Chapter 99. The Law
We have seen how quietly Mademoiselle Danglars and Mademoiselled’Armilly accomplished their transformation and flight; the fact beingthat everyone was too much occupied in his or her own affairs to thinkof theirs.
We will leave the banker contemplating the enormous magnitude of hisdebt before the phantom of bankruptcy, and follow the baroness, whoafter being momentarily crushed under the weight of the blow which hadstruck her, had gone to seek her usual adviser, Lucien Debray. Thebaroness had looked forward to this marriage as a means of ridding herof a guardianship which, over a girl of Eugénie’s character, could notfail to be rather a troublesome undertaking; for in the tacit relationswhich maintain the bond of family union, the mother, to maintain herascendancy over her daughter, must never fail to be a model of wisdomand a type of perfection.
Now, Madame Danglars feared Eugénie’s sagacity and the influence ofMademoiselle d’Armilly; she had frequently observed the contemptuousexpression with which her daughter looked upon Debray,—an expressionwhich seemed to imply that she understood all her mother’s amorous andpecuniary relationships with the intimate secretary; moreover, she sawthat Eugénie detested Debray, not only because he was a source ofdissension and scandal under the paternal roof, but because she had atonce classed him in that catalogue of bipeds whom Plato endeavors towithdraw from the appellation of men, and whom Diogenes designated asanimals upon two legs without feathers.
Unfortunately, in this world of ours, each person views things through acertain medium, and so is prevented from seeing in the same light asothers, and Madame Danglars, therefore, very much regretted that themarriage of Eugénie had not taken place, not only because the match wasgood, and likely to insure the happiness of her child, but because itwould also set her at liberty. She ran therefore to Debray, who, afterhaving, like the rest of Paris, witnessed the contract scene and thescandal attending it, had retired in haste to his club, where he waschatting with some friends upon the events which served as a subject ofconversation for three-fourths of that city known as the capital of theworld.
At the precise time when Madame Danglars, dressed in black and concealedin a long veil, was ascending the stairs leading to Debray’s apartments,notwithstanding the assurances of the concierge that the young man wasnot at home, Debray was occupied in repelling the insinuations of afriend, who tried to persuade him that after the terrible scene whichhad just taken place he ought, as a friend of the family, to marryMademoiselle Danglars and her two millions. Debray did not defendhimself very warmly, for the idea had sometimes crossed his mind; still,when he recollected the independent, proud spirit of Eugénie, hepositively rejected it as utterly impossible, though the same thoughtagain continually recurred and found a resting-place in his heart. Tea,play, and the conversation, which had become interesting during thediscussion of such serious affairs, lasted till one o’clock in themorning.
Meanwhile Madame Danglars, veiled and uneasy, awaited the return ofDebray in the little green room, seated between two baskets of flowers,which she had that morning sent, and which, it must be confessed, Debrayhad himself arranged and watered with so much care that his absence washalf excused in the eyes of the poor woman.
At twenty minutes to twelve, Madame Danglars, tired of waiting, returnedhome. Women of a certain grade are like prosperous grisettes in onerespect, they seldom return home after twelve o’clock. The baronessreturned to the hotel with as much caution as Eugénie used in leavingit; she ran lightly upstairs, and with an aching heart entered herapartment, contiguous, as we know, to that of Eugénie. She was fearfulof exciting any remark, and believed firmly in her daughter’s innocenceand fidelity to the paternal roof. She listened at Eugénie’s door, andhearing no sound tried to enter, but the bolts were in place. MadameDanglars then concluded that the young girl had been overcome with theterrible excitement of the evening, and had gone to bed and to sleep.She called the maid and questioned her.
“Mademoiselle Eugénie,” said the maid, “retired to her apartment withMademoiselle d’Armilly; they then took tea together, after which theydesired me to leave, saying that they needed me no longer.”
Since then the maid had been below, and like everyone else she thoughtthe young ladies were in their own room; Madame Danglars, therefore,went to bed without a shadow of suspicion, and began to muse over therecent events. In proportion as her memory became clearer, theoccurrences of the evening were revealed in their true light; what shehad taken for confusion was a tumult; what she had regarded as somethingdistressing, was in reality a disgrace. And then the baroness rememberedthat she had felt no pity for poor Mercédès, who had been afflicted withas severe a blow through her husband and son.
