The Count of Monte Cristo
“Oh, the Champs-Élysées? Ah, yes; we burn, as they say at the game of
pincette. The Champs-Élysées? Come, let us talk a little about my
father.”
“Who, then, am I?”
“You, sir?—you are my adopted father. But it was not you, I presume,
who placed at my disposal 100,000 francs, which I spent in four or five
months; it was not you who manufactured an Italian gentleman for my
father; it was not you who introduced me into the world, and had me
invited to a certain dinner at Auteuil, which I fancy I am eating at
this moment, in company with the most distinguished people in
Paris—amongst the rest with a certain procureur, whose acquaintance I
did very wrong not to cultivate, for he would have been very useful to
me just now;—it was not you, in fact, who bailed me for one or two
millions, when the fatal discovery of my little secret took place.
Come, speak, my worthy Corsican, speak!”
“What do you wish me to say?”
“I will help you. You were speaking of the Champs-Élysées just now,
worthy foster-father.”
“Well?”
“Well, in the Champs-Élysées there resides a very rich gentleman.”
“At whose house you robbed and murdered, did you not?”
“I believe I did.”
“The Count of Monte Cristo?”
“’Tis you who have named him, as M. Racine says. Well, am I to rush
into his arms, and strain him to my heart, crying, ‘My father, my
father!’ like Monsieur Pixérécourt.”27
“Do not let us jest,” gravely replied Bertuccio, “and dare not to utter
that name again as you have pronounced it.”
“Bah,” said Andrea, a little overcome, by the solemnity of Bertuccio’s
manner, “why not?”
“Because the person who bears it is too highly favored by Heaven to be
the father of such a wretch as you.”
“Oh, these are fine words.”
“And there will be fine doings, if you do not take care.”
“Menaces—I do not fear them. I will say——”
“Do you think you are engaged with a pygmy like yourself?” said
Bertuccio, in so calm a tone, and with so steadfast a look, that Andrea
was moved to the very soul. “Do you think you have to do with
galley-slaves, or novices in the world? Benedetto, you are fallen into
terrible hands; they are ready to open for you—make use of them. Do not
play with the thunderbolt they have laid aside for a moment, but which
they can take up again instantly, if you attempt to intercept their
movements.”
50157m
“My father—I will know who my father is,” said the obstinate youth; “I
will perish if I must, but I _will_ know it. What does scandal signify
to me? What possessions, what reputation, what ‘pull,’ as Beauchamp
says,—have I? You great people always lose something by scandal,
notwithstanding your millions. Come, who is my father?”
“I came to tell you.”
“Ah,” cried Benedetto, his eyes sparkling with joy. Just then the door
opened, and the jailer, addressing himself to Bertuccio, said:
“Excuse me, sir, but the examining magistrate is waiting for the
prisoner.”
“And so closes our interview,” said Andrea to the worthy steward; “I
wish the troublesome fellow were at the devil!”
“I will return tomorrow,” said Bertuccio.
“Good! Gendarmes, I am at your service. Ah, sir, do leave a few crowns
for me at the gate that I may have some things I am in need of!”
“It shall be done,” replied Bertuccio.
Andrea extended his hand; Bertuccio kept his own in his pocket, and
merely jingled a few pieces of money.
“That’s what I mean,” said Andrea, endeavoring to smile, quite overcome
by the strange tranquillity of Bertuccio.
“Can I be deceived?” he murmured, as he stepped into the oblong and
grated vehicle which they call “the salad basket.”
“Never mind, we shall see! Tomorrow, then!” he added, turning towards
Bertuccio.
“Tomorrow!” replied the steward.
Chapter 108. The Judge
We remember that the Abbé Busoni remained alone with Noirtier in the
chamber of death, and that the old man and the priest were the sole
guardians of the young girl’s body. Perhaps it was the Christian
exhortations of the abbé, perhaps his kind charity, perhaps his
persuasive words, which had restored the courage of Noirtier, for ever
since he had conversed with the priest his violent despair had yielded
to a calm resignation which surprised all who knew his excessive
affection for Valentine.
M. de Villefort had not seen his father since the morning of the death.
The whole establishment had been changed; another valet was engaged for
himself, a new servant for Noirtier, two women had entered Madame de
Villefort’s service,—in fact, everywhere, to the concierge and
coachmen, new faces were presented to the different masters of the
house, thus widening the division which had always existed between the
members of the same family. The assizes, also, were about to begin, and
Villefort, shut up in his room, exerted himself with feverish anxiety
in drawing up the case against the murderer of Caderousse. This affair,
like all those in which the Count of Monte Cristo had interfered,
caused a great sensation in Paris. The proofs were certainly not
convincing, since they rested upon a few words written by an escaped
galley-slave on his death-bed, and who might have been actuated by
hatred or revenge in accusing his companion. But the mind of the
procureur was made up; he felt assured that Benedetto was guilty, and
he hoped by his skill in conducting this aggravated case to flatter his
self-love, which was about the only vulnerable point left in his frozen
heart.
