The Count of Monte Cristo
Chapter 99 The Law
WE 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 contemplating the enormous
magnitude of his debt before the
phantom of
bankruptcy, and follow the
baroness, who after being momentarily crushed under the weight of the blow which had struck her, had gone to seek her usual
adviser, Lucien Debray. The
baroness had looked forward to this marriage as a means of ridding her of a guardianship which, over a girl of Eugénie's character, could not fail to be rather a troublesome
undertaking; for in the tacit relations which maintain the bond of family union, the mother, to maintain her ascendancy over her daughter, must never fail to be a model of wisdom and a type of
perfection.
Now, Madame Danglars feared Eugénie's
sagacity and the influence of Mademoiselle d'Armilly; she had frequently observed the
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contemptuous expression with which her daughter looked upon Debray,--an expression which seemed to imply that she understood all her mother's amorous and pecuniary relationships with the intimate secretary; moreover, she saw that Eugénie detested Debray,--not only because he was a source of
dissension and
scandal under 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 through a certain medium, and so is prevented from
seeing in the same light as others, and Madame Danglars, therefore, 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, 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 the
precise time when Madame Danglars, dressed in black and concealed in a long veil, was ascending the stairs leading to Debray's apartments,--notwithstanding the
assurances of the concièrge that the young man was not at home,--Debray was occupied in repelling the insinuations of a friend, who tried to persuade 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 did not defend himself very warmly, for the idea had sometimes crossed his mind; still, when he recollected the independent, proud spirit of Eugénie, he
positively rejected it as utterly impossible, though the same thought again
continually recurred and found a resting-place in his heart. Tea, play, and the 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
uneasy, 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 twenty minutes of twelve, Madame Danglars, tired of waiting, returned home. Women of a certain grade are like prosperous 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 up-stairs, 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 the
paternal roof. She listened at Eugénie's door, and
hearing no sound tried to enter, but the bolts were in place. Madame Danglars then concluded that the young girl had been overcome with the terrible excitement of the evening, and had gone to bed and to sleep. She called the maid and questioned her.
"Mademoiselle Eugénie," said the maid, "
retired to her apartment with Mademoiselle d'Armilly; they then took tea together, after which they desired me to leave,
saying that they needed me no longer." Since then the 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 recent events. In proportion as her memory became clearer, the occurrences of the evening were revealed in their true light; what she had taken for confusion was a
tumult; what she had regarded as something distressing, was in reality a disgrace. 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 a 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 towards heaven, where a mysterious
providence disposes all things, and out of a fault, nay, even a vice, sometimes produces a blessing. And then her thoughts, cleaving through space like a bird in the air, rested on Cavalcanti. This Andrea was a
wretch, a robber, an
assassin, and yet his manners showed the effects of a sort of 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 towards 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 remorselessly brought
misfortune into her family, as though they had been strangers. But, no; on reflection, the procureur was not a
merciless man; and it was not the magistrate, slave to his duties, but the friend, the 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 ignominious association with the disgraced young man they had presented to the world as their son-in-law. And since Villefort, the friend of Danglars, had acted in this way, no one could suppose that he had been
previously acquainted with, or had lent himself to, any of Andrea's intrigues. Villefort's conduct, therefore, upon reflection, appeared to the
baroness as if shaped for their
mutual advantage. But the inflexibility of the procureur 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 follow up 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 arose, and without ringing for her maid or giving the least sign of her activity, she dressed herself in the same simple style as on the previous night; then running down-stairs, she left the hotel. walked to the Rue de Provence, called a cab, 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 afterwards the window would be closed, like a gravestone falling on a sepulchre, and the neighbors would say to each other in a low voice, "Will there be another funeral to-day at the procureur's house?" Madame Danglars
involuntarily shuddered at the
desolate aspect of the
mansion; descending from the cab, 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 concièrge 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 pre
caution, not impertinence; no one enters here without an order from M. d'Avrigny, or without
speaking to the procureur."
"Well, I have business with the procureur."
"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 concièrge closed the door, leaving Madame Danglars in the street. She had not long to wait; directly afterwards 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 concièrge took a whistle from his pocket as soon as they entered the court, and blew it. The valet de chambre appeared on the door-steps. "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 that he could not act otherwise."
In the court showing his
merchandise, was a
tradesman who had been admitted with the same pre
cautions. The
baroness ascended the steps; she felt herself strongly infected with the
sadness which seemed to
magnify her own, and still guided by the valet de chambre, who never lost sight of her for an instant, she was introduced to the magistrate's study. 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 eyesight she could never have believed that 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 which has just happened?"
"Yes, sir,--a fearful
misfortune."
"You mean a mischance."
"A mischance?"
repeated the
baroness.
"Alas, madame," said the procureur 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 from 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 that I ought to be gay." Villefort bowed. "When I hear
misfortunes named, madame," he said, "I have within the last few mouths
contracted the bad habit of thinking of my own, and then I cannot help
drawing up an egotistical parallel in my mind. That is the reason that by the side of my
misfortunes yours appear to me mere mischances; that 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 man, the more deeply will you strike our family. Come, forget him for a moment, and instead of pursuing him let him go."
"You are too late, madame; the orders are issued."
"Well, should he be arrested--do they think they will arrest him?"
"I hope so."
"If they should arrest him (I know that sometimes prisoners afford means of escape), will you leave him in prison?"--The procureur 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 reads the secrets of the heart. "Yes, I know what you mean," he said; "you refer to the terrible rumors spread abroad in the world, that the deaths which have kept me in mourning for the last three months, and 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."