“Eugénie,” she said to herself, “is lost, and so are we. The affair, asit will be reported, will cover us with shame; for in a society such asours satire inflicts a painful and incurable wound. How fortunate thatEugénie is possessed of that strange character which has so often mademe tremble!”
And her glance was turned towards heaven, where a mysterious Providencedisposes all things, and out of a fault, nay, even a vice, sometimesproduces a blessing. And then her thoughts, cleaving through space likea bird in the air, rested on Cavalcanti. This Andrea was a wretch, arobber, an assassin, and yet his manners showed the effects of a sort ofeducation, if not a complete one; he had been presented to the worldwith the appearance of an immense fortune, supported by an honorablename. How could she extricate herself from this labyrinth? To whom wouldshe apply to help her out of this painful situation? Debray, to whom shehad run, with the first instinct of a woman towards the man she loves,and who yet betrays her,—Debray could but give her advice, she mustapply to someone more powerful than he.
The baroness then thought of M. de Villefort. It was M. de Villefort whohad remorselessly brought misfortune into her family, as though they hadbeen strangers. But, no; on reflection, the procureur was not amerciless man; and it was not the magistrate, slave to his duties, butthe friend, the loyal friend, who roughly but firmly cut into the verycore of the corruption; it was not the executioner, but the surgeon, whowished to withdraw the honor of Danglars from ignominious associationwith the disgraced young man they had presented to the world as theirson-in-law. And since Villefort, the friend of Danglars, had acted inthis way, no one could suppose that he had been previously acquaintedwith, or had lent himself to, any of Andrea’s intrigues. Villefort’sconduct, therefore, upon reflection, appeared to the baroness as ifshaped for their mutual advantage. But the inflexibility of theprocureur should stop there; she would see him the next day, and if shecould not make him fail in his duties as a magistrate, she would, atleast, obtain all the indulgence he could allow. She would invoke thepast, recall old recollections; she would supplicate him by theremembrance of guilty, yet happy days. M. de Villefort would stifle theaffair; he had only to turn his eyes on one side, and allow Andrea tofly, and follow up the crime under that shadow of guilt called contemptof court. And after this reasoning she slept easily.
At nine o’clock next morning she arose, and without ringing for her maidor giving the least sign of her activity, she dressed herself in thesame simple style as on the previous night; then running downstairs, sheleft the hotel, walked to the Rue de Provence, called a cab, and droveto M. de Villefort’s house.
For the last month this wretched house had presented the gloomyappearance of a lazaretto infected with the plague. Some of theapartments were closed within and without; the shutters were only openedto admit a minute’s air, showing the scared face of a footman, andimmediately afterwards the window would be closed, like a gravestonefalling on a sepulchre, and the neighbors would say to each other in alow voice, “Will there be another funeral today at the procureur’shouse?”
Madame Danglars involuntarily shuddered at the desolate aspect of themansion; descending from the cab, she approached the door with tremblingknees, and rang the bell. Three times did the bell ring with a dull,heavy sound, seeming to participate, in
the general sadness, before theconcierge appeared and peeped through the door, which he opened justwide enough to allow his words to be heard. He saw a lady, afashionable, elegantly dressed lady, and yet the door remained almostclosed.
“Do you intend opening the door?” said the baroness.
“First, madame, who are you?”
“Who am I? You know me well enough.”
“We no longer know anyone, madame.”
“You must be mad, my friend,” said the baroness.
“Where do you come from?”
“Oh, this is too much!”
“Madame, these are my orders; excuse me. Your name?”
“The baroness Danglars; you have seen me twenty times.”
“Possibly, madame. And now, what do you want?”
“Oh, how extraordinary! I shall complain to M. de Villefort of theimpertinence of his servants.”
“Madame, this is precaution, not impertinence; no one enters herewithout an order from M. d’Avrigny, or without speaking to theprocureur.”
“Well, I have business with the procureur.”
“Is it pressing business?”
“You can imagine so, since I have not even brought my carriage out yet.But enough of this—here is my card, take it to your master.”
“Madame will await my return?”
“Yes; go.”
The concierge closed the door, leaving Madame Danglars in the street.She had not long to wait; directly afterwards the door was opened wideenough to admit her, and when she had passed through, it was again shut.Without losing sight of her for an instant, the concierge took a whistlefrom his pocket as soon as they entered the court, and blew it. Thevalet de chambre appeared on the door-steps.
