The Count of Monte Cristo

otwithstanding the density of the crowd, M. de Villefort saw it open
before him. There is something so awe-inspiring in great afflictions
that even in the worst times the first emotion of a crowd has generally
been to sympathize with the sufferer in a great catastrophe. Many
people have been assassinated in a tumult, but even criminals have
rarely been insulted during trial. Thus Villefort passed through the
mass of spectators and officers of the Palais, and withdrew. Though he
had acknowledged his guilt, he was protected by his grief. There are
some situations which men understand by instinct, but which reason is
powerless to explain; in such cases the greatest poet is he who gives
utterance to the most natural and vehement outburst of sorrow. Those
who hear the bitter cry are as much impressed as if they listened to an
entire poem, and when the sufferer is sincere they are right in
regarding his outburst as sublime.

It would be difficult to describe the state of stupor in which
Villefort left the Palais. Every pulse beat with feverish excitement,
every nerve was strained, every vein swollen, and every part of his
body seemed to suffer distinctly from the rest, thus multiplying his
agony a thousand-fold. He made his way along the corridors through
force of habit; he threw aside his magisterial robe, not out of
deference to etiquette, but because it was an unbearable burden, a
veritable garb of Nessus, insatiate in torture. Having staggered as far
as the Rue Dauphine, he perceived his carriage, awoke his sleeping
coachman by opening the door himself, threw himself on the cushions,
and pointed towards the Faubourg Saint-Honoré; the carriage drove on.

All the weight of his fallen fortune seemed suddenly to crush him; he
could not foresee the consequences; he could not contemplate the future
with the indifference of the hardened criminal who merely faces a
contingency already familiar.

God was still in his heart. “God,” he murmured, not knowing what he
said,—“God—God!” Behind the event that had overwhelmed him he saw the
hand of God. The carriage rolled rapidly onward. Villefort, while
turning restlessly on the cushions, felt something press against him.
He put out his hand to remove the object; it was a fan which Madame de
Villefort had left in the carriage; this fan awakened a recollection
which darted through his mind like lightning. He thought of his wife.

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“Oh!” he exclaimed, as though a red-hot iron were piercing his heart.

During the last hour his own crime had alone been presented to his
mind; now another object, not less terrible, suddenly presented itself.
His wife! He had just acted the inexorable judge with her, he had
condemned her to death, and she, crushed by remorse, struck with
terror, covered with the shame inspired by the eloquence of his
irreproachable virtue,—she, a poor, weak woman, without help or the
power of defending herself against his absolute and supreme will,—she
might at that very moment, perhaps, be preparing to die!

An hour had elapsed since her condemnation; at that moment, doubtless,
she was recalling all her crimes to her memory; she was asking pardon
for her sins; perhaps she was even writing a letter imploring
forgiveness from her virtuous husband—a forgiveness she was purchasing
with her death! Villefort again groaned with anguish and despair.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “that woman became criminal only from associating
with me! I carried the infection of crime with me, and she has caught
it as she would the typhus fever, the cholera, the plague! And yet I
have punished her—I have dared to tell her—I have—‘Repent and die!’
But no, she must not die; she shall live, and with me. We will flee
from Paris and go as far as the earth reaches. I told her of the
scaffold; oh, Heavens, I forgot that it awaits me also! How could I
pronounce that word? Yes, we will fly; I will confess all to her,—I
will tell her daily that I also have committed a crime!—Oh, what an
alliance—the tiger and the serpent; worthy wife of such as I am! She
must live that my infamy may diminish hers.”

And Villefort dashed open the window in front of the carriage.

“Faster, faster!” he cried, in a tone which electrified the coachman.
The horses, impelled by fear, flew towards the house.

“Yes, yes,” repeated Villefort, as he approached his home—“yes, that
woman must live; she must repent, and educate my son, the sole
survivor, with the exception of the indestructible old man, of the
wreck of my house. She loves him; it was for his sake she has committed
these crimes. We ought never to despair of softening the heart of a
mother who loves her child. She will repent, and no one will know that
she has been guilty. The events which have taken place in my house,
though they now occupy the public mind, will be forgotten in time, or
if, indeed, a few enemies should persist in remembering them, why then
I will add them to my list of crimes. What will it signify if one, two,
or three more are added? My wife and child shall escape from this gulf,
carrying treasures with them; she will live and may yet be happy, since
her child, in whom all her love is centred, will be with her. I shall
have performed a good action, and my heart will be lighter.”

And the procureur breathed more freely than he had done for some time.

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The carriage stopped at the door of the house. Villefort leaped out of
the carriage, and saw that his servants were surprised at his early
return; he could read no other expression on their features. Neither of
them spoke to him; they merely stood aside to let him pass by, as
usual, nothing more. As he passed by M. Noirtier’s room, he perceived
two figures through the half-open door; but he experienced no curiosity
to know who was visiting his father; anxiety carried him on further.

“Come,” he said, as he ascended the stairs leading to his wife’s room,
“nothing is changed here.”

He then closed the door of the landing.

