The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre Dumas

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Villefort, “my profession, as well as the times in which we live, compel me to be severe. I have already successfully conducted several public prosecutions, and brought the offenders to merited punishment. But we have not done with the thing yet.”

      “Do you, indeed, think so?” inquired the marquise.

      “I am, at least, fearful of it. Napoleon, in the island of Elba, is too near France, and his proximity keeps up the hopes of his partisans. Marseilles is filled with half-pay officers, who are daily, under one frivolous pretext or other, getting up quarrels with the royalists; from hence arise continual and fatal duels among the higher classes of persons, and assassinations in the lower.”

      “You have heard, perhaps,” said the Comte de Salvieux, one of M. de Saint-Méran’s oldest friends, and chamberlain to the Count d’Artois, “that the Holy Alliance purpose removing him from thence?”

      “Ah! they were talking about it when we left Paris,” said M. de Saint-Méran; “and where is it decided to transfer him?”

      “To Saint Helena!”

      “For Heaven’s sake, where is that?” asked the marquise.

      “An island situated on the other side of the equator, at least two thousand leagues from hence,” replied the count.

      “So much the better! As Villefort observes, it is a great act of folly to have left such a man between Corsica, where he was born, Naples, of which his brother-in-law is king, and Italy, the sovereignty of which he coveted for his son.”

      “Well,” said the marquise, “it seems probable, that by the aid of the Holy Alliance, we shall be rid of Napoleon; and we must trust to the vigilance of M. de Villefort to purify Marseilles of his partisans. The king is either a king or no king; if he be acknowledged as sovereign of France, he should be upheld in peace and tranquillity, and this can best be effected by employing the most inflexible agents to put down every attempt at conspiracy—‘tis the best and surest means of preventing mischief.”

      “Unfortunately, madame,” answered Villefort, “the strong arm of the law is not called upon to interfere until the evil has taken place.”

      “Then all he has got to do is to endeavour to repair it.”

      “Nay, madame, the law is frequently powerless to effect this; all it can do is to avenge the wrong done.”

      “Oh! M. de Villefort,” cried a beautiful young creature, daughter to Comte de Salvieux, and the cherished friend of Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran,—“do try and get up some famous trial while we are at Marseilles. I never was in a law court; I am told it is so very amusing!”

      “Amusing, certainly!” replied the young man, “inasmuch as, instead of shedding tears as at the fictitious tale of woe produced at a theatre, you behold in a law court a case of real and genuine distress—a drama of life. The prisoner whom you there see pale, agitated, and alarmed, instead of—as is the case when the curtain falls on a tragedy—going home to sup peacefully with his family, and then retiring to rest, that he may recommence his mimic woes on the morrow, is removed from your sight merely to be reconducted to his prison and delivered up to the executioner. I leave you to judge how far your nerves are calculated to bear you through such a scene. Of this, however, be assured, that should any favourable opportunity present itself, I will not fail to offer you the choice of being present at it.”

      “For shame, M. de Villefort!” said Renée, becoming quite pale; “don’t you see how you are frightening us?—and yet you laugh.”

      “Why, I stand almost in the light of one engaged in a duel. I have already recorded sentence of death, five or six times, against the movers of political conspiracies, and who can say how many daggers may be ready sharpened, and only waiting a favourable opportunity to be buried in my heart?”

      “Gracious heavens! M. de Villefort,” said Renée, becoming more and more terrified; “you surely are not in earnest.”

      “Indeed, I am,” replied the young magistrate, with a smile; “and in the interesting trial that young lady is anxious to witness, the case would only be still more aggravated. Suppose, for instance, the prisoner, as is more than probable, to have served under Napoleon—well, can you expect for an instant, that one accustomed, at the word of his commander, to rush fearlessly on the very bayonets of his foe, will scruple more to drive a stiletto into the heart of one he knows to be his personal enemy, than to slaughter his fellow-creatures, merely because bidden to do so by one he is bound to obey? Besides, one requires the excitement of being hateful in the eyes of the accused, in order to lash oneself into a state of sufficient vehemence and power. I would not choose to see the man against whom I pleaded smile, as though in mockery of my words. No! my pride is to see the accused pale, agitated, and as though beaten out of all composure by the fire of my eloquence.”

      “Bravo!” cried one of the guests, “that is what I call talking to some purpose.”

      “Just the person we require at a time like the present,” said a second.

      “What a splendid business that last cause of yours was, my dear Villefort!” remarked a third. “I mean the trial of the man for murdering his father. Upon my word you killed him ere the executioner had laid his hand upon him.”

      “Oh! as for parricides, and such dreadful people as that,” interposed Renée, “it matters very little what is done to them; but as regards poor unfortunate creatures whose only crime consists in having mixed themselves up in political intrigues———”

      “Why, that is the very worst offence they could possibly commit; for, don’t you see, Renée, the king is the father of his people, and he who shall plot or contrive aught against the life and safety of the parent of thirty-two millions of souls, is a parricide upon a fearfully great scale?”

      “I don’t know anything about that,” replied Renée; “but M. de Villefort, you have promised me—have you not?—always to show mercy to those I plead for.”

      “Make yourself quite easy on that point,” answered Villefort, with one of his sweetest smiles, “you and I will always consult upon our verdicts.”

      “My love,” said the marquise, “attend to your doves, your lapdogs, and embroidery, but do not meddle with what you understand not. Nowadays the military profession has rest, and its brave sons repose under their well-earned laurels. Now is the time for those of the long robe, like M. de Villefort, to achieve a splendid notoriety; seek not, therefore, to cross the brilliant career your betrothed husband may otherwise pursue.”

      “Well,” said Renée, “I cannot help regretting you had not chosen some other profession than your own—a physician, for instance. Do you know I always felt a shudder at the idea of even a destroying angel?”

      “Dear good Renée!” whispered Villefort, as he gazed with unutterable tenderness on the lovely speaker.

      “Let us hope, my child,” cried the marquis, “that M. de Villefort may prove the moral and political physician of this province; if so, he will have achieved a noble work.”

      “And one which will go far to efface the recollection of his father’s conduct,” added the incorrigible marquise.

      “Madame,” replied Villefort, with a mournful smile, “I have already had the honour to observe, that my father has (at least I hope so) abjured his past errors, and that he is, at the present moment, a firm СКАЧАТЬ