“You will excuse this poor fellow, madame,” he said, as he preceded thebaroness, “but his orders are precise, and M. de Villefort begged me totell you that he could not act otherwise.”
In the court showing his merchandise, was a tradesman who had beenadmitted with the same precautions. The baroness ascended the steps; shefelt herself strongly infected with the sadness which seemed to magnifyher own, and still guided by the valet de chambre, who never lost sightof her for an instant, she was introduced to the magistrate’s study.
Preoccupied as Madame Danglars had been with the object of her visit,the treatment she had received from these underlings appeared to her soinsulting, that she began by complaining of it. But Villefort, raisinghis head, bowed down by grief, looked up at her with so sad a smile thather complaints died upon her lips.
“Forgive my servants,” he said, “for a terror I cannot blame them for;from being suspected they have become suspicious.”
Madame Danglars had often heard of the terror to which the magistratealluded, but without the evidence of her own eyesight she could neverhave believed that the sentiment had been carried so far.
“You too, then, are unhappy?” she said.
“Yes, madame,” replied the magistrate.
“Then you pity me!”
“Sincerely, madame.”
“And you understand what brings me here?”
“You wish to speak to me about the circumstance which has justhappened?”
“Yes, sir,—a fearful misfortune.”
“You mean a mischance.”
“A mischance?” repeated the baroness.
“Alas, madame,” said the procureur with his imperturbable calmness ofmanner, “I consider those alone misfortunes which are irreparable.”
“And do you suppose this will be forgotten?”
“Everything will be forgotten, madame,” said Villefort. “Your daughterwill be married tomorrow, if not today—in a week, if not tomorrow; and Ido not think you can regret the intended husband of your daughter.”
Madame Danglars gazed on Villefort, stupefied to find him so almostinsultingly calm. “Am I come to a friend?” she asked in a tone full ofmournful dignity.
“You know that you are, madame,” said Villefort, whose pale cheeksbecame slightly flushed as he gave her the assurance. And truly thisassurance carried him back to different events from those now occupyingthe baroness and him.
“Well, then, be more affectionate, my dear Villefort,” said thebaroness. “Speak to me not as a magistrate, but as a friend; and when Iam in bitter anguish of spirit, do not tell me that I ought to be gay.”Villefort bowed.
“When I hear misfortunes named, madame,” he said, “I have within thelast few months contracted the bad habit of thinking of my own, and thenI cannot help drawing up an egotistical parallel in my mind. That is thereason that by the side of my misfortunes yours appear to me meremischances; that is why my dreadful position makes yours appearenviable. But this annoys you; let us change the subject. You weresaying, madame——”
“I came to ask you, my friend,” said the baroness, “what will be donewith this impostor?”
“Impostor,” repeated Villefort; “certainly, madame, you appear toextenuate some cases, and exaggerate others. Impostor, indeed!—M. AndreaCavalcanti, or rather M. Benedetto, is nothing more nor less than anassassin!”
“Sir, I do not deny the justice of your correction, but the moreseverely you arm yourself against that unfortunate man, the more deeplywill you strike our family. Come, forget him for a moment, and insteadof pursuing him, let him go.”
“You are too late, madame; the orders are issued.”
“Well, should he be arrested—do they think they will arrest him?”
“I hope so.”
“If they should arrest him (I know that sometimes prisons afford meansof escape), will you leave him in prison?”
The procureur shook his head.
“At least keep him there till my daughter be married.”
“Impossible, madame; justice has its formalities.”
“What, even for me?” said the baroness, half jesting, half in earnest.
“For all, even for myself among the rest,” replied Villefort.
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“Ah!” exclaimed the baroness, without expressing the ideas which theexclamation betrayed. Villefort looked at her with that piercing glancewhich reads the secrets of the heart.
“Yes, I know what you mean,” he said; “you refer to the terrible rumorsspread abroad in the world, that the deaths which have kept me inmourning for the last three months, and from which Valentine has onlyescaped by a miracle, have not happened by natural means.”
“I was not thinking of that,” replied Madame Danglars quickly.
“Yes, you were thinking of it, and with justice. You could not helpthinking of it, and saying to yourself, ‘you, who pursue crime sovindictively, answer now, why are there unpunished crimes in yourdwelling?’” The baroness became pale. “You were saying this, were younot?”
