The Count of Monte-Cristo/Volume 5/Chapter 99
CHAPTER XCIX
THE LAW
E have seen how quietly Mademoiselle Danglars and Mademoiselle d'Armilly accomplished their transformation and flight; the fact being that every one was too much occupied in his or her own affairs to think of theirs.
We will leave the banker counting the enormous columns of his debt before the phantom of bankruptcy, and follow the baroness, who, after remaining for a moment as if crushed under the weight of the blow which had struck her, went to seek her usual adviser, Lucien Debray. The baroness had looked forward to this marriage as a means of ridding her of the guardianship which, over a girl of Eugénie's character, could not fail to be rather a troublesome undertaking; for in those tacit understandings which maintain the bond of family union the mother is only really the mistress of her daughter upon the condition of continually presenting herself to her as a model of wisdom and type of perfection. Now, Madame Danglars feared the penetration of Eugénie and the advice of Mademoiselle d'Armilly; she had frequently observed the contemptuous expression with which her daughter looked upon Debray,—an expression which seemed to imply that she understood all the mystery of her mother's amorous and pecuniary relationships with the private secretary; moreover, she saw that Eugénie detested Debray, not only because he was a cause of dissension and scandal in the paternal roof, but because she had at once classed him in that catalogue of bipeds whom Plato endeavors to withdraw from the appellation of men, and whom Diogenes designated as animals upon two legs without feathers.
Unfortunately, in this world of ours, each person views things from his own standpoint, which prevents him seeing them in the same light as others; and Madame Danglars, therefore, from her point of view, very much regretted that the marriage of Eugénie had not taken place, not only because the match was good, and likely to insure the happiness of her child, but because it would also set her at liberty. She ran therefore to Debray's, who, after having, like the rest of Paris, witnessed the contract scene and the scandal attending it, had retired in haste to his club, where he was chatting with some friends upon the events which served as a subject of conversation for three-fourths of that city known as the capital of the world.
At this precise time when Madame Danglars, dressed in black and concealed in a long veil, was ascending the stairs leading to the apartments of Debray, notwithstanding the assurances of the janitor that the young man was not at home, Debray was occupied in repelling the insinuations of a friend, who tried to pursuade him that after the terrible scene which had just taken place he ought, as a friend of the family, to marry Mademoiselle Danglars and her two millions.
Debray defended himself as if he wished to be conquered, for the idea had sometimes crossed his mind; still, when he recollected the independent, proud spirit of Eugénie, he resumed a defensive attitude, saying that such a union was utterly impossible, though he allowed himself to be tickled by the evil thought, which, as moralists say, incessantly preoccupies the wisest and purest men, watching in the depths of their souls, like Satan behind the cross. Tea, play, and conversation, which had become interesting during the discussion of such serious affairs, lasted till one o'clock in the morning.
Meanwhile Madame Danglars, veiled and fainting, awaited the return of Debray in the little green room, seated between two baskets of flowers, which she had that morning sent, and which, it must be confessed, Debray had himself arranged and watered with so much care that his absence was half excused in the eyes of the poor woman. At forty minutes past eleven, Madame Danglars, tired of waiting, returned home. Women of a certain grade are like grisettes in one respect, they seldom return home after twelve o'clock.
The baroness returned to the hotel with as much caution as Eugénie used in leaving it; she ran lightly upstairs, and with an aching heart entered her apartment, contiguous, as we know, to that of Eugénie. She was fearful of exciting any remark, and believed firmly in her daughter's innocence and fidelity to her paternal roof. She listened at Eugénie's door, then, hearing no sound, she tried to enter, but the bolts were drawn. Madame Danglars fancied that, fatigued with the terrible excitement of the evening, she had retired to her bed and slept. She called her lady's maid and questioned her.
"Mademoiselle Eugénie," she said, "retired to her apartment with Mademoiselle d'Armilly; they then took tea together, after which they desired me to leave, saying they required me no longer."
Since then the lady's maid had been below, and, like every one else, she thought the young ladies were in their own room; Madame Danglars, therefore, went to bed without a shadow of suspicion, and began to muse over the past events.
In proportion as her ideas became clearer, so did occurrences at the scene of the contract increase in magnitude; it no longer appeared mere confusion; it was a tumult; it was no longer something distressing, but disgraceful. And then the baroness remembered that she had felt no pity for poor Mercédès, who had been afflicted with as severe a blow through her husband and son.
"Eugénie," she said to herself, "is lost, and so are we. The affair, as it will be reported, will cover us with shame; for in society, such as ours, satire inflicts a painful and incurable wound. How fortunate that Eugénie is possessed of that strange character which has so often made me tremble!"
And her glance was turned toward heaven, where that mysterious Providence disposes all things; and out of a fault, nay, even a vice, sometimes produces a blessing.
