The Count of Monte Cristo
that is, that unless wicked ideas take root in a naturally depraved
mind, human nature, in a right and wholesome state, revolts at crime.
Still, from an artificial civilization have originated wants, vices,
and false tastes, which occasionally become so powerful as to stifle
within us all good feelings, and ultimately to lead us into guilt and
wickedness. From this view of things, then, comes the axiom that if you
visit to discover the author of any bad action, seek first to discover
the person to whom the perpetration of that bad action could be in any
way advantageous. Now, to apply it in your case,—to whom could your
disappearance have been serviceable?”
“To no one, by Heaven! I was a very insignificant person.”
“Do not speak thus, for your reply evinces neither logic nor
philosophy; everything is relative, my dear young friend, from the king
who stands in the way of his successor, to the employee who keeps his
rival out of a place. Now, in the event of the king’s death, his
successor inherits a crown,—when the employee dies, the supernumerary
steps into his shoes, and receives his salary of twelve thousand
livres. Well, these twelve thousand livres are his civil list, and are
as essential to him as the twelve millions of a king. Everyone, from
the highest to the lowest degree, has his place on the social ladder,
and is beset by stormy passions and conflicting interests, as in
Descartes’ theory of pressure and impulsion. But these forces increase
as we go higher, so that we have a spiral which in defiance of reason
rests upon the apex and not on the base. Now let us return to your
particular world. You say you were on the point of being made captain
of the _Pharaon_?”
“Yes.”
“And about to become the husband of a young and lovely girl?”
“Yes.”
“Now, could anyone have had any interest in preventing the
accomplishment of these two things? But let us first settle the
question as to its being the interest of anyone to hinder you from
being captain of the _Pharaon_. What say you?”
“I cannot believe such was the case. I was generally liked on board,
and had the sailors possessed the right of selecting a captain
themselves, I feel convinced their choice would have fallen on me.
There was only one person among the crew who had any feeling of
ill-will towards me. I had quarelled with him some time previously, and
had even challenged him to fight me; but he refused.”
“Now we are getting on. And what was this man’s name?”
“Danglars.”
“What rank did he hold on board?”
“He was supercargo.”
“And had you been captain, should you have retained him in his
employment?”
“Not if the choice had remained with me, for I had frequently observed
inaccuracies in his accounts.”
“Good again! Now then, tell me, was any person present during your last
conversation with Captain Leclere?”
“No; we were quite alone.”
“Could your conversation have been overheard by anyone?”
“It might, for the cabin door was open—and—stay; now I
recollect,—Danglars himself passed by just as Captain Leclere was
giving me the packet for the grand marshal.”
“That’s better,” cried the abbé; “now we are on the right scent. Did
you take anybody with you when you put into the port of Elba?”
“Nobody.”
“Somebody there received your packet, and gave you a letter in place of
it, I think?”
“Yes; the grand marshal did.”
“And what did you do with that letter?”
“Put it into my portfolio.”
“You had your portfolio with you, then? Now, how could a sailor find
room in his pocket for a portfolio large enough to contain an official
letter?”
“You are right; it was left on board.”
“Then it was not till your return to the ship that you put the letter
in the portfolio?”
“No.”
“And what did you do with this same letter while returning from
Porto-Ferrajo to the vessel?”
“I carried it in my hand.”
“So that when you went on board the _Pharaon_, everybody could see that
you held a letter in your hand?”
“Yes.”
“Danglars, as well as the rest?”
“Danglars, as well as others.”
“Now, listen to me, and try to recall every circumstance attending your
arrest. Do you recollect the words in which the information against you
was formulated?”
“Oh yes, I read it over three times, and the words sank deeply into my
memory.”
“Repeat it to me.”
Dantès paused a moment, then said, “This is it, word for word: ‘The
king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and religion,
that one Edmond Dantès, mate on board the _Pharaon_, this day arrived
from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been
intrusted by Murat with a packet for the usurper; again, by the
usurper, with a letter for the Bonapartist Club in Paris. This proof of
his guilt may be procured by his immediate arrest, as the letter will
be found either about his person, at his father’s residence, or in his
cabin on board the _Pharaon_.’”
The abbé shrugged his shoulders. “The thing is clear as day,” said he;
“and you must have had a very confiding nature, as well as a good
heart, not to have suspected the origin of the whole affair.”
“Do you really think so? Ah, that would indeed be infamous.”
“How did Danglars usually write?”
“In a handsome, running hand.”
“And how was the anonymous letter written?”
“Backhanded.”
Again the abbé smiled. “Disguised.”
“It was very boldly written, if disguised.”
“Stop a bit,” said the abbé, taking up what he called his pen, and,
after dipping it into the ink, he wrote on a piece of prepared linen,
with his left hand, the first two or three words of the accusation.
Dantès drew back, and gazed on the abbé with a sensation almost
amounting to terror.
“How very astonishing!” cried he at length. “Why your writing exactly
resembles that of the accusation.”
“Simply because that accusation had been written with the left hand;
and I have noticed that——”
“What?”
“That while the writing of different persons done with the right hand
varies, that performed with the left hand is invariably uniform.”
“You have evidently seen and observed everything.”
