes to be bound, swearing that he would not try to raise the blindfold. General de Quesnel accepted this condition and promised on his honour not to try to see where he was to be led.

  ‘He had asked for his carriage to be prepared, but the president told him that it could not under any circumstances be used, since there was no sense in blindfolding the master if his coachman was to keep his eyes open and recognize the streets through which they drove.

  ‘ “What is to be done, then?” asked the general.

  ‘ “I have my own carriage,” said the president.

  ‘ “Are you then so sure of your coachman that you would confide in him a secret that you consider unwise to impart to mine?”

  ‘ “Our coachman belongs to the club,” said the pr
esident. “We are to be driven by a member of the council of state.”

  ‘ “In that case,” the general said, laughing, “We are running a different risk, which is that we shall end in the ditch!”

  ‘We cite this pleasantry as evidence that the general was in no way obliged to take part in the meeting, but attended it of his own free will.

  ‘Once they had got into the coach, the president reminded the general of his promise to let his eyes be bound. The general made no objection to this formality and it was carried out with a scarf, left ready for the purpose in the coach. As they were driving, the president thought he observed the general trying to look under his blindfold and again reminded him of his oath. “Of course,” said the general.

  ‘The carriage stopped in a driveway off the Rue Saint-Jacques. The general got down, guided by the hand of the president, without being aware of the latter’s eminence: he took him to be a simple member of the club. Crossing the drive, they went up to the first floor of the house and into the council chamber.

  ‘The meeting had already begun. The members of the club, informed of the person who was to be introduced that evening, were all present. The general was led to the centre of the room and asked to take off his blindfold. He immediately complied and seemed very astonished at finding so many well-known faces in an organization, the very existence of which until then he had not even suspected.

  ‘He was questioned about his loyalties, but contented himself with the answer that the letters from Elba must have made clear…’

  Franz stopped reading. ‘My father was a Royalist,’ he said. ‘There was no need to ask him about his loyalities, which were well known.’

  ‘Hence my own attachment to him,’ said Villefort. ‘When two people share the same ideas, my dear Franz, they easily become attached to one another.’

  ‘Read!’ the old man said with a look.

  Franz continued: ‘Here, the president requested the general to explain himself more fully, but Monsieur de Quesnel replied that his chief wish was to know what they wanted of him.

  ‘He was then acquainted with the contents of the letter from the island of Elba, recommending him to the club as a man whose help and co-operation could be counted on. One paragraph dealt at length with the emperor’s probable return from Elba and promised a further letter with more details on the arrival of the ship Pharaon, belonging to the shipowner Morrel, of Marseille, whose captain was entirely devoted to the imperial cause.

  ‘Throughout the time that this was being read, the general, on whom the company had thought they could rely as on a brother, gave on the contrary visible signs of disgust and dissatisfaction. When the letter had been read, he remained silent, with lowered brow.

  ‘ “Well?” the president asked. “What do you say to this letter, Monsieur le Général?”

  ‘ “I say that it is a little soon,” he replied, “since we gave our oaths to King Louis XVIII, for us to violate them on behalf of the former emperor.” This time the reply was too unambiguous for there to be any mistake about his feelings.

  ‘ “General,” the president said, “for us there is no present King Louis XVIII any more than there is any former emperor. There is only His Majesty the King and Emperor, who for ten months has been exiled from France, his state, by violence and treachery.”

  ‘ “Excuse me, gentlemen,” said the general. “It may be that for you there is no King Louis XVIII, but there is one for me, since it was he who made me baron and brigadier. I shall never forget that I owe these two titles to his fortunate return to France.”

  ‘ “Monsieur,” the president said, in the gravest tones, rising to his feet, ‘beware of what you are saying. Your words clearly demonstrate that our friends on Elba were mistaken about you and that they misled us. What you have been told depended on the confidence we had in you and, consequently, on a belief that did you honour. Now it appears we were wrong: a title and a military rank have led you to transfer your loyalty to the new government that we wish to overthrow. We shall not oblige you to assist us: we would not enrol anyone against his conscience and his will; but we shall oblige you to behave as a man of honour, even if you should not be inclined to do so.”

  ‘ “By man of honour you mean knowing of your conspiracy and not revealing it! I for my part should describe this as being your accomplice. You see that I am even more open than you are.’”

  ‘Oh, father,’ said Franz, pausing. ‘Now I understand why they killed you.’

  Valentine could not help glancing at Franz: the young man was truly handsome in his filial devotion. Villefort was pacing up and down behind him, and Noirtier’s eyes searched the face of everyone there, while the man’s attitude remained stern and dignified.

