The Count of Monte Cristo Page 9

  ‘How do I know?’ replied Danglars. ‘About his business, no doubt. But instead of worrying about that, why don’t we go and comfort these poor people.’

  While this conversation was taking place, Dantès had in effect been shaking the hands of all his friends, with a smile to each, and relinquished himself into captivity, saying: ‘Stay calm. The mistake will doubtless be explained and it is quite probable that I shall not even go as far as the prison.’

  ‘Certainly not, I guarantee it,’ Danglars said, coming across at that moment to the group, as he had indicated.

  Dantès went down the stairs, following the commissioner of police, with the soldiers surrounding him. A carriage, its door wide open, was waiting outside. He got in. Two soldiers and the commissioner got up behind him, the door closed and the carriage set out on the road back to Marseille.

  ‘Farewell, Dantès! Farewell, Edmond!’ cried Mercédès, leaning across the balustrade.

  The prisoner heard this last cry, wrung like a sob from his fiancée’s tormented heart. He leant out of the carriage window and called: ‘Goodbye, Mercédès!’ as he disappeared round one corner of the Fort Saint-Nicholas.

  ‘Wait for me here,’ said the shipowner. ‘I shall take the first carriage I can find, hurry to Marseille and bring the news back to you.’

  ‘Yes!’ everyone cried. ‘Go on, and come quickly back.’

  After this double departure there was a dreadful moment of stunned silence among all who remained behind. For a time, the old man and Mercédès stayed apart, each immured in grief. But at length their eyes met. Each recognized the other as a victim stricken by the same blow and they fell into each other’s arms.

  Meanwhile Fernand returned, poured himself a glass of water, drank it and sat down on a chair. By chance, this happened to be next to the chair into which Mercédès sank when she parted from the old man’s embrace. Fernand instinctively moved his own chair away.

  ‘He’s the one,’ Caderousse told Danglars, not having taken his eyes off the Catalan.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Danglars replied. ‘He was not clever enough. In any case, let whoever is responsible take the blame.’

  ‘You are forgetting the person who advised him.’

  ‘Pah! If one were to be held to account for every remark one lets fall…’

  ‘Yes, when it falls point downwards.’

  Everyone else, meanwhile, had been discussing every angle of Dantès’ arrest.

  ‘And you, Danglars?’ someone asked. ‘What do you think about what has happened?’

  ‘My view is that he must have brought back some packets of prohibited goods.’

  ‘But if that was the case, you should know about it, Danglars, since you were the ship’s supercargo.’

  ‘That may be so, but the supercargo doesn’t know about any goods unless they are declared to him. I know that we were carrying cotton, that’s all, and that we took the cargo on at Alexandria, from Monsieur Pastret, and at Smyrna, from Monsieur Pascal. Don’t expect me to know anything more than that.’

  ‘Yes, I remember now,’ Dantès’ poor father muttered, clutching at this straw. ‘He told me yesterday that he had brought me a cask of coffee and one of tobacco.’

  ‘You see,’ said Danglars. ‘That’s it: while we were away, the Customs must have gone on board the Pharaon and discovered the contraband.’

  Mercédès did not believe any of this; and, having up to then contained her distress, she burst into a fit of sobbing.

  ‘Come, come! Don’t lose hope,’ Old Dantès said, though without really knowing what he was saying.

  ‘Hope!’ Danglars repeated.

  ‘Hope,’ Fernand tried to mutter. But the word stuck in his throat, his lips trembled and no sound emerged from them.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ cried one of the guests, who had been keeping watch from the balcony. ‘Gentlemen, a carriage! Ah, it’s Monsieur Morrel! Come now, he must surely be bringing good news.’

  Mercédès and the old man ran out to greet the shipowner, who met them at the door. M. Morrel’s face was pale.

  ‘Well?’ they all cried at once.

  ‘Well, my friends,’ the shipowner replied, shaking his head. ‘The matter is more serious than we thought.’

  ‘But, Monsieur!’ cried Mercédès. ‘He is innocent!’

  ‘I believe him to be so,’ M. Morrel replied, ‘but he is accused…’

  ‘What is he accused of?’ Old Dantès asked.

  ‘Of being an agent of Bonaparte.’