Then her thoughts, cleaving through space as a bird in the air, rested on Cavalcanti. This Andrea was a wretch, a robber, an assassin, and yet his manners indicated a half education, if not a complete one; he had been presented to the world with the appearance of an immense fortune, supported by an honorable name. How could she extricate herself from this labyrinth? To whom would she apply to help her out of this painful situation? Debray, to whom she had run, with the first instinct of a woman toward the man she loves, and who yet betrays her,—Debray could but give her advice; she must apply to some one more powerful than he.
The baroness then thought of M. de Villefort. It was M. de Villefort who had caused Cavalcanti to be arrested; it was M. de Villefort who had remorsely brought misfortune into her family, as though they had been strangers.
But, no; on reflection, the procureur du roi was not a merciless man; and it was the magistrate, slave to his duties, the friend, and loyal friend, who, roughly but firmly, cut into the very core of the corruption; it was not the executioner, but the surgeon, who wished to withdraw the honor of Danglars from the ignominious association with the lost young man they had presented to the world as their son-in-law. From the moment that Villefort, the friend of Danglars, acted thus, no one could suppose that he had been previously acquainted with, or had lent himself to, any of the intrigues of Andrea. The conduct of Villefort, therefore, upon reflection, appeared to the baroness as if shaped for their mutual advantage. But the inflexibility of the procureur du roi should stop there; she would see him the next day, and if she could not make him fail in his duties as a magistrate, she would, at least, obtain all the indulgence he could allow. She would invoke the past, recall old recollections; she would supplicate him by the remembrance of guilty, yet happy days. M. de Villefort would stifle the affair; he had only to turn his eyes on one side, and allow Andrea to fly, and only pursue the crime under that shadow of guilt called contempt of court. And after this reasoning she slept easily.
At nine o'clock next morning she rose, and without ringing for her maid, or giving the least sign of her existence, she dressed herself in the same simple style as on the previous night; then, running downstairs, she left the hotel, walked to the Rue de Provence, called a fiacre, and drove to M. de Villefort's house.
For the last month this wretched house had presented the gloomy appearance of a lazaretto infected with the plague. Some of the apartments were closed within and without; the shutters were only opened to admit a minute's air, showing the scared face of a footman, and immediately afterward the window would be closed, like a grave-stone falling on a sepulchre; and the neighbors would say to each other in a low voice, "Shall we to-day see another bier leave the house of M. le procureur du roi?"
Madame Danglars involuntarily shuddered at the aspect of the desolate house; descending from the fiacre, she approached the door with trembling knees, and rang the bell. Three times did the bell ring with a dull, heavy sound, seeming to participate in the general sadness, before the concierge appeared and peeped through the door, which he opened just wide enough to allow his words to be heard. He saw a lady, a fashionable, elegantly-dressed lady, and yet the door remained almost closed.
"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 any one, 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 the impertinence of his servants."
"Madame, this is precaution, not impertinence; no one enters here without an order from M. d'Avrigny, or without speaking to M. le procureur du roi."
"Well! my business is with M. le procureur du roi.”
"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 afterward the door was opened wide enough 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 whistle from his pocket as soon as they entered the court, and sounded it. The valet-de-chambre appeared on the doorsteps.
"You will excuse this poor fellow, madame," he said, as he preceded the baroness; "but his orders are precise, and M. de Villefort begged me to tell you he could not act otherwise than he had done."
In the court was a tradesman, who had been admitted with the same precautions. The baroness ascended the steps; she felt herself strongly infected with the sadness which, as it were, seemed to enlarge the circle of her own, and still guided by the valet-de-chambre, who never lost sight of her for an instant, she was introduced to the study of the magistrate.
Preoccupied as Madame Danglars had been with the object of her visit, the treatment she had received from these underlings appeared to her so insulting that she began by complaining of it. But Villefort, raising his head, bowed down by grief, looked up at her with so sad a smile that her 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 magistrate alluded, but without the evidence of her own eye-sight she could never have believed 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 that has just happened?"
"Yes, sir, a fearful misfortune!"
"You mean a mischance."
"A mischance!" repeated the baroness.
"Alas! madame," said the procureur du roi, with his imperturbable calmness of manner, "I consider those alone misfortunes which are irreparable."
"And do you suppose this will be forgotten?"
"Everything will be forgotten, madame," said Villefort. "Your daughter will be married to-morrow, if not to-day in a week, if not to-morrow; and I do not think you can regret the intended husband of your daughter."
Madame Danglars gazed on Villefort, stupefied to find him so almost insultingly calm. "Am I come to a friend?" she asked, in a tone full of mournful dignity.
"You know that you are, madame," said Villefort, whose pale cheeks became slightly flushed as he gave her the assurance. And truly this assurance carried him back to different events to those now occupying the baroness and him.
"Well, then, be more affectionate, my dear Villefort," said the baroness. "Speak to me not as a magistrate, but as a friend; and when I am in bitter anguish of spirit, do not tell me I ought to be gay." Villefort bowed.
