The Count of Monte Cristo

  Consequently, as we have said, she hurried round to Debray’s. Like everyone else in Paris, he had been present on the evening of the contract and had witnessed the scandal that followed, and had now lost no time in retiring to his club, where he was discussing with a few friends the event which was by now a subject of conversation for three-quarters of the inhabitants of the supremely talkative town, known as the capital of the world.

  Just as Mme Danglars, dressed in a black robe and hidden behind a veil, was climbing the stairs to Debray’s apartment, despite the concierge’s assurance that the young gentleman was not at home, Debray was engaged in refuting the arguments of a friend who had tried to persuade him that, after the dreadful scandal that had taken place, it was his duty as a friend of the house to marry Mlle Eugénie Danglars and her two million francs.

  Debray was defending himself like a man who asks nothing better than to be defeated. The idea had often occurred to him of its own accord. But then from time to time, knowing Eugénie, with her independent and haughty character, he would adopt a completely defensive attitude, saying that the match was impossible; yet meanwhile allowing himself to be secretly titillated by the wicked thought that (if moralists are to be believed) incessantly worries at the most honest and the purest of man, lurking in the depth of his soul like Satan behind the Cross. The conversation, as one can see, was interesting, since it involved matters of such gravity and, with tea and gambling, lasted until one in the morning.

  Meanwhile the valet had shown Mme Danglars into Lucien’s apartment, where she waited, veiled and tremulous, in the little green drawing-room between two baskets of flowers that she herself had sent that morning and which Debray, it must be said, had trimmed and set in tiers with a care that made the poor woman forgive his absence.

  At twenty to twelve, Mme Danglars grew tired of waiting, got back in her cab and had herself driven home.

  Society women have this in common with successful courtesans: they do not usually return home after midnight. The baroness slipped back into the house as unobtrusively as Eugénie had left it: her heart beating, she tiptoed up the stairs to her apartment which, as we know, was next to Eugénie’s. She was so afraid of causing tongues to wag and, poor woman – respectable at least in this respect – believed so firmly in her daughter’s innocence and attachment to the paternal home!

  When she got in, she listened at Eugénie’s door and then, hearing no sound, tried to open it; but the bolts were shut.

  Mme Danglars assumed that Eugénie, exhausted by the dreadful emotions of the evening, had gone to bed and was sleeping. She called the chambermaid and questioned her.

  ‘Mademoiselle Eugénie went to her room,’ the chambermaid said, ‘with Mademoiselle d’Armilly. Then they took tea together and after that sent me away, saying that they had no further need of me.’

  Since then the chambermaid had been in the servants’ quarters and, like everyone else, thought that the two young ladies were in their room. So Mme Danglars went to bed without the slightest suspicion; but, though her mind was at rest as far as the participants were concerned, it worried about the events.

  As her ideas became clearer, the significance of the incident grew larger. It was no longer a mere scandal, it was a pandemonium; it was no longer a matter of shame, but of ignominy. Now the baroness involuntarily recalled how pitiless she had been towards poor Mercédès, recently afflicted with as great a misfortune through her husband and her son.

  ‘Eugénie,’ she thought, ‘is ruined, and so are we. The affair, in the way it will be represented, covers us with opprobrium: in a society such as ours, certain forms of ridicule are open wounds, bleeding and incurable.’

  ‘How fortunate,’ she murmured, ‘that God gave Eugénie that strange character which has so often been a cause of concern to me!’ And she looked gratefully up towards heaven from which some mysterious Providence arranges everything in advance according to what will occur and sometimes transforms a defect, or even a vice, into a piece of good fortune.

  Then her thoughts soared through space, like a bird extending its wings to cross an abyss, and alighted on Cavalcanti. ‘That Andrea was a wretch, a thief, an assassin; yet the same Andrea had manners which indicated at least a half-education, if not a complete one; this same Andrea presented himself to society with an appearance of great wealth and the support of honourable names.’

  How could she see her way through this puzzle? Whom could she ask for help in this cruel dilemma?