  Those readers who lived through the period in which this story takes place will recall what a dreadful accusation it was that M. Morrel had just pronounced in those days.

  Mercédès gave a cry, and the old man sank into a chair.

  ‘So,’ Caderousse muttered. ‘You lied to me, Danglars: the trick was played after all. But I do not intend to let this old man and this young woman die of grief, and I shall tell them everything.’

  ‘Hold your tongue, wretch!’ Danglars exclaimed, grasping Caderousse’s hand. ‘Otherwise I can’t answer for what may happen to you. How do you know that Dantès is not in fact guilty? The ship did call in at the island of Elba, he landed there and stayed a day in Porto Ferrajo. If he has been found with some compromising letter on his person, anyone who takes his part will look like an accomplice.’

  Caderousse was rapidly informed of the full strength of this argument by the dictates of self-interest, and he looked at Danglars with an expression deadened by fear and grief. Having just taken one step forward, he proceeded to take two back.

  ‘So, let’s wait and see,’ he muttered.

  ‘Yes, we’ll wait,’ Danglars answered. ‘If he is innocent, he will be freed; if he is guilty, there is no sense in compromising oneself for the sake of a conspirator.’

  ‘Let’s go, then. I can’t stay here any longer.’

  ‘Yes, come on,’ said Danglars, delighted at having someone to accompany him out of the room. ‘Come, we shall let them extricate themselves as best they may.’

  They left; and Fernand, resuming his former role in support of the young woman, took Mercédès’ hand and led her back to Les Catalans. For their part, Dantès’ friends took the old man, in a state of near-collapse, back to the Allées de Meilhan.

  The news that Dantès had just been arrested as a Bonapartist agent soon spread through Marseille.

  ‘Would you have believed it, my dear Danglars?’ M. Morrel said, catching up with his supercargo and Caderousse (for he was also heading for town as fast as he could, to have some first-hand news of Edmond from the crown prosecutor, M. de Villefort, who was a slight acquaintance of his). ‘Would you believe it?’

  ‘Well, now, Monsieur!’ Danglars replied. ‘I told you that Dantès put into Elba, for no apparent reason, and that this call seemed suspicious to me.’

  ‘But did you tell anyone else of your suspicions?’

  ‘I was careful not to do any such thing,’ Danglars assured him, lowering his voice. ‘You know very well that, on account of your uncle, Monsieur Policar Morrel, who served under you-know-whom and makes no secret of his feelings, you are suspected of hankering after the old regime. I would have been afraid I might harm Dantès and also yourself. There are some things that a subordinate has a duty to tell the owner, and to keep well hidden from anyone else.’

  ‘Well done, Danglars, well done. You’re a good fellow. I had already thought about you, in the event of poor Dantès becoming captain of the Pharaon.’

  ‘How so, Monsieur?’

  ‘Well, you see, I did ask Dantès what he thought of you and if he would have any objection to my leaving you in your post; I don’t know why, but I thought I had noticed some coldness between you.’

  ‘And what was his reply?’

  ‘He told me that he did indeed feel that he had some grievance against you, though in circumstances that he would not explain; but that anyone who enjoyed the shipowner’s confidence also had his own.’

  ‘Hypocrite!’ muttered
Danglars.

  ‘Poor Dantès,’ said Caderousse. ‘He was an excellent fellow, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘Yes, but meanwhile,’ M. Morrel said, ‘the Pharaon has no captain.’

  ‘Oh, we must hope,’ said Danglars, ‘that, since we cannot sail again for three months, Dantès will be freed before then.’

  ‘Of course, but in the meanwhile?’

  ‘Well, Monsieur Morrel, in the meantime, I am here. As you know, I can manage a ship as well as the first ocean-going captain who may come along. It may even benefit you to use me, because when Edmond comes out of prison you will not have to dismiss anybody: he will quite simply resume his post and I mine.’

  ‘Thank you, Danglars,’ said the shipowner. ‘That arranges everything. I therefore authorize you to take command and supervise the unloading: whatever disaster may befall an individual, business must not suffer.’

  ‘Have no fear, Monsieur. But can we at least go and visit him? Poor Edmond!’

  ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I can, Danglars. I shall try to speak to Monsieur de Villefort and intercede with him on the prisoner’s behalf. I know that he is a rabid Royalist; but, dammit, though he’s a Royalist and the crown prosecutor, he is also a man and not, I believe, a wicked one.’

  ‘No,’ said Danglars. ‘Though I have heard it said that he is ambitious, which is much the same.’

  ‘Well, we shall find out,’ M. Morrel said, with a sigh. ‘Go on board and I’ll join you there.’

  He left the two friends, to make his way towards the law courts.

  ‘You see how things are turning out?’ Danglars said to Caderousse. ‘Do you still want to go and speak for Dantès?’

  ‘No, indeed not. But it is dreadful that a trick should have such dire consequences.’

  ‘Pah! Who played the trick? Not you or I. You know very well that I threw the paper into a corner. I even thought I had torn it up.’

  ‘No, no,’ Caderousse insisted. ‘As far as that goes, I am certain. I can see it in the corner of the arbour, screwed up in a ball – and I wish it were still in the place where I saw it.’

  ‘What do you expect? Fernand must have picked it up, copied it or had it copied; perhaps he did not even take that trouble; which means… Good Lord! Suppose he sent my own letter! Luckily I disguised my handwriting.’

  ‘But did you know that Dantès was a conspirator?’

  ‘Did I know? I knew nothing at all. As I told you, I was making a joke, that’s all. It seems that, like Harlequin, I spoke a true word in jest.’

  ‘No matter,’ said Caderousse. ‘I’d give a great deal for this not to have happened, or at least not to be involved in it. You wait and see, Danglars! It will bring us misfortune!’

  ‘If it brings misfortune, it will be to the guilty party, and the real responsibility lies with Fernand, not with us. What ill do you suppose could befall us? All we have to do is to keep quiet and not breathe a word of this, and the storm will blow over without striking us.’

  ‘Amen!’ Caderousse said, waving goodbye to Danglars and making his way towards the Allées de Meilhan, shaking his head and muttering to himself, as people are inclined to do when they have a good deal on their minds.

  ‘Good!’ Danglars exclaimed. ‘Everything is working out as I expected. I am now captain pro tem and, if only that idiot Caderousse can keep his mouth shut, captain for good. So, the only other eventuality is that the Law may release Dantès? Ah, well,’ he added, with a smile, ‘the Law is the Law, and I am happy to put myself in her hands.’

  Upon which, he leapt into a boat and gave the boatman the order to row him out to the Pharaon where the shipowner, as you will recall, had arranged to meet him.

  VI

  THE DEPUTY CROWN PROSECUTOR

  That same day, at the same time, in the Rue du Grand-Cours, opposite the Fontaine des Méduses, a betrothal feast was also being celebrated, in one of those old buildings in the aristocratic style of the architect Puget. However, instead of the participants in this other scene being common people, sailors and soldiers, they belonged to the cream of Marseillais society. There were former magistrates who had resigned their appointments under the usurper, veteran officers who had left our army to serve under Condé, and young men brought up by families which were still uncertain about their security, despite the four or five substitutes that had been hired for them, out of hatred for the man whom five years of exile were to make a martyr, and fifteen years of Restoration, a god.1

  They were dining and the conversation flowed back and forth, fired by every passion – those passions of the time that were still more terrible, ardent and bitter in the South where, for five centuries, religious quarrels had seconded political ones.

  The emperor, king of the island of Elba after having been ruler of part of the world, exercising sovereignty over a population of 500 or 600 souls, when he had once heard the cry ‘Long Live Napoleon!’ from 120 million subjects, in ten different languages, was treated here as a man lost for ever to France and to the throne. The magistrates picked on his political errors, the soldiers spoke of Moscow and Leipzig, the women discussed his divorce from Joséphine.2 This Royalist gathering, rejoicing and triumphing not in the fall of the man but in the annihilation of the idea, felt as though life was beginning again and it was emerging from an unpleasant dream.

  An old man, decorated with the Cross of Saint-Louis,3 rose and invited his fellow-guests to drink the health of King Louis XVIII. He was the Marquis de Saint-Méran.