“No one must disturb us,” he said; “I must speak freely to her, accuse
myself, and say”—he approached the door, touched the crystal handle,
which yielded to his hand. “Not locked,” he cried; “that is well.”

And he entered the little room in which Edward slept; for though the
child went to school during the day, his mother could not allow him to
be separated from her at night. With a single glance Villefort’s eye
ran through the room.

“Not here,” he said; “doubtless she is in her bedroom.” He rushed
towards the door, found it bolted, and stopped, shuddering.

“Héloïse!” he cried. He fancied he heard the sound of a piece of
furniture being removed.

“Héloïse!” he repeated.

“Who is there?” answered the voice of her he sought. He thought that
voice more feeble than usual.

“Open the door!” cried Villefort. “Open; it is I.”

But notwithstanding this request, notwithstanding the tone of anguish
in which it was uttered, the door remained closed. Villefort burst it
open with a violent blow. At the entrance of the room which led to her
boudoir, Madame de Villefort was standing erect, pale, her features
contracted, and her eyes glaring horribly.

“Héloïse, Héloïse!” he said, “what is the matter? Speak!” The young
woman extended her stiff white hands towards him.

“It is done, monsieur,” she said with a rattling noise which seemed to
tear her throat. “What more do you want?” and she fell full length on
the floor.

Villefort ran to her and seized her hand, which convulsively clasped a
crystal bottle with a golden stopper. Madame de Villefort was dead.
Villefort, maddened with horror, stepped back to the threshhold of the
door, fixing his eyes on the corpse.

“My son!” he exclaimed suddenly, “where is my son?—Edward, Edward!” and
he rushed out of the room, still crying, “Edward, Edward!” The name was
pronounced in such a tone of anguish that the servants ran up.

“Where is my son?” asked Villefort; “let him be removed from the house,
that he may not see——”

“Master Edward is not downstairs, sir,” replied the valet.

“Then he must be playing in the garden; go and see.”

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“No, sir; Madame de Villefort sent for him half an hour ago; he went
into her room, and has not been downstairs since.”

A cold perspiration burst out on Villefort’s brow; his legs trembled,
and his thoughts flew about madly in his brain like the wheels of a
disordered watch.

“In Madame de Villefort’s room?” he murmured and slowly returned, with
one hand wiping his forehead, and with the other supporting himself
against the wall. To enter the room he must again see the body of his
unfortunate wife. To call Edward he must reawaken the echo of that room
which now appeared like a sepulchre; to speak seemed like violating the
silence of the tomb. His tongue was paralyzed in his mouth.

“Edward!” he stammered—“Edward!”

The child did not answer. Where, then, could he be, if he had entered
his mother’s room and not since returned? He stepped forward. The
corpse of Madame de Villefort was stretched across the doorway leading
to the room in which Edward must be; those glaring eyes seemed to watch
over the threshold, and the lips bore the stamp of a terrible and
mysterious irony. Through the open door was visible a portion of the
boudoir, containing an upright piano and a blue satin couch. Villefort
stepped forward two or three paces, and beheld his child lying—no doubt
asleep—on the sofa. The unhappy man uttered an exclamation of joy; a
ray of light seemed to penetrate the abyss of despair and darkness. He
had only to step over the corpse, enter the boudoir, take the child in
his arms, and flee far, far away.

Villefort was no longer the civilized man; he was a tiger hurt unto
death, gnashing his teeth in his wound. He no longer feared realities,
but phantoms. He leaped over the corpse as if it had been a burning
brazier. He took the child in his arms, embraced him, shook him, called
him, but the child made no response. He pressed his burning lips to the
cheeks, but they were icy cold and pale; he felt the stiffened limbs;
he pressed his hand upon the heart, but it no longer beat,—the child
was dead.

A folded paper fell from Edward’s breast. Villefort, thunderstruck,
fell upon his knees; the child dropped from his arms, and rolled on the
floor by the side of its mother. He picked up the paper, and,
recognizing his wife’s writing, ran his eyes rapidly over its contents;
it ran as follows:

“You know that I was a good mother, since it was for my son’s sake I
became criminal. A good mother cannot depart without her son.”

Villefort could not believe his eyes,—he could not believe his reason;
he dragged himself towards the child’s body, and examined it as a
lioness contemplates its dead cub. Then a piercing cry escaped from his
breast, and he cried,

“Still the hand of God.”

The presence of the two victims alarmed him; he could not bear solitude
shared only by two corpses. Until then he had been sustained by rage,
by his strength of mind, by despair, by the supreme agony which led the
Titans to scale the heavens, and Ajax to defy the gods. He now arose,
his head bowed beneath the weight of grief, and, shaking his damp,
dishevelled hair, he who had never felt compassion for anyone
determined to seek his father, that he might have someone to whom he
could relate his misfortunes,—someone by whose side he might weep.

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He descended the little staircase with which we are acquainted, and
entered Noirtier’s room. The old man appeared to be listening
attentively and as affectionately as his infirmities would allow to the
Abbé Busoni, who looked cold and calm, as usual. Villefort, perceiving
the abbé, passed his hand across his brow. The past came to him like
one of those waves whose wrath foams fiercer than the others.