  As a woman, her first instinct, which sometimes proves fatal, had been to look for help from the man she loved, but Debray could only offer advice. She must turn to someone more powerful.

  This was when the baroness thought of M. de Villefort.

  It was M. de Villefort who had wanted to have Cavalcanti arrested; it was M. de Villefort who had pitilessly brought discord into the heart of her family, as if it had been foreign to him.

  But no, on reflection, the crown prosecutor was not a pitiless man. He was a judge and the prisoner of duty, a firm and loyal friend who, with an unrelenting but practised hand, had applied a scalpel to corruption. He was not an executioner but a surgeon, a surgeon who wanted to cut Danglars’ honour free from the ignominy of that irredeemable young man whom they had introduced to society as their son-in-law.

  If M. de Villefort, a friend of the Danglars family, acted in that way, there was no further reason to suppose that the crown prosecutor had known anything in advance or had any complicity in Andrea’s intrigues. So, on reflection, Villefort’s conduct still appeared to the baroness in a light that showed it to their mutual advantage. But here his inflexibility must stop. She would go and see him the next day and persuade him to agree, not to fail in his judicial duties, but at least to make full allowances for them.

  She would appeal to the past. She would refresh his memories and beg him in the name of a time that was guilty, but happy. M. de Villefort would be flexible about the matter, or at least – for this, he would only need to turn a blind eye – at least he would let Cavalcanti escape and prosecute the crime only against that shadow of a criminal who can be tried in absentia.

  Then, only then, would she sleep easily.

  The following day she got up at nine o’clock and, without ringing for her chambermaid or giving any sign of life to anyone, she dressed, with the same simplicity as on the previous evening, then went down the stairs and out of the Danglars residence, walked as far as the Rue de Provence, got into a cab and had herself driven to M. de Villefort’s house.

  For the past month this accursed place had had the mournful appearance of a lazaretto during an outbreak of the plague. Some of the rooms were closed, inside and out. The closed shutters would only open to let in air; and then one might see a lackey’s terrified face at the window, which would then shut like a tombstone falling back on a sepulchre, while the neighbours were whispering: ‘Shall we see another coffin come out of the crown prosecutor’s house today?’

  Mme Danglars shuddered at the appearance of this desolate house. She got out of her cab and, her knees giving way beneath her, went up to the closed door and rang the bell.

  It was only at the third ring of the bell, whose mournful tinkling seemed to participate in the general sadness, that a concierge appeared, opening the door just wide enough to let out his words.

  He saw a woman, a lady, elegantly dressed; but despite this the door remained almost shut.

  ‘Come on!’ said the baroness. ‘Open up.’

  ‘Firstly, Madame, who are you?’ the concierge asked.

  ‘Who am I? But you know me perfectly well.’

  ‘We don’t know anyone any more, Madame.’

  ‘But, my good fellow, you’re mad!’ exclaimed the baroness.

  ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘This really is too much!’

  ‘Excuse me, Madame, it’s orders. Your name?’

  ‘Baroness Danglars. You’ve seen me twenty times.’

  ‘Quite possibly, M
adame. Now what do you want?’

  ‘Oh! What a cheek! I’ll complain to Monsieur de Villefort about the impertinence of his staff.’

  ‘Madame, it’s not impertinence, it’s a precaution. No one comes in here without a word from Monsieur d’Avrigny or without having business with the crown prosecutor.’

  ‘Well, as it happens I do have business with the crown prosecutor.’

  ‘Urgent business?’

  ‘As you must see, since I have not yet got back into my carriage. But let’s make an end of this: here is my card; take it to your master.’

  ‘Will Madame wait here?’

  ‘Yes. Go on.’

  The concierge closed the door, leaving Mme Danglars in the street.

  Admittedly she did not have to wait long. A short time later the door opened wide enough to admit her. She went through and it closed behind her. Once they were in the courtyard, the concierge, without for a moment losing sight of the door, took a whistle out of his pocket and blew it. Monsieur de Villefort’s valet appeared on the steps.

