The Count of Monte-Cristo/Volume 1/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI
THE DEPUTY PROCUREUR DU ROI
N one of those old aristocratical mansions, built by Puget, situated in the Rue du Grand Cours opposite the fountain of Medusa, a second marriage feast was being celebrated, on the same day and at the same hour; only, while the actors in one scene were plain people, sailors and soldiers, in the other they belonged to the heads of Marseillaise society, — magistrates who had resigned their office during the usurper's reign; officers who had deserted our ranks to join the army of Condé; youths who had been brought up by their family, hardly yet assured of their existence, in spite of the substitutes they had paid for, to hate and execrate the man whom five years of exile ought to have converted into a martyr, and fifteen of restoration elevated to a demi-god.
The guests were at table, and the conversation was animated and heated with all the passions of the epoch — passions more terrible, active, and bitter in the south, because for five years religious hatreds had reënforced political hatreds.
The emperor, now king of the petty isle of Elba, after having held sovereign sway over one half of the world, counting us, his subjects, a population of five or six thousand, — after having been accustomed to hear the Vive Napoléons of one hundred and twenty millions uttered in ten different languages, — was looked upon as a man ruined forever for France and the throne.
The magistrates talked of political blunders; the military talked of Moscow and Leipsic, and the women of his divorce from Josephine. It seemed to this royalist world, joyous and triumphant, less at the fall of the man than at the annihilation of the principles he represented, as if life were again beginning after a peaceful dream.
An old man, decorated with the cross of Saint Louis, now rose and proposed the health of King Louis XVIII. He was the Marquis de Saint-Méran. This toast, recalling at once the patient exile of Hartwell and the king and pacificator of France, excited great applause; glasses were elevated in the air à l'Anglaise, and the ladies, detaching their bouquets, strewed the table with them. In a word, poetical enthusiasm prevailed.
"Ah! they would own, were they here," said the Marquise de Saint-Méran, a woman with a hard eye, thin lips, and aristocratic mien, though still elegant-looking, despite her fifty years — "ah! these revolutionists, who drove us out, and whom we leave now in our turn to conspire at their ease in the old chateaux which they purchased for a mere trifle during the Reign of Terror, would be compelled to own, were they here, that all true devotion was on our side, since we attached ourselves to a falling monarch, while they, on the contrary, worshiped the rising sun, and made their fortunes while we lost ours. Yes, yes, they could not help admitting that the king, our king, was in truth 'Louis the well-beloved,' while their emperor was never anything but 'Napoleon the accursed.' Am I not right, Villefort?"
"I beg your pardon, madame, but — in truth — I was not attending to the conversation."
"Marquise, marquise!" interposed the same elderly personage who had proposed the toast, "let the young people alone; on their wedding day they naturally have to speak of something else than politics."
"Pardon me, dearest mother," said a young and lovely girl, with a profusion of light brown hair, and eyes that seemed to float in liquid crystal, "I yield to you M. de Villefort, whom I had seized for a moment. M. Villefort, my mother speaks to you."
"If Madame la Marquise will deign to repeat the words I but imperfectly caught, I shall be delighted to answer," said M. de Villefort.
"Never mind, Renée," replied the marquise, with such a look of tenderness as all were astonished to see on her harsh features; for a woman's heart is so constituted that, however withered it be by the blasts of prejudice and etiquette, there is always one spot fertile and smiling, the spot consecrated by God to maternal love. "I forgive you. What I was saying, Villefort, was, that the Bonapartists had neither our sincerity, enthusiasm, nor devotion."
They had, however, what supplied the place of those fine qualities," replied the young man, "and that was fanaticism. Napoleon is the Mahomet of the West, and is worshiped by his commonplace but ambitious followers, not only as a leader and lawgiver, but also as a type, as the personification of equality."
"Of equality!" cried the marquise, "Napoleon the type of equality! For mercy's sake, then, what would you call M. de Robespierre? It seems to me that you rob him of his place and give it to the Corsican." "Nay, madame; I would place each on his right pedestal — that of Robespierre on his scaffold in the Place Louis; that of Napoleon on
the column of the Place Vendôme; only the one made the equality that elevates, the other the equality that depresses; the one brings a king to the level of the guillotine, the other the people to a level with the throne. Observe," said Villefort, smiling, "I do not mean to deny that both were revolutionary scoundrels, and that the 9th Thermidor and the 4th of April, 1814, were lucky days for France, worthy of being equally remembered by every friend to monarchy and order; and that explains how, fallen as I trust he is forever, Napoleon has still preserved a train of fanatical adherents. Still, marquise, it has been so with other usurpers: Cromwell, who was not half of a Napoleon, had his."