He recollected the call he had made upon him after the dinner at
Auteuil, and then the visit the abbé had himself paid to his house on
the day of Valentine’s death.

“You here, sir!” he exclaimed; “do you, then, never appear but to act
as an escort to death?”

Busoni turned around, and, perceiving the excitement depicted on the
magistrate’s face, the savage lustre of his eyes, he understood that
the revelation had been made at the assizes; but beyond this he was
ignorant.

“I came to pray over the body of your daughter.”

“And now why are you here?”

“I come to tell you that you have sufficiently repaid your debt, and
that from this moment I will pray to God to forgive you, as I do.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Villefort, stepping back fearfully, “surely
that is not the voice of the Abbé Busoni!”

“No!” The abbé threw off his wig, shook his head, and his hair, no
longer confined, fell in black masses around his manly face.

“It is the face of the Count of Monte Cristo!” exclaimed the procureur,
with a haggard expression.

“You are not exactly right, M. Procureur; you must go farther back.”

“That voice, that voice!—where did I first hear it?”

“You heard it for the first time at Marseilles, twenty-three years ago,
the day of your marriage with Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran. Refer to
your papers.”

“You are not Busoni?—you are not Monte Cristo? Oh, heavens! you are,
then, some secret, implacable, and mortal enemy! I must have wronged
you in some way at Marseilles. Oh, woe to me!”

“Yes; you are now on the right path,” said the count, crossing his arms
over his broad chest; “search—search!”

“But what have I done to you?” exclaimed Villefort, whose mind was
balancing between reason and insanity, in that cloud which is neither a
dream nor reality; “what have I done to you? Tell me, then! Speak!”

“You condemned me to a horrible, tedious death; you killed my father;
you deprived me of liberty, of love, and happiness.”

“Who are you, then? Who are you?”

“I am the spectre of a wretch you buried in the dungeons of the Château
d’If. God gave that spectre the form of the Count of Monte Cristo when
he at length issued from his tomb, enriched him with gold and diamonds,
and led him to you!”

“Ah, I recognize you—I recognize you!” exclaimed the king’s attorney;
“you are——”

“I am Edmond Dantès!”

“You are Edmond Dantès,” cried Villefort, seizing the count by the
wrist; “then come here!”

And up the stairs he dragged Monte Cristo; who, ignorant of what had
happened, followed him in astonishment, foreseeing some new
catastrophe.

“There, Edmond Dantès!” he said, pointing to the bodies of his wife and
child, “see, are you well avenged?”

Monte Cristo became pale at this horrible sight; he felt that he had
passed beyond the bounds of vengeance, and that he could no longer say,
“God is for and with me.” With an expression of indescribable anguish
he threw himself upon the body of the child, reopened its eyes, felt
its pulse, and then rushed with him into Valentine’s room, of which he
double-locked the door.

“My child,” cried Villefort, “he carries away the body of my child! Oh,
curses, woe, death to you!”

He tried to follow Monte Cristo; but as though in a dream he was
transfixed to the spot,—his eyes glared as though they were starting
through the sockets; he griped the flesh on his chest until his nails
were stained with blood; the veins of his temples swelled and boiled as
though they would burst their narrow boundary, and deluge his brain
with living fire. This lasted several minutes, until the frightful
overturn of reason was accomplished; then uttering a loud cry followed
by a burst of laughter, he rushed down the stairs.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the door of Valentine’s room opened,
and Monte Cristo reappeared. Pale, with a dull eye and heavy heart, all
the noble features of that face, usually so calm and serene, were
overcast by grief. In his arms he held the child, whom no skill had
been able to recall to life. Bending on one knee, he placed it
reverently by the side of its mother, with its head upon her breast.
Then, rising, he went out, and meeting a servant on the stairs, he
asked:

“Where is M. de Villefort?”

The servant, instead of answering, pointed to the garden. Monte Cristo
ran down the steps, and advancing towards the spot designated beheld
Villefort, encircled by his servants, with a spade in his hand, and
digging the earth with fury.

“It is not here!” he cried. “It is not here!”

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And then he moved farther on, and began again to dig.

Monte Cristo approached him, and said in a low voice, with an
expression almost humble:

“Sir, you have indeed lost a son; but——”

Villefort interrupted him; he had neither listened nor heard.

“Oh, I will find it,” he cried; “you may pretend he is not here, but
I will find him, though I dig forever!”

Monte Cristo drew back in horror.

“Oh,” he said, “he is mad!” And as though he feared that the walls of
the accursed house would crumble around him, he rushed into the street,
for the first time doubting whether he had the right to do as he had
done. “Oh, enough of this,—enough of this,” he cried; “let me save the
last.” On entering his house, he met Morrel, who wandered about like a
ghost awaiting the heavenly mandate for return to the tomb.

“Prepare yourself, Maximilian,” he said with a smile; “we leave Paris
tomorrow.”

“Have you nothing more to do there?” asked Morrel.

“No,” replied Monte Cristo; “God grant I may not have done too much
already.”

The next day they indeed left, accompanied only by Baptistin. Haydée
had taken away Ali, and Bertuccio remained with Noirtier.