  ‘Madame must forgive that good fellow,’ he said, coming down to meet her. ‘He has precise orders and Monsieur de Villefort asked me to tell Madame that he could not have done otherwise.’

  Also in the courtyard there was a supplier, who had been admitted only after the same precautions and whose merchandise was being examined.

  The baroness went up the steps. She was deeply affected by the prevailing mood which seemed, as it were, to extend the circle of her own melancholy. Still guided by the valet, she was shown into the magistrate’s study without her guide once losing sight of her.

  Preoccupied though she was by what had brought her here, the reception she had been given by all these underlings seemed to her so undeserved that Mme Danglars started to complain. But Villefort raised a head so bowed down with sorrow and looked at her with such a sad smile that the complaint died on her lips.

  ‘Please excuse my servants for a regime of terror for which I cannot blame them. Suspect themselves, they have become suspicious.’

  Mme Danglars had often heard people speak of this regime of terror which the judge mentioned, but if she had not seen it with her own eyes she could never have believed that it could have been taken to this point.

  ‘So you too are unhappy?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Madame,’ the judge replied.

  ‘Then you must feel for me?’

  ‘I do, Madame, sincerely.’

  ‘And you understand why I’m here?’

  ‘You want to talk to me about what is happening to you, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur. A terrible disaster.’

  ‘You mean, a mishap.’

  ‘A mishap!’ the baroness cried.

  ‘Alas, Madame,’ the crown prosecutor replied imperturbably, ‘I have reached the point where I only describe what is irreparable as a disaster.’

  ‘Ah, Monsieur! Do you think people will forget… ?’

  ‘People forget everything, Madame,’ said Villefort. ‘Your daughter’s marriage will take place tomorrow, if not today; or in a week, if not tomorrow. And as for regretting Mademoiselle Eugénie’s intended spouse, I can’t imagine you would do that.’

  Mme Danglars stared at Villefort, amazed by this almost mocking imperturbability. ‘Am I in the presence of a friend?’ she asked in a voice full of pained dignity.

  ‘You know you are,’ Villefort replied, blushing as he gave this assurance. In fact it alluded to events other than the ones that were on his mind and that of the baroness at that moment.

  ‘Well then, my dear Villefort,’ the baroness said, ‘be more affectionate. Speak to me as a friend and not as a judge; and when I am deeply unhappy, don’t tell me I should be joyful.’

  Villefort bowed. ‘When I hear tell of misfortunes, Madame,’ he said, ‘I have, in the past three months, acquired the unfortunate habit of thinking about my own; this selfish comparison takes place in my mind in spite of myself. This is why, beside my misfortunes, yours seemed to me a mishap; this is why, beside my dreadful situation, yours seemed to me something to envy; but it upsets you, so let’s forget it. You were saying, Madame?’

  ‘I have come to ask you, my friend,’ the baroness resumed, ‘how the affair of this impostor stands at present.’

  ‘Impostor!’ Villefort repeated. ‘Assuredly, Madame, you are determined to extenuate certain things and exaggerate others. Monsieur Andrea Cavalcanti – or, rather, Monsieur Benedetto – an impostor! You are mistaken, Madame: Monsieur Benedetto is nothing more or less than a murderer.’

  ‘Monsieur, I don’t deny that you are right to correct me; but the more harshly you arm yourself against this unfortunate, the harder you will strike our family. Come, forget him for the moment. Instead of pursuing him, let him escape.’

  ‘You have come too late, Madame. The orders have been given.’

  ‘Well, if he is arrested… Do you think they will arrest him?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘If he is arrested… listen, I hear that the prisons are overflowing – well, leave him in prison.’

  The crown prosecutor shook his head.

  ‘At least until my daughter is married,’ the baroness added.

  ‘Impossible, Madame. The law has its procedures.’

  ‘Even for me?’ the baroness asked, half joking, half serious.

  ‘For everyone,’ Villefort replied. ‘And for me as for everyone else.’

  ‘Ah!’ the baroness exclaimed, without putting into words what her thoughts had revealed by this exclamation.