"Do you know, Villefort, that you are talking in a revolutionary strain? But I excuse it; it is impossible to be the son of a Girondin and be free from a spice of the old leaven."
A deep crimson suffused the ountenance of Villefort.
"'Tis true, madame," answered he, "that my father was a Girondin, but he did not vote for the king's death; he was an equal sufferer with yourself during the Reign of Terror, and had well-nigh lost his head on the same scaffold as your own father."
"True," replied the marquise, without the tragical remembrance producing the slightest change in her features; "only our respective parents underwent proscription from diametrically opposite principles; in proof of which I may remark, that while my family remained adherents of the exiled princes, your father lost no time in joining the new government; and that after the Citizen Noirtier had been a Girondin, the Count Noirtier became a senator."
"Dear mother," interposed Renée, "you know very well it was agreed that all these disagreeable reminiscences should be spoken of no more."
"Suffer me, also, madame," rejoined Villefort, "to add my earnest request that you will kindly forget the past. What avails recrimination touching circumstances before which even the will of God himself is powerless? God can change the future; he cannot modify the past. What we human beings can do is not to deny, but to cast a veil over it. For my own part, I have laid aside the name of my father, as well as his principles. He was — nay, probably may still be — a Bonapartist, and is called Noirtier; I, on the contrary, am a royalist, and style myself de Villefort. Let what may remain of revolutionary sap die away with the old trunk, and only regard the young shoot which has started up from this trunk, without having the power, any more than the wish, to separate itself entirely."
"Bravo, Villefort!" cried the marquis; "excellently well said! I, too, have always preached to the marquise oblivion of the past without ever obtaining it. You, I hope, will be more fortunate."
"With all my heart," replied the marquise; "let the past be forever forgotten! I ask no more. All I ask is, that Villefort will be inflexible for the future. Remember, also, Villefort, that we have pledged our selves to his majesty for you, and that at our recommendation the king consented to forget it" (and here she extended to him her hand), "as I now do at your entreaty. Only, if there fall in your way some conspirator, remember that there are so many more eyes on you, as it is known you belong to a family which, perhaps, is in sympathy with these conspirators."
"Alas! madame," returned Villefort, "my profession, as well as the times in which we live, compel me to be severe. I shall be so. I have already successfully conducted several public prosecutions, and proved my faith. But we have not done with the thing yet."
"Do you, indeed, think so?" inquired the marquise.
"I am, at least, fearful of it. Napoleon, in the island of Elba, is too near France, and his presence, almost in sight of our coasts, keeps up the hopes of his partisans. Marseilles is filled with half-pay officers, who are daily, under one frivolous pretext or other, getting up quarrels with the royalists; hence duels among the higher classes, and assassinations in the lower."
"You have heard, perhaps," said the Count de Salvieux, one of M. de Saint-Méran's oldest friends, and chamberlain to the Count d'Artois, "that the Holy Alliance purpose removing him from thence?"
"Ah!" they were talking about it when we left Paris," said M. de Saint-Méran; "and where is it decided to transfer him?"
"To Saint Helena."
"Saint Helena! where is that?" asked the marquise.
"An island situated on the other side of the equator, at least two thousand leagues from hence," replied the count.
"So much the better! As Villefort observes, it is a great act of folly to have left such a man between Corsica, where he was born, Naples, of which his brother-in-law is king, and Italy, the sovereignty of which he coveted for his son."
"Unfortunately," said Villefort, "there are the treaties of 1814, and without violating them Napoleon cannot be touched."
"They will be violated," said the Count de Salvieux. "Did he regard treaty-clauses when he shot the hapless Duc d'Enghien?"
"Well," said the marquise, "the Holy Alliance will free Europe of Napoleon, and, M, de Villefort, Marseilles of his partisans. The king either reigns or does not. If he reigns, his government must be strong, and his agents inflexible. This is the way to prevent mischief."
"Unfortunately, madame," answered Villefort, a deputy Procureur du Roi only appears when the mischief is done."
"Then all he has got to do is to endeavor to repair it."
Nay, madame, we cannot repair it; we can only avenge the wrong done."
"Oh! M. de Villefort," cried a beautiful young creature, daughter to Count Salvieux, and the cherished friend of Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran, "do try and get up some famous trial while we are at Marseilles. I never was in a law-court; I am told it is so very amusing!"