“Well, I own it.”
“I will answer you.”
Villefort drew his armchair nearer to Madame Danglars; then resting bothhands upon his desk he said in a voice more hollow than usual:
“There are crimes which remain unpunished because the criminals areunknown, and we might strike the innocent instead of the guilty; butwhen the culprits are discovered” (Villefort here extended his handtoward a large crucifix placed opposite to his desk)—“when they arediscovered, I swear to you, by all I hold most sacred, that whoever theymay be they shall die. Now, after the oath I have just taken, and whichI will keep, madame, dare you ask for mercy for that wretch!”
“But, sir, are you sure he is as guilty as they say?”
“Listen; this is his description: ‘Benedetto, condemned, at the age ofsixteen, for five years to the galleys for forgery.’ He promised well,as you see—first a runaway, then an assassin.”
“And who is this wretch?”
“Who can tell?—a vagabond, a Corsican.”
“Has no one owned him?”
“No one; his parents are unknown.”
“But who was the man who brought him from Lucca?”
“Another rascal like himself, perhaps his accomp
lice.” The baronessclasped her hands.
“Villefort,” she exclaimed in her softest and most captivating manner.
“For Heaven’s sake, madame,” said Villefort, with a firmness ofexpression not altogether free from harshness—“for Heaven’s sake, do notask pardon of me for a guilty wretch! What am I?—the law. Has the lawany eyes to witness your grief? Has the law ears to be melted by yoursweet voice? Has the law a memory for all those soft recollections youendeavor to recall? No, madame; the law has commanded, and when itcommands it strikes. You will tell me that I am a living being, and nota code—a man, and not a volume. Look at me, madame—look around me. Hasmankind treated me as a brother? Have men loved me? Have they spared me?Has anyone shown the mercy towards me that you now ask at my hands? No,madame, they struck me, always struck me!
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“Woman, siren that you are, do you persist in fixing on me thatfascinating eye, which reminds me that I ought to blush? Well, be it so;let me blush for the faults you know, and perhaps—perhaps for even morethan those! But having sinned myself,—it may be more deeply thanothers,—I never rest till I have torn the disguises from my fellow-creatures, and found out their weaknesses. I have always found them; andmore,—I repeat it with joy, with triumph,—I have always found some proofof human perversity or error. Every criminal I condemn seems to meliving evidence that I am not a hideous exception to the rest. Alas,alas, alas; all the world is wicked; let us therefore strike atwickedness!”
Villefort pronounced these last words with a feverish rage, which gave aferocious eloquence to his words.
“But”’ said Madame Danglars, resolving to make a last effort, “thisyoung man, though a murderer, is an orphan, abandoned by everybody.”
“So much the worse, or rather, so much the better; it has been soordained that he may have none to weep his fate.”
“But this is trampling on the weak, sir.”
“The weakness of a murderer!”
“His dishonor reflects upon us.”
“Is not death in my house?”
“Oh, sir,” exclaimed the baroness, “you are without pity for others,well, then, I tell you they will have no mercy on you!”
“Be it so!” said Villefort, raising his arms to heaven with athreatening gesture.
“At least, delay the trial till the next assizes; we shall then have sixmonths before us.”
“No, madame,” said Villefort; “instructions have been given. There areyet five days left; five days are more than I require. Do you not thinkthat I also long for forgetfulness? While working night and day, Isometimes lose all recollection of the past, and then I experience thesame sort of happiness I can imagine the dead feel; still, it is betterthan suffering.”
“But, sir, he has fled; let him escape—inaction is a pardonableoffence.”
“I tell you it is too late; early this morning the telegraph wasemployed, and at this very minute——”
“Sir,” said the valet de chambre, entering the room, “a dragoon hasbrought this despatch from the Minister of the Interior.”
Villefort seized the letter, and hastily broke the seal. Madame Danglarstrembled with fear; Villefort started with joy.
“Arrested!” he exclaimed; “he was taken at Compiègne, and all is over.”
Madame Danglars rose from her seat, pale and cold.
“Adieu, sir,” she said.
“Adieu, madame,” replied the king’s attorney, as in an almost joyfulmanner he conducted her to the door. Then, turning to his desk, he said,striking the letter with the back of his right hand:
“Come, I had a forgery, three robberies, and two cases of arson, I onlywanted a murder, and here it is. It will be a splendid session!”