The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (22 page)

At this, Noirtier left, as calm as he had been throughout the length of this difficult interview.

Villefort, pale and troubled, ran to the window, parted the curtains and saw him go by, tranquil and unmoved, between two or three sinister-looking men who were stationed by the boundary posts or at the corner of the street and who may well have been there to arrest a man with black whiskers, wearing a blue coat and a broad-brimmed hat.

He remained standing where he was, holding his breath, until his father had vanished beyond the Carrefour Bussy. Then he rushed to the things that Noirtier had left behind, thrust the black cravat and blue frock-coat into the bottom of his trunk, twisted the hat and concealed it in the bottom of a cupboard, and broke the rattan cane into three pieces, which he threw on the fire. Then he put on a travelling cap, called his valet, giving him a look that forbade him to ask any of the thousand questions that were on his lips, settled his account with the hotel, leapt into the carriage which was waiting for him, with the horses ready harnessed, learnt in Lyon that Bonaparte had just entered Grenoble and, in the midst of the turmoil that he found throughout the whole length of the road, arrived in Marseille, a prey to all the agonized feelings that enter a man’s heart when he has ambition and has been honoured for the first time.

M. Noirtier was a good prophet and events moved quickly, as he had said. Everyone knows about the return from Elba, that strange and miraculous return, with no earlier precedent and probably destined to remain unique for all time.

Louis XVIII made only feeble efforts to ward off this terrible blow: his lack of confidence in men deprived him of any confidence in events. Kingship or, rather, the monarchy, which he had barely rebuilt, was already trembling on its uncertain foundations and a single gesture from the emperor brought the entire edifice crashing down, a shapeless compound of old prejudices and new ideas. So Villefort received nothing from his king except gratitude, and that was not only useless for the time being, but actually dangerous; and the cross of the Legion of Honour which he was wise enough not to display, even though M. de Blacas had done as the king required and duly sent him the certificate.

Villefort would surely have been dismissed by Napoleon, had it not been for the protection of Noirtier, who had become all-powerful at court under the Hundred Days,
¹
both for the danger that he had run and for the services he had rendered. So, as promised, the Girondin of ‘93 and the Senator of 1806 protected the man who had earlier protected him. Consequently, all Villefort’s efforts during this reincarnation of the empire – which, it was not difficult to predict, would fall again – consisted in suppressing the secret which Dantès had been on the point of divulging. The crown prosecutor alone was dismissed, suspected of lack of enthusiasm for Bonapartism.

The imperial regime was re-established, which meant that the emperor moved into the Tuileries that Louis XVIII had just left, and began to issue a host of different orders from the little study into which, hard on the heels of Villefort, we recently introduced our readers, and from the walnut table on which he found Louis XVIII’s snuffbox, wide open and still half full. And, no sooner had this happened than Marseille, despite the attitude of its judiciary, began to feel the warmth of those smouldering fires of civil war that are never entirely extinguished in the South. The reprisals
threatened to exceed the occasional rowdy outburst against the houses of Royalists who decided to stay indoors, or public insults hurled at those who ventured outside.

Naturally, the turn of events meant that the worthy shipowner, whom we have already described as a supporter of the people’s party, found himself in these circumstances, if not exactly all-powerful – since M. Morrel was a cautious and slightly timid man, like all those who have made their fortunes in trade by their own laborious efforts – at least able to stand up and lodge a complaint, even though he was dismissed as a moderate by Bonapartist fanatics. And his complaint, as one may easily imagine, concerned Dantès.

Villefort had remained on his feet, despite his superior’s dismissal, but his wedding, though still agreed in principle, had been postponed until more propitious times. If the emperor should keep his throne, then Gérard would need to marry into another family and his father would find a suitable match for him. If Louis XVIII returned to France under a second Restoration, M. de Saint-Méran’s influence and his own would be greatly increased, and the union become more favourable to him than ever. So, for the time being, the deputy crown prosecutor was the principal magistrate in Marseille; and, one day, his door opened and M. Morrel was announced.

Anyone else would have hastened to greet the shipowner, betraying his own weakness in his haste. But Villefort was a man of superior intelligence who, though he had little experience of the world, had an instinct for it. He kept M. Morrel waiting, as he would have done under the Restoration, not because he had anyone with him, but simply because it is normal for a crown prosecutor to keep people waiting; then, after a quarter of an hour which he spent reading two or three newspapers of various persuasions, he gave the order for the shipowner to be shown in.

M. Morrel expected to find Villefort dejected; but he found him as he had seen him six weeks earlier, that is to say calm, firm and full of the distant good manners that make up the most impenetrable of barriers separating a well-bred man from one of the people. He had entered Villefort’s chambers convinced that the magistrate would tremble at the sight of him, only to discover that, on the contrary, he was himself overcome with nervousness and anxiety when confronted with this man who was waiting for him with an enquiring look and his elbows resting on his desk.

He paused at the door. Villefort examined him, as though he could not quite remember who he was. At last, after studying him in silence for some seconds, during which the good shipowner twisted and untwisted his hat in his hands, Villefort said: ‘Monsieur Morrel, I believe?’

‘Yes, Monsieur, I am he,’ the shipowner replied.

The magistrate gestured protectively with his hand. ‘Come over here and tell me to what I owe the honour of this visit.’

‘Have you no idea, Monsieur?’ M. Morrel asked.

‘Not the slightest; but that does not in any way prevent me from wishing to serve you, if it is in my power to do so.’

‘It depends entirely on you, Monsieur,’ said Morrel.

‘So please explain.’