"Amusing, certainly," replied Villefort, "for, in place of a fictitious tragedy, you have a real drama; in place of theatrical woes, real woes; the man whom you see there, instead of going home when the curtain falls, and supping with his family, and sleeping peacefully to begin again another day, goes back to prison, where he finds the executioner. You will see that for nervous persons who seek emotions no spectacle can be more attractive. Be assured, mademoiselle, if the circumstance presents itself, I will give you an opportunity."
"He makes us shudder — and he smiles!" said Renée, becoming quite pale.
"Why, it is a duel. I have already recorded sentence of death, five or six times, against political criminals, and who can say how many daggers may be now sharpening or already directed against me?"
"Gracious heavens! M. de Villefort," said Renee, becoming more and more terrified; "you surely are not in earnest!"
"Indeed I am," replied the young magistrate with a smile; "and in the interesting trial that young lady desires, to satisfy her curiosity, and I to satisfy my ambition, the case would only be still more aggravated. All these soldiers of Napoleon, accustomed to charge the enemy blindly, what did they think about burning a cartridge or rushing on a bayonet? Will they think a bit more about killing a man whom they believe their personal enemy, than about killing a Russian, Austrian, or Hungarian whom they have never seen? It is this — it is this which justifies our profession! I, myself, when I see the eye of the accused gleaming with the flash of rage, I feel myself encouraged and elevated. It is no longer a trial, it is a combat; I thrust at him, he lunges back; I thrust again, and all is ended, as in all combats, by a victory or a defeat! This is what I call pleading! This is the power of eloquence! A prisoner who smiled at me after my reply would make me believe that I had spoken badly — that my address was colorless, feeble, insufficient. Think, then, of the sensation of pride which is felt by a prosecutor, convinced of the guilt of the accused, when he sees the prisoner blanch and crouch beneath the weight of his proofs and the thunders of his eloquence! That head drops; that head will fall!"
Renée uttered a low cry.
"Bravo!" cried one of the guests; "that is what I call talking."
"Just the person we require at a time like the present," said a second.
"What a splendid business that last cause of yours was, my dear Villefort!" remarked a third; "I mean the trial of the man for murdering his father. Upon my word, you killed him ere the executioner had laid his hand upon him."
"Oh! as for parricides," interposed Renée, "it matters very little what is done to them; but, as regards poor political criminals———"
"But it is still worse, Renée, as the king is father of his people, to wish to overthrow or kill the father of thirty-two millions of souls."
"I don't know anything about that," replied Renée; "but, M. de Villefort, you promise to show mercy to those I plead for?"
"Make yourself quite easy on that point," answered Villefort, with one of his sweetest smiles; "you and I will always consult upon our verdicts."
"My love," said the marquise, "attend to your humming-birds, your lap-dogs, and embroidery; let your husband mind his business. Nowadays the military profession has rest; the long robe is in credit. There is a Latin proverb about it, very profound."
Cedant arma togæ, said Villefort, with a bow.
"I would not dare to speak Latin," replied the marquise.
"Well," said Renée, "I cannot help regretting you were not a physician. Do you know I always felt a shudder at the idea of even a destroying angel, angel though he be?"
"Dear, good, Renée!" whispered Villefort, as he gazed with tender ness on the speaker.
"Let us hope, my child," cried the marquis, "That M. de Villefort may prove the moral and political physician of this province; if so, he will have achieved a noble work."
"And one which will go far to efface the recollection of his father's conduct," added the incorrigible marquise.
"Madame," replied Villefort, with a mournful smile, "I have already had the honor to observe that my father has — at least I hope so — abjured his past errors, and that he is, at the present moment, a firm and zealous friend to religion and order — a better royalist, possibly, than his son; for he is one, with repentance; I, only with passion."
Having made this well-turned speech, Villefort looked carefully round to mark the effect of his oratory, much as he would have done in the court after a like phrase.
"Do you know, my dear Villefort," cried the Count de Salvieux, "that is as nearly as possible what I myself said the other day at the Tuileries, when questioned by his majesty's principal chamberlain touching the singularity of an alliance between the son of a Girondin and the daughter of an officer of the Duke de Condé. He understood it thoroughly. This system of fusion is that of Louis XVIII. Then the king, who, without our suspecting it, had overheard our conversation, interrupted us by saying, 'Villefort,'—observe that the king did not pronounce the word Noirtier, but, on the contrary, placed considerable emphasis on that of Villefort — 'Villefort,' said his majesty, 'is a young man of discretion, who will make a figure; I like him much, and it gave me great pleasure to hear that he was about to become the son-in-law of M, le Marquis and Madame la Marquise de Saint-Méran. I should myself have recommended the match, had not the noble marquis anticipated my wishes by requesting my consent to it.'"