  At this toast, recalling both the exile of Hartwell4 and the king who had brought peace to France, there was a loud murmur. Glasses were raised in the English manner, the women unpinned their bouquets and strewed them over the tablecloth. There was something almost poetical in their fervour.

  ‘If they were here, they would be obliged to assent,’ said the Marquise de Saint-Méran, a dry-eyed, thin-lipped woman with a bearing that was aristocratic and still elegant, despite her fifty years. ‘If they were here, all those revolutionaries who drove us out and whom we, in turn, are leaving alone to conspire at their ease in our old châteaux, which they bought for a crust of bread during the Terror – they would be obliged to assent and acknowledge that the true dedication was on our side, since we adhered to a crumbling monarchy while they, on the contrary, hailed the rising sun and made their fortune from it, while we were losing ours. They would acknowledge that our own king was truly Louis le Bien-Aimé, the Well-Beloved, while their usurper, for his part, was never more than Napoléon le Maudit – the Accursed. Don’t you agree, de Villefort?’

  ‘What was that, Madame la Marquise? Excuse me, I was not following the conversation.’

  ‘Come, come, let these children be, Marquise,’ said the old man who had proposed the toast. ‘They are to be married and, naturally enough, have other things to discuss besides politics.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, mother,’ said a lovely young woman with blonde hair and eyes of velvet, bathed in limpid pools. ‘I shall give you back Monsieur de Villefort, whose attention I had claimed for a moment. Monsieur de Villefort, my mother is speaking to you.’

  ‘I am waiting to answer Madame’s question,’ said M. de Villefort, ‘if she will be so good as to repeat it, because I did not catch it the first time.’

  ‘You are forgiven, Renée,’ said the marquise, with a tender smile that it was surprising to see radiate from those dry features; but the heart of a woman is such that, however arid it may become when the winds of prejudice and the demands of etiquette have blown across it, there always remains one corner that is radiant and fertile – the one that God has dedicated to maternal love. ‘You are forgiven… Now, what I was saying, Villefort, is that the Bonapartists had neither our conviction, nor our enthusiasm, nor our dedication.’

  ‘Ah, Madame, but they do at least have one thing that replaces all those, which is fanaticism. Napoleon is the Mohammed of the West. For all those masses of common people – though with vast ambitions – he is not only a lawgiver and
a ruler, but also a symbol: the symbol of equality.’

  ‘Napoleon!’ the marquise exclaimed. ‘Napoleon, a symbol of equality! And what about Monsieur de Robespierre? It seems to me that you are appropriating his place and giving it to the Corsican. One usurpation is enough, surely?’

  ‘No, Madame,’ said Villefort, ‘I leave each of them on his own pedestal: Robespierre in the Place Louis XV, on his scaffold, and Napoleon in the Place Vendôme, on his column. The difference is that equality with the first was a levelling down and with the second a raising up: one of them lowered kings to the level of the guillotine, the other lifted the people to the level of the throne – which does not mean,’ Villefort added, laughing, ‘that they were not both vile revolutionaries, or that the 9th Thermidor and the 4th April 18145 are not two fortunate dates in the history of France, and equally worthy to be celebrated by all friends of order and the monarchy. However, it does explain why, even now that he has fallen (I hope, never to rise again), Napoleon still enjoys some support. What do you expect, Marquise: even Cromwell, who was not half the man that Napoleon used to be, had his followers.’

  ‘Do you realize that there is a strong whiff of revolution in what you are saying, Villefort? But I forgive you: the son of a Girondin6 is bound to be tarred with the same brush.’

  Villefort’s face flushed a deep red.

  ‘It’s true, Madame, that my father was a Girondin, but he did not vote for the death of the king. He was proscribed by the same Terror by which you yourself were proscribed, and narrowly escaped laying his head on the same scaffold as that on which your father’s fell.’

  ‘Yes,’ the marquise replied, this bloody recollection not having produced the slightest alteration in her expression, ‘but, had they both stepped on it, it would have been as men inspired by diametrically opposed principles. The proof is that my family remained loyal to the princes in exile, while your father hastened to rally to the new regime. After Citizen Noirtier was a Girondin, Comte Noirtier became a senator.’

  ‘Mother, mother!’ said Renée. ‘You know we agreed that we should not mention these unfortunate matters again.’