  Franz went back to the manuscript and continued: ‘ “Monsieur,” the president said, “we asked you to come to this meeting, we did not drag you here by force. When we suggested blindfolding you, you did not demur. By agreeing to these two requests, you knew perfectly well that we were not concerned with bolstering up the throne of King Louis XVIII, because in that case we should not have taken so much trouble to hide from the police. Now, you understand, it would be too convenient if one could put on a mask in order to uncover people’s secrets and then have simply to take off that mask to destroy those who have trusted in you. No, no, you must first of all say frankly if you support this present fortuitous monarch or His Majesty the Emperor.”

  ‘ “I am a Royalist,” the general replied. “I have sworn an oath to Louis XVIII and I shall keep it.”

  ‘At these words a murmur ran round the room and, from the looks exchanged between several members of the club, it was evident that they were debating the question of whether Monsieur d’Epinay should be made to regret these rash words.

  ‘The president rose once more and called for silence. “Monsieur,” he said, “you are too serious and sensible a man not to realize the consequences of the situation in which we stand towards one another. Your very frankness dictates the conditions that we must now impose on you: you must therefore swear on your honour that you will reveal nothing of what you have heard.”

  ‘The general reached for his sword: “Since you mention honour, then at least start by not ignoring the rules of honour, and do not attempt to impose anything by violence.”

  ‘ “And you, Monsieur,” the president went on, with a calm that was perhaps more awful than the general’s anger, “I advise you not to touch your sword.”

  ‘The general looked around him with an expression which betrayed a hint of anxiety. However, he still did not give way but, on the contrary, summoning up all his strength, he said: “I shall not swear!”

  ‘ “In that case, Monsieur, you will die,” the president replied calmly.

  ‘Monsieur d’Epinay became very pale. Once more he looked all around him. Several members of the club were muttering and searching for weapons under their cloaks.

  ‘ “Calm yourself, general,” the president said. “You are among men of honour who will try every means to persuade you, before turning to the last resort. But, as you said, you are also among conspirators and in possession of our secret, so you must restore it to us.”

  ‘A highly charged silence followed these words and, since the general did not reply, the president ordered the footmen to close the doors. The same deathly silence followed this order. Then the general came forward and, making a violent effort to control his feelings, said: “I have a son, and I must think of him, now that I find myself among murderers.”

  ‘ “General,” the leader of the assembly said, with dignity, “a single man always has the right to insult fifty: that is the privilege of weakness. However, he is wrong to exercise that right. Believe me, you would do better to swear and not to abuse us.”

  ‘Once more reduced to silence by the other’s moral superiority, the general hesitated for a moment; then, at last, he walked across to the president’s desk and asked: “What is the form of words you require?”

  ??
? “The following: I swear on my honour never to reveal to anyone in the world what I saw and heard on February the fifth, 1815, between nine and ten o’clock in the evening, and I declare that I deserve the punishment of death if I should violate this oath.”

  ‘The general appeared to suffer a nervous tremor that for some seconds prevented him from replying. At length, overcoming his obvious reluctance, he did utter the words required of him, but in such a low voice that it could hardly be heard. Several members therefore demanded that he should repeat it more loudly, and this was done.

  ‘ “Now I wish to leave,” the general said. “Am I free at last?”

  ‘The president stood up, nominated three members of the group to accompany him and, after blindfolding the general, got into the carriage with him. One of the three members was the coachman who had brought them. The other members of the club dispersed in silence.

  ‘ “Where would you like us to take you?” the president asked.

  ‘ “Wherever I can be delivered from your presence,” Monsieur d’Epinay answered.

  ‘ “Take care, Monsieur,” the president warned. “You are no longer in a large company – you are dealing with individuals. Don’t insult them unless you wish to take responsibility for your remarks.”

  ‘But, instead of taking his meaning, Monsieur d’Epinay replied: “You are still as bold in your carriage as you were in your club, for no other reason, Monsieur, than that four men are always stronger than one.”

  ‘The president called on the driver to stop the carriage. They had just arrived at the end of the Quai des Ormes, where there is a stairway leading down to the river.

  ‘ “Why have you pulled up here?” Monsieur d’Epinay asked.

  ‘ “Because you have insulted a man, Monsieur,” said the president, “and this man does not want to take a step further without demanding that you make honourable amends.”

  ‘ “Here is yet another method of assassination,” said the general, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘ “Silence!” the president replied. “Unless you wish me to consider you as one of those people you referred to a short while ago, that is to say, as a coward who uses his weakness as a shield. You are alone, and one man alone will answer you. You have a sword at your side, and I have one in this cane. You have no second, but one of these gentlemen will serve you. Now, if you are agreeable, you can take off your blindfold.”