The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre Dumas

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СКАЧАТЬ sitting down, he wrote a letter to his broker, ordering him to sell out at any loss.

      “Now, then,” said Villefort, placing the letter in his pocket-book, “write another!”

      “To whom?”

      “To the king.”

      “I dare not write to his majesty.”

      “I do not ask you to write to his majesty, but ask M. de Salvieux to do so. I want a letter that will enable me to reach the king’s presence without all the formalities of demanding an audience, that would occasion a loss of time.”

      “But address yourself to the keeper of the seals, he has the right of entry, and can procure you audience.”

      “Doubtless; but there is no occasion to divide the merit of my discovery with him. The keeper would leave me in the background, and take all the honour to himself. I tell you, marquis, my fortune is made if I only reach the Tuileries the first, for the king will not forget the service I do him.”

      “In that case make your preparations, and I will write the letter.”

      “Be as quick as possible, I must be en route in a quarter of an hour.”

      “Make your carriage stop at the door.”

      “You will present my excuses to the marquise and Mademoiselle Renée, whom I leave on such a day with great regret.”

      “They are both in my room, you can say all this for yourself.”

      “A thousand thanks, busy yourself with the letter.”

      The marquis rang, a servant entered.

      “Inform the Comte de Salvieux I am waiting for him.”

      “Now, then, go!” said the marquis.

      “I only go for a few moments.”

      Villefort hastily quitted the apartment, but reflecting that the sight of the deputy procureur running through the streets would be enough to throw the whole city into confusion, he resumed his ordinary pace. At his door he perceived a figure in the shadow that seemed to wait for him. It was Mercédès, who, hearing no news of her lover, had come herself to inquire after him.

      As Villefort drew near, she advanced and stood before him. Dantès had spoken of his bride, and Villefort instantly recognised her. Her beauty and high bearing surprised him, and when she inquired what had become of her lover, it seemed to him that she was the judge, and he the accused.

      “The young man you speak of,” said Villefort abruptly, “is a great criminal, and I can do nothing for him, mademoiselle.”

      Mercédès burst into tears, and, as Villefort strove to pass her, again addressed him.

      “But, at least, tell me where he is, that I may learn if he is alive or dead,” said she.

      “I do not know, he is no longer in my hands,” replied Villefort.

      And desirous of putting an end to the interview, he pushed by her, and closed the door, as if to exclude the pain he felt. But remorse is not thus banished; like the wounded hero of Virgil, the arrow remained in the wound, and, arrived at the salon, Villefort, in his turn, burst into tears, and sank into a chair.

      The man he sacrificed to his ambition, that innocent victim he made pay the penalty of his father’s faults, appeared to him pale and threatening, leading his affianced bride by the hand, and bringing with him remorse, not such as the ancients figured, furious and terrible, but that slow and consuming agony, whose pangs cease only with life. Then he had a moment’s hesitation. He had frequently called for capital punishment on criminals, and owing to his irresistible eloquence they had been condemned, and yet the slightest shadow of remorse had never clouded Villefort’s brow, because they were guilty; at least, he believed so; but here was an innocent man whose happiness he had destroyed: in this case he was not the judge, but the executioner.

      As he thus reflected, he felt the sensation we have described, and which had hitherto been unknown to him, arise in his bosom, and fill him with vague apprehensions. It is thus that a wounded man trembles instinctively at the approach of the finger to his wound until it be healed, but Villefort’s was one of those that never close, or if they do, only close to reopen more agonising than ever. If at this moment the sweet voice of Renée had sounded in his ears pleading for mercy, or the fair Mercédès had entered and said, “In the name of God, I conjure you to restore me my affianced husband,” his cold and trembling hands would have signed his release; but no voice broke the stillness of the chamber, and the door was opened only by Villefort’s valet, who came to tell him the travelling-carriage was in readiness.

      Villefort rose, or rather sprang, from his chair, hastily opened one of the drawers of his sécrétaire, emptied all the gold it contained into his pocket, stood motionless an instant, his hand pressed to his head, muttered a few inarticulate sounds, and then perceiving his servant had placed his cloak on his shoulders, he sprang into the carriage, ordering the postilions to go, Rue du Grand Cours, to the house of M. de Saint-Méran.

      As the marquis had promised, Villefort found the letter. He started when he saw Renée, for he fancied she was again about to plead for Dantès. Alas! she was thinking only of Villefort’s departure.

      She loved Villefort, and he left her at the moment he was about to become her husband. Villefort knew not when he should return, and Renée, far from pleading for Dantès, hated the man whose crime separated her from her lover. What had Mercédès to say?

      Mercédès had met Fernand at the corner of the Rue de la Loge; she had returned to the Catalans, and had despairingly cast herself on her couch. Fernand, kneeling by her side, took her hand, and covered it with kisses that Mercédès did not even feel.

      She passed the night thus, and the day returned without her noticing it. Grief had made her blind to all but one object, that was Edmond.

      “Ah! you are there,” said she, at length.

      “I have not quitted you since yesterday,” returned Fernand sorrowfully.

      M. Morrel had learned that Dantès had been conducted to prison, and he had gone to all his friends, and the influential persons of the city, but the report was already in circulation that Dantès was arrested as a Bonapartist agent; and as the most sanguine looked upon any attempt of Napoleon to remount the throne as impossible, he met with nothing but refusal, and had returned home in despair.

      Caderousse was equally restless and uneasy, but instead of seeking to aid Dantès, he had shut himself up with two bottles of wine, in the hope of drowning reflection. But he did not succeed, and became too intoxicated to fetch any more wine, and yet not so intoxicated as to forget what had happened.

      Danglars alone was content and joyous, he had got rid of an enemy and preserved his situation on board the Pharaon; Danglars was one of those men born with a pen behind the ear, and an inkstand in place of a heart. Everything with him was multiplication or subtraction, and he estimated the life of a man as less precious than a figure, when that figure could increase, and that life would diminish, the total of the amount.

      Villefort, after having received M. de Salvieux’ letter, embraced Renée, kissed the marquise’s hand, and shaken hands with the marquis, started for Paris.

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