"When I hear misfortunes named, madame," he said, "I have within the last few months contracted a bad habit of thinking of my own, and then I cannot help drawing up an egotistical parallel in my mind. This is the reason that by the side of my misfortunes yours appear to me mere mischances; this is why my dreadful position makes yours appear enviable. But this annoys you; let us change the subject. You were saying, madame———"
"I came to ask you, my friend," said the baroness, "what will be done with this impostor?"
"Impostor!" repeated Villefort; "certainly, madame, you appear to extenuate some cases, and exaggerate others. Impostor, indeed! M. Andrea Cavalcanti, or rather M. Benedetto, is nothing more nor less than an assassin!"
"Sir, I do not deny the justice of your correction; but the more severely you arm yourself against that unfortunate, the more deeply will you strike our family. Come, forget him for a moment, and, instead of pursuing him, let him fly."
"You are too late, madame; the orders are issued."
"Well, should he be arrested—do you think they will arrest him?"
"I hope so."
"If they should arrest him (I know that sometimes prisons afford means of escape), will you leave him in prison?"
The procureur du roi 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.
"Ah!" exclaimed the baroness, without expressing the ideas which the exclamation betrayed. Villefort looked at her with that piercing glance which read the secrets of the heart.
"Yes, I know what you mean," he said; "you allude to those terrible rumors spread abroad in the world, that all those deaths which have kept me in mourning for the last three months, arid from which Valentine has only escaped 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 help thinking of it, and saying to yourself, 'You, who pursue crime so vindictively, answer now, why are there unpunished crimes in your dwelling?'" The baroness became pale. "You were saying this, were you not?"
"Well, I own it."
"I will answer you." Villefort drew his arm-chair nearer to Madame Danglars; then, resting both hands upon his desk, he said, in a voice more hollow than usual:
"There are crimes which remain unpunished because the criminals are unknown, and we might strike the innocent instead of the guilty; but when the culprits are discovered "(Villefort here extended his hand toward a large crucifix placed opposite to his desk)—"when they are discovered, I swear to you, by all I hold most sacred, that, whoever they may be, they shall die. Now, after the oath I have just taken, and which I 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 of sixteen, for five years to the galleys for forgery.' He promised well, as you see—first an escaped convict, 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 accomplice." The baroness clasped her hands.
"Villefort!" she exclaimed, in her softest and most captivating manner.
"For Heaven's sake, madame," said Villefort, with a firmness of expression not altogether free from harshness—"for Heaven's sake, do not ask pardon of me for a guilty wretch! What am I?—the law. Has the law any eyes to witness your grief? Has the law ears to be melted by your sweet voice? Has the law a memory for all those soft recollections you endeavor to recall? No, madame; the law has commanded, and when it commands it strikes. You will tell me that I am a living being, and not a code—a man, and not a volume. Look at me, madame look around me? Has mankind treated me as a brother? Have men loved me? Have they spared me? Has any one shown the mercy toward me that you now ask at my hands? No, madame, they struck me, always struck me! Woman! siren that you are, do you persist in fixing on me that fascinating 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 more than those! But having sinned
myself, it may be more deeply than others; well, since that time I never rest till I have torn the disguises from my fellow-creatures, and found out their weaknesses. I have always found them; and more, I repeat with joy, with triumph, I have always found some proof of human perversity or weakness. Every man I know to be criminal; every criminal I condemn seems to me a new living proof that I am not a hideous exception to the rest. Alas, alas, alas! all the world is wicked; let us therefore strike at wickedness!"
Villefort pronounced these last words with a feverish rage, which gave a ferocious eloquence to his words.
"But," said Madame Danglars, resolving to make a last effort, "this young man, though a murderer, is an orphan, abandoned by everybody."
"So much the worse, or rather so much the better; it has been so ordained 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 a threatening gesture.
"At least delay the trial till the next assizes; we shall then have six months before us."
"No, madame," said Villefort; "instructions have been given. There are yet five days left; five days are more than I require. Do you not think that I also long for forgetfulness? While working, and I work night and day while working, I sometimes lose all recollection of the past, and then I experience the same sort of happiness I can imagine the dead to feel; still, it is better than suffering."
"But, sir, he has fled; let him escape inaction is a pardonable offense."
"I tell you it is too late; early this morning the telegraph was employed, and at this very minute———"
"Sir," said the valet-de-chambre, entering the room, "a dragoon has brought this dispatch from the Minister of the Interior."
Villefort seized the letter, and hastily unsealed it. Madame Danglars trembled 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 procureur du roi, as in an almost joyful manner he conducted her to the door. Then, turning to his desk, he said, striking the letter with his right hand:
"Come, I had a forgery, three robberies, and two incendiaries; I only wanted a murder, and here it is. It will be a splendid session!"