The case was therefore prepared owing to the incessant labor of
Villefort, who wished it to be the first on the list in the coming
assizes. He had been obliged to seclude himself more than ever, to
evade the enormous number of applications presented to him for the
purpose of obtaining tickets of admission to the court on the day of
trial. And then so short a time had elapsed since the death of poor
Valentine, and the gloom which overshadowed the house was so recent,
that no one wondered to see the father so absorbed in his professional
duties, which were the only means he had of dissipating his grief.
Once only had Villefort seen his father; it was the day after that upon
which Bertuccio had paid his second visit to Benedetto, when the latter
was to learn his father’s name. The magistrate, harassed and fatigued,
had descended to the garden of his house, and in a gloomy mood, similar
to that in which Tarquin lopped off the tallest poppies, he began
knocking off with his cane the long and dying branches of the
rose-trees, which, placed along the avenue, seemed like the spectres of
the brilliant flowers which had bloomed in the past season.
More than once he had reached that part of the garden where the famous
boarded gate stood overlooking the deserted enclosure, always returning
by the same path, to begin his walk again, at the same pace and with
the same gesture, when he accidentally turned his eyes towards the
house, whence he heard the noisy play of his son, who had returned from
school to spend the Sunday and Monday with his mother.
While doing so, he observed M. Noirtier at one of the open windows,
where the old man had been placed that he might enjoy the last rays of
the sun which yet yielded some heat, and was now shining upon the dying
flowers and red leaves of the creeper which twined around the balcony.
The eye of the old man was riveted upon a spot which Villefort could
scarcely distinguish. His glance was so full of hate, of ferocity, and
savage impatience, that Villefort turned out of the path he had been
pursuing, to see upon what person this dark look was directed.
Then he saw beneath a thick clump of linden-trees, which were nearly
divested of foliage, Madame de Villefort sitting with a book in her
hand, the perusal of which she frequently interrupted to smile upon her
son, or to throw back his elastic ball, which he obstinately threw from
the drawing-room into the garden.
Villefort became pale; he understood the old man’s meaning.
Noirtier continued to look at the same object, but suddenly his glance
was transferred from the wife to the husband, and Villefort himself had
to submit to the searching investigation of eyes, which, while changing
their direction and even their language, had lost none of their
menacing expression. Madame de Villefort, unconscious of the passions
that exhausted their fire over her head, at that moment held her son’s
ball, and was making signs to him to reclaim it with a kiss. Edward
begged for a long while, the maternal kiss probably not offering
sufficient recompense for the trouble he must take to obtain it;
however at length he decided, leaped out of the window into a cluster
of heliotropes and daisies, and ran to his mother, his forehead
streaming with perspiration. Madame de Villefort wiped his forehead,
pressed her lips upon it, and sent him back with the ball in one hand
and some bonbons in the other.
Villefort, drawn by an irresistible attraction, like that of the bird
to the serpent, walked towards the house. As he approached it,
Noirtier’s gaze followed him, and his eyes appeared of such a fiery
brightness that Villefort felt them pierce to the depths of his heart.
In that earnest look might be read a deep reproach, as well as a
terrible menace. Then Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven, as though to
remind his son of a forgotten oath.
“It is well, sir,” replied Villefort from below,—“it is well; have
patience but one day longer; what I have said I will do.”
Noirtier seemed to be calmed by these words, and turned his eyes with
indifference to the other side. Villefort violently unbuttoned his
greatcoat, which seemed to strangle him, and passing his livid hand
across his forehead, entered his study.
The night was cold and still; the family had all retired to rest but
Villefort, who alone remained up, and worked till five o’clock in the
morning, reviewing the last interrogatories made the night before by
the examining magistrates, compiling the depositions of the witnesses,
and putting the finishing stroke to the deed of accusation, which was
one of the most energetic and best conceived of any he had yet
delivered.
The next day, Monday, was the first sitting of the assizes. The morning
dawned dull and gloomy, and Villefort saw the dim gray light shine upon
the lines he had traced in red ink. The magistrate had slept for a
short time while the lamp sent forth its final struggles; its
flickerings awoke him, and he found his fingers as damp and purple as
though they had been dipped in blood.
He opened the window; a bright yellow streak crossed the sky, and
seemed to divide in half the poplars, which stood out in black relief
on the horizon. In the clover-fields beyond the chestnut-trees, a lark
was mounting up to heaven, while pouring out her clear morning song.
The damps of the dew bathed the head of Villefort, and refreshed his
memory.
“Today,” he said with an effort,—“today the man who holds the blade of
justice must strike wherever there is guilt.”
Involuntarily his eyes wandered towards the window of Noirtier’s room,
where he had seen him the preceding night. The curtain was drawn, and
yet the image of his father was so vivid to his mind that he addressed
the closed window as though it had been open, and as if through the
opening he had beheld the menacing old man.
“Yes,” he murmured,—“yes, be satisfied.”
His head dropped upon his chest, and in this position he paced his
study; then he threw himself, dressed as he was, upon a sofa, less to
sleep than to rest his limbs, cramped with cold and study. By degrees
everyone awoke. Villefort, from his study, heard the successive noises
which accompany the life of a house,—the opening and shutting of doors,
the ringing of Madame de Villefort’s bell, to summon the waiting-maid,