‘Monsieur,’ continued the shipowner, gaining in confidence as he spoke, and further strengthened by the justice of his case and the clarity of his position, ‘you remember that, a few days before the news of His Majesty the Emperor’s landing, I came to beg your indulgence for an unfortunate young man, a sailor, who was second mate on board my brig. You will recall that he was accused of being in contact with the island of Elba: this connection, though a crime in those days, is now a recommendation. At that time, you served Louis XVIII and you did so unreservedly, Monsieur – that was your duty. Today, you are serving Napoleon, and you should protect him – that, too, is your duty. So I have come to ask you what became of him.’

Villefort struggled to contain his feelings.

‘What is the man’s name?’ he asked. ‘Please be so good as to tell me his name.’

‘Edmond Dantès.’

Of course, Villefort would have been as happy to confront an armed adversary in a duel at twenty-five paces as to have this name fired at him point blank, yet he did not raise an eyebrow.

‘In this way,’ he thought, ‘no one can accuse me of having any purely personal interest in the arrest of this young man.’

‘Dantès?’ he asked aloud. ‘Edmond Dantès, you say?’

‘Yes, Monsieur.’

Villefort opened a large register housed in a pigeon-hole near his desk, then crossed to a table and, from the table, went over to some files, before turning back to the shipowner.

‘Are you sure that you are not mistaken, Monsieur?’ he asked, in the most natural tone of voice.

If Morrel had been more sharp-witted or better informed about the matter, he would have found it odd that the deputy crown prosecutor even deigned to answer him on a subject which was entirely outside his competence; and he might have wondered why Villefort did not send him to consult the prison registers, prison governors or the prefect of the
département
. But Morrel, who had looked in vain for any sign of fear in Villefort, as soon as the man appeared to have none, perceived only a desire to oblige: he was no match for Villefort.

‘No, Monsieur,’ Morrel said, ‘I am not mistaken. In any case, I have known the poor lad for ten years and he has served under me for four. Don’t you remember? I came to see you six weeks ago, to ask for clemency on behalf of this unfortunate young man, just as today I am asking for justice. In fact, your manner was quite offhand and you spoke to me as though displeased by my enquiry. Oh, Bonapartists could expect harsh treatment from Royalists in those days!’

Villefort parried this thrust with his usual agility and cool-headedness. ‘Monsieur, I was a Royalist as long as I considered the Bourbons not only the rightful heirs to the throne but also the choice of the nation. However, the miraculous turn of events that we have just witnessed proved to me that I was wrong. Napoleon’s genius has triumphed: the legitimate monarch is the one who has the love of the people.’

‘Pleased to hear it, at last!’ Morrel exclaimed, with bluff sincerity. ‘When you speak in that way, it augurs well for Edmond.’

‘Wait,’ Villefort continued, leafing through another register. ‘He was a sailor, isn’t that right… who was marrying a Catalan girl? Yes, yes, I remember now: it was a very serious matter.’

‘How, serious?’

‘You know that when he left here he was taken to the prison at the Palais de Justice.’

‘So?’

‘Well, I made my report to Paris and sent the papers that were found on him. That was my duty: what else could I do? A week after his arrest, the prisoner was transferred.’

‘Transferred!’ M. Morrel exclaimed. ‘What can have been done with the poor boy?’

‘Don’t worry. He would have been taken to Fenestrelle, in Pignerol, on the Iles Sainte-Marguerite, which is officially described
as transportation. One fine day you will see him return to take command of his ship.’

‘He can come whenever he likes, the post will be kept for him. But why is he not back already? I should have thought that the first priority of Bonapartist justice would have been to release those who were imprisoned under the Royalist regime.’

‘Don’t be too eager to make accusations, my dear Monsieur Morrel,’ Villefort replied. ‘Due process of law must be observed in everything. The order for his incarceration came from the highest authority and the order for his release must do likewise. Napoleon has only been back for a fortnight, so the annulments can only just have been sent out.’

‘But is there no way of expediting the formalities, now that we are back in power? I have some friends and some influence: I could have the judgement reversed.’

‘There was no judgement in this case.’

‘The detention order, then.’

‘In political cases there is no register of detainees. It is sometimes in the interest of governments to make a person disappear without trace: detention orders would help to find him.’

‘Perhaps that’s how things were under the Bourbons, but now…’

‘That’s how things are at all times, my dear Monsieur Morrel: one regime follows another and resembles its predecessor. The penitentiary system established under Louis XIV still applies, apart from the Bastille. The emperor was always stricter than even the Sun King himself when it came to the management of his prisons: the number of prisoners whose names do not figure on any register is incalculable.’

Even certainty would have been misled by such benevolent concern, and M. Morrel did not even feel suspicion.

‘So finally, Monsieur de Villefort,’ he said, ‘what advice would you give me to hasten poor Dantès’ return?’

‘Just this, Monsieur: make a petition to the Minister of Justice.’

‘Yes, but we know what happens to petitions. The minister gets two hundred a day and doesn’t read four of them.’

‘Certainly,’ Villefort agreed, ‘but he will read a petition that is sent by me, certified by me and personally addressed by me.’

‘Would you undertake to send such a petition?’

‘With the greatest pleasure. Dantès might have been guilty then,
but he is innocent now and it is my duty to have him released, just as it was once my duty to have him imprisoned.’

In this way, Villefort could avoid running the risk, small though it might be, of an enquiry that would certainly prove his undoing.

‘How does one go about writing to the minister?’

‘Sit here, Monsieur Morrel,’ Villefort said, giving the shipowner his chair. ‘I shall dictate the letter.’

‘Would you really be so kind?’

‘Of course. Let’s lose no more time, we have wasted enough already.’

‘Yes, Monsieur. Consider how the poor lad must be waiting, suffering and perhaps giving way to despair.’

Villefort shuddered at the idea of the prisoner cursing him in the darkness and silence, but he had gone too far to retreat. Dantès would have to be broken between the cogs of his ambition.