Chương Chương 101 · The Law

We have seen how quietly Mademoiselle Danglars and Mademoiselle

d’Armilly accomplished their transformation and flight; the fact being

that everyone 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 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 concierge 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 to 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 upstairs, 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 everyone 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 someone 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

downstairs, 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 today 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 concierge 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 anyone, 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 precaution, 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 concierge 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 concierge 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 precautions. 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 tomorrow, if not today—in a week, if not tomorrow; 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 months 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 prisons 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.

50063m

“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.”

Villefort drew his armchair nearer to Madame Danglars; then resting

both hands upon his desk he said in a voice more hollow than usual:

“There are crimes which remain unpunished because the criminals are

unknown, and we might strike the innocent instead of the guilty; but

when the culprits are discovered” (Villefort here extended his hand

toward a large crucifix placed opposite to his desk)—“when they are

discovered, I swear to you, by all I hold most sacred, that whoever

they may be they shall die. Now, after the oath I have just taken, and

which I will keep, madame, dare you ask for mercy for that wretch!”

“But, sir, are you sure he is as guilty as they say?”

“Listen; this is his description: ‘Benedetto, condemned, at the age of

sixteen, for five years to the galleys for forgery.’ He promised well,

as you see—first a runaway, then an assassin.”

“And who is this wretch?”

“Who can tell?—a vagabond, a Corsican.”

“Has no one owned him?”

“No one; his parents are unknown.”

“But who was the man who brought him from Lucca?”

“Another rascal like himself, perhaps his accomplice.” The baroness

clasped her hands.

“Villefort,” she exclaimed in her softest and most captivating manner.

“For Heaven’s sake, madame,” said Villefort, with a firmness of

expression not altogether free from harshness—“for Heaven’s sake, do

not ask pardon of me for a guilty wretch! What am I?—the law. Has the

law any eyes to witness your grief? Has the law ears to be melted by

your sweet voice? Has the law a memory for all those soft recollections

you endeavor to recall? No, madame; the law has commanded, and when it

commands it strikes. You will tell me that I am a living being, and not

a code—a man, and not a volume. Look at me, madame—look around me. Has

mankind treated me as a brother? Have men loved me? Have they spared

me? Has anyone shown the mercy towards me that you now ask at my hands?

No, madame, they struck me, always struck me!

50065m

“Woman, siren that you are, do you persist in fixing on me that

fascinating eye, which reminds me that I ought to blush? Well, be it

so; let me blush for the faults you know, and perhaps—perhaps for even

more than those! But having sinned myself,—it may be more deeply than

others,—I never rest till I have torn the disguises from my

fellow-creatures, and found out their weaknesses. I have always found

them; and more,—I repeat it with joy, with triumph,—I have always found

some proof of human perversity or error. Every criminal I condemn seems

to me living evidence that I am not a hideous exception to the rest.

Alas, alas, alas; all the world is wicked; let us therefore strike at

wickedness!”

Villefort pronounced these last words with a feverish rage, which gave

a ferocious eloquence to his words.

“But”’ said Madame Danglars, resolving to make a last effort, “this

young man, though a murderer, is an orphan, abandoned by everybody.”

“So much the worse, or rather, so much the better; it has been so

ordained that he may have none to weep his fate.”

“But this is trampling on the weak, sir.”

“The weakness of a murderer!”

“His dishonor reflects upon us.”

“Is not death in my house?”

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed the baroness, “you are without pity for others,

well, then, I tell you they will have no mercy on you!”

“Be it so!” said Villefort, raising his arms to heaven with a

threatening gesture.

“At least, delay the trial till the next assizes; we shall then have

six months before us.”

“No, madame,” said Villefort; “instructions have been given. There are

yet five days left; five days are more than I require. Do you not think

that I also long for forgetfulness? While working night and day, I

sometimes lose all recollection of the past, and then I experience the

same sort of happiness I can imagine the dead feel; still, it is better

than suffering.”

“But, sir, he has fled; let him escape—inaction is a pardonable

offence.”

“I tell you it is too late; early this morning the telegraph was

employed, and at this very minute——”

“Sir,” said the valet de chambre, entering the room, “a dragoon has

brought this despatch from the Minister of the Interior.”

Villefort seized the letter, and hastily broke the seal. Madame

Danglars trembled with fear; Villefort started with joy.

“Arrested!” he exclaimed; “he was taken at Compiègne, and all is over.”

Madame Danglars rose from her seat, pale and cold.

“Adieu, sir,” she said.

“Adieu, madame,” replied the king’s attorney, as in an almost joyful

manner he conducted her to the door. Then, turning to his desk, he

said, striking the letter with the back of his right hand:

“Come, I had a forgery, three robberies, and two cases of arson, I only

wanted a murder, and here it is. It will be a splendid session!”