  Villefort looked at her with the look he used to sound out a person’s thoughts. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘You are referring to those dreadful rumours that are circulating, that there is something unnatural about all those deaths which over the past three months have clothed me in mourning, and the death from which Valentine has just escaped, as if by a miracle.’

  ‘I was not thinking of that,’ Mme Danglars hastened to say.

  ‘Yes, Madame, you were, and it’s only fair, because you could not do otherwise than to think of it; and you were saying to yourself: you hunt out crime, so why are there crimes in your house that go unpunished?’

  The baroness blushed.

  ‘You were thinking that, were you not, Madame?’

  ‘I confess, I was.’

  ‘Then I shall answer you.’

  Villefort drew his chair up close to that of Mme Danglars and, resting both hands on his desk and adopting a more subdued tone than usual, he said: ‘There are crimes that go unpunished because the criminals are not known and one is afraid of striking an innocent head instead of a guilty one; but when these criminals are discovered –’ here Villefort reached out his hand towards a crucifix hanging opposite his desk and repeated ‘– when these criminals are discovered, by the living God, Madame, whoever they are, they shall die! Now, after the oath I have just sworn, and which I shall keep, do you dare, Madame, to ask my pardon for that wretch?’

  ‘Well, now, Monsieur,’ said Mme Danglars, ‘are you sure that he is as guilty as they say?’

  ‘Listen: here is his record. Benedetto, sentenced first of all to five years in the galleys for forgery, at the age of sixteen. As you can see, the young man showed promise. Then an escaped convict, then a murderer.’

  ‘And who is he, the wretch?’

  ‘Who knows? A tramp, a Corsican.’

  ‘He has not been claimed by anyone?’

  ‘No one. His parents are unknown.’

  ‘But the man who came from Lucca?’

  ‘Another crook, his accomplice perhaps.’

  The baroness clasped her hands. ‘Villefort,’ she began, in her sweetest and most cajoling tone.

  ‘For God’s sake, Madame,’ the prosecutor replied, with a resolve that was somewhat unfeeling. ‘For God’s sake, never ask me to pardon a guilty man. What am I? The law. Does the law have eyes to see your sorrow? Does the law have ears to hear your soft pleadings? Does the law h
ave a memory to make itself the conduit for your tender thoughts? No, Madame, the law orders and when it orders, it strikes.

  ‘You will tell me that I am a living being and not a book of laws; a man, not a rule. Look at me, Madame; look around me: have men treated me as a brother? Have they loved me? Have they considered me? Have they spared me? Has anyone ever begged pardon for Monsieur de Villefort, and has anyone ever granted a pardon to Monsieur de Villefort? No, no, no! Struck, struck and struck again!

  ‘You insist, woman, siren that you are, in speaking to me with that charming and expressive look that reminds me I should blush. Yes, yes, blush for what you know about, and perhaps for other things as well.

  ‘But in the end, since I myself failed and was found wanting – more profoundly perhaps than other men; well, since that time I have shaken out their clothes to discover a blemish, and I have always found it; I will say more: I have found it with joy, this evidence of human weakness and perversity.

  ‘Every man that I found guilty, every guilty man that I punished, seemed to me a living proof, a proof constantly renewed, that I was not some hideous exception! Alas, alas, alas! The whole world is wicked, Madame, so let us prove it and strike down the wicked man!’

  Villefort uttered these final words with a feverish vehemence that gave them a kind of savage eloquence.

  Madame Danglars decided to try one last effort. ‘But,’ she said, ‘you tell me this young man is a tramp, an orphan, abandoned by everyone?’

  ‘Too bad, too bad – or, rather, so much the better. Providence has ensured that no one will weep for him.’

  ‘But this is striking at the weak, Monsieur.’

  ‘A weak man who kills!’

  ‘His dishonour will reflect on my house.’

  ‘Do I not have death in mine?’

  ‘Ah, Monsieur,’ cried the baroness, ‘you have no pity for your fellow man. Well, I tell you now: there will be no pity for you!’