"The king said that, Count?" asked the enraptured Villefort.
"I give you his very words; and if the marquis chooses to be candid he will confess that they perfectly agree with what his majesty said to him, when he went, six months ago, to consult him upon the subject of your espousing his daughter."
"Certainly," answered the marquis.
"How much do I owe this gracious prince! What would I not do to evince my gratitude!"
"That is right," cried the marquise. "I love to see you thus. Now, then, were a conspirator to fall into your hands, he would be most welcome."
"For my part, dear mother," interposed Renée, "I hope God will not hear you, and that Providence will only permit petty offenders, poor debtors, and miserable cheats to fall into M. de Villefort's hands; then I shall be contented."
"Just the same as though," said Villefort, laughing, "you prayed that a physician might only be called upon to prescribe for headaches, measles, and the stings of wasps, or any other slight affection of the epidermis. If you wish to see me the king's procureur, you must desire for me some of those violent and dangerous diseases from the cure of which so much honor redounds to the physician."
At this moment, and as though the utterance of Villefort's wish had sufficed to effect its accomplishment, a servant entered the room and whispered a few words in his ear. Villefort immediately rose from table and quitted the room upon the plea of urgent business: he soon, however, returned, his whole face beaming with delight.
Renée regarded him with fond affection; for, with his blue eyes, olive complexion, and the black whiskers which framed his face, he was truly a handsome, elegant young man, and the whole soul of the young girl seemed hanging on his lips till he explained the cause of his sudden departure.
"You were wishing just now," said Villefort, addressing her, "that I were a doctor instead of a lawyer. Well, I at least resemble the disciples of Esculapius in one thing [people spoke in this style in 1815], that of not being able to call a day my own, not even that of my betrothal."
"And wherefore were you called away just now?" asked Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran, with an air of interest.
"For a patient who is, according to the report given me, near his end. A serious case, likely to end in the scaffold."
"How dreadful!" exclaimed Renée.
"Is it possible?" burst simultaneously from all.
"Why, if my information prove correct, a sort of Bonapartist conspiracy has just been discovered."
"Can I believe my ears?" cried the marquise.
"I will read you the letter containing the accusation, at least," said Villefort:
"'The procureur du roi is informed by a friend to the throne and the religious institutions of his country, that an individual, named Edmond Dantès, second in command on board the Pharaon, this day arrived from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been the bearer of a letter from Murat to the usurper, and from the usurper to the Bonapartist Club in Paris. Proof may be obtained by arresting him, for the letter is in the possession either of him or his father, or on board the Pharaon in his cabin.'"
"But," said Renée, "this letter, which, after all, is but an anonymous scrawl, is not even addressed to you, but to the procureur du roi."
"True; but that gentleman being absent, his secretary, by his orders, opened his letters: thinking this one of importance, he sent for me, but,
not finding me, took upon himself to give the necessary orders for arresting the accused party."
"Then the guilty person is in custody?" said the marquise.
"Say the accused person," cried Renée.
"He is in custody," answered Villefort; "and if the letter alluded to is found, as I just said to Mademoiselle Renée, the patient is very sick."
"And where is the unfortunate being?" asked Renée.
"He is at my house."
"Come, my friend," interrupted the marquise, "do not neglect your duty to linger with us. You are the king's servant, and must go whithersoever that service calls you."
"Oh, M. de Villefort!" cried Renée, clasping her hands, "be merciful on this the day of our betrothal."
The young man passed round to the side of the table where the fair pleader sat, and, leaning over her chair, said tenderly:
"To give you pleasure," he whispered, "I promise, dear Renée, to show all the lenity in my power; but if the charges are correct, the accusation proved, we must cut short this rank growth of Bonapartism."
Renée shuddered at the word cut, for the growth in question had a head.
"Never mind that foolish girl, Villefort," said the marquise; "she will soon get over these things."
So saying, Madame de Saint-Méran extended her dry hand to Villefort, who, while kissing it, looked at Renée, saying with his eyes, "It is your hand I kiss, or would fain be kissing, at least."
"Sad auspices!" sighed Renée.
"Upon my word, child!" exclaimed the angry marquise, "your folly exceeds all bounds. I should be glad to know what connection there can possibly be between your sickly sentimentality and the affairs of the state!"
"Oh, mother!" murmured Renée.
"Pardon, marquise," said Villefort; "for this bad royalist, I promise to act conscientiously, that is, to be horribly severe."
But while he addressed these words to the old marquise, he cast a glance at his betrothed which said, "Have no fear, Renée; your love will make me merciful." Renée replied to the look by a smile, and Villefort departed with paradise in his heart.