“Let us proceed.”
“Oh, yes, yes!”
“Now as regards the second question.”
“I am listening.”
“Was there any person whose interest it was to prevent your marriage
with Mercédès?”
“Yes; a young man who loved her.”
“And his name was——”
“Fernand.”
“That is a Spanish name, I think?”
“He was a Catalan.”
“You imagine him capable of writing the letter?”
“Oh, no; he would more likely have got rid of me by sticking a knife
into me.”
“That is in strict accordance with the Spanish character; an
assassination they will unhesitatingly commit, but an act of cowardice,
never.”
“Besides,” said Dantès, “the various circumstances mentioned in the
letter were wholly unknown to him.”
“You had never spoken of them yourself to anyone?”
“To no one.”
“Not even to your mistress?”
“No, not even to my betrothed.”
“Then it is Danglars.”
“I feel quite sure of it now.”
“Wait a little. Pray, was Danglars acquainted with Fernand?”
“No—yes, he was. Now I recollect——”
“What?”
“To have seen them both sitting at table together under an arbor at
Père Pamphile’s the evening before the day fixed for my wedding. They
were in earnest conversation. Danglars was joking in a friendly way,
but Fernand looked pale and agitated.”
“Were they alone?”
“There was a third person with them whom I knew perfectly well, and who
had, in all probability made their acquaintance; he was a tailor named
Caderousse, but he was very drunk. Stay!—stay!—How strange that it
should not have occurred to me before! Now I remember quite well, that
on the table round which they were sitting were pens, ink, and paper.
Oh, the heartless, treacherous scoundrels!” exclaimed Dantès, pressing
his hand to his throbbing brows.
“Is there anything else I can assist you in discovering, besides the
villany of your friends?” inquired the abbé with a laugh.
“Yes, yes,” replied Dantès eagerly; “I would beg of you, who see so
completely to the depths of things, and to whom the greatest mystery
seems but an easy riddle, to explain to me how it was that I underwent
no second examination, was never brought to trial, and, above all, was
condemned without ever having had sentence passed on me?”
“That is altogether a different and more serious matter,” responded the
abbé. “The ways of justice are frequently too dark and mysterious to be
easily penetrated. All we have hitherto done in the matter has been
child’s play. If you wish me to enter upon the more difficult part of
the business, you must assist me by the most minute information on
every point.”
“Pray ask me whatever questions you please; for, in good truth, you see
more clearly into my life than I do myself.”
“In the first place, then, who examined you,—the king’s attorney, his
deputy, or a magistrate?”
“The deputy.”
“Was he young or old?”
“About six or seven-and-twenty years of age, I should say.”
“So,” answered the abbé. “Old enough to be ambitious, but too young to
be corrupt. And how did he treat you?”
“With more of mildness than severity.”
“Did you tell him your whole story?”
“I did.”
“And did his conduct change at all in the course of your examination?”
“He did appear much disturbed when he read the letter that had brought
me into this scrape. He seemed quite overcome by my misfortune.”
“By your misfortune?”
“Yes.”
“Then you feel quite sure that it was your misfortune he deplored?”
“He gave me one great proof of his sympathy, at any rate.”
“And that?”
“He burnt the sole evidence that could at all have criminated me.”
“What? the accusation?”
“No; the letter.”
“Are you sure?”
“I saw it done.”
“That alters the case. This man might, after all, be a greater
scoundrel than you have thought possible.”
“Upon my word,” said Dantès, “you make me shudder. Is the world filled
with tigers and crocodiles?”
“Yes; and remember that two-legged tigers and crocodiles are more
dangerous than the others.”
“Never mind; let us go on.”
“With all my heart! You tell me he burned the letter?”
“He did; saying at the same time, ‘You see I thus destroy the only
proof existing against you.’”
“This action is somewhat too sublime to be natural.”
“You think so?”
“I am sure of it. To whom was this letter addressed?”
“To M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, No. 13, Paris.”
“Now can you conceive of any interest that your heroic deputy could
possibly have had in the destruction of that letter?”
“Why, it is not altogether impossible he might have had, for he made me
promise several times never to speak of that letter to anyone, assuring
me he so advised me for my own interest; and, more than this, he
insisted on my taking a solemn oath never to utter the name mentioned
in the address.”
“Noirtier!” repeated the abbé; “Noirtier!—I knew a person of that name
at the court of the Queen of Etruria,—a Noirtier, who had been a
Girondin during the Revolution! What was your deputy called?”
“De Villefort!” The abbé burst into a fit of laughter, while Dantès
gazed on him in utter astonishment.
“What ails you?” said he at length.
“Do you see that ray of sunlight?”
“I do.”
“Well, the whole thing is more clear to me than that sunbeam is to you.
Poor fellow! poor young man! And you tell me this magistrate expressed
great sympathy and commiseration for you?”
“He did.”
“And the worthy man destroyed your compromising letter?”
“Yes.”
“And then made you swear never to utter the name of Noirtier?”
“Yes.”
“Why, you poor short-sighted simpleton, can you not guess who this
Noirtier was, whose very name he was so careful to keep concealed? This
Noirtier was his father!”
Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Dantès, or hell opened its