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.
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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.
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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.
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An old man, decorated with the Cross of Saint-Louis, rose and invited his fellow-guests to drink the health of King Louis XVIII. He was the Marquis de Saint-Méran.
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The magistrates picked on his political errors, the soldiers spoke of Moscow and Leipzig, the women discussed his divorce from Joséphine. 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.
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At this toast, recalling both the exile of Hartwell 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.
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"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."
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"What was that, Madame la Marquise? Excuse me, I was not following the conversation."
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"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?"
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"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."
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"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."
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"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."
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"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."
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"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 1814 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."
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"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?"
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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."
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"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."
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"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 Girondin is bound to be tarred with the same brush."
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"Mother, mother!" said Renée. "You know we agreed that we should not mention these unfortunate matters again."
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"Madame," Villefort replied, "I join with Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran in humbly begging you to forget the past. What is the sense in recriminations about things over which the will of God itself is powerless? God can change the future, He cannot alter even an instant of the past. As for us, all we can do, since we are unable to repudiate it, is to draw a veil across it. Well, for my part, I have cut myself off not only from my father's opinions but also from his name. My father was, and perhaps still is, a Bonapartist named Noirtier; I am a Royalist, and am called de Villefort. Let the last remnants of the revolutionary sap perish in the old stem and see only the young shoot, Madame, which grows away from the trunk, though it is unable -- I might almost say unwilling -- to break with it altogether."
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"Yes, yes, that is very well," the marquise replied. "Let us forget the past; I ask nothing better. But let Villefort at least be unyielding for the future. Remember, Villefort: we have answered for you to His Majesty and, on our insistence, His Majesty was willing to forget -- just as…" (she offered him her hand) "… as I am, at your request. However, should any conspirator fall into your hands, remember that all eyes will be fixed upon you, the more so since it is known that you belong to a family which might perhaps have dealings with such conspirators."
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"Bravo, Villefort," said the marquis. "Bravo! Well said! I, too, have always urged the Marquise to forget the past, but always in vain; I hope that you will be more successful."
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"You think so?" asked the marquise.
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"Alas, Madame!" Villefort exclaimed. "My office and, most of all, the times in which we live, require me to be harsh. I shall be so. I have already had some political cases to deal with and, in that respect, I have shown my mettle. Unfortunately, we are not finished yet."
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"We heard speak of this as we were leaving Paris," said M. de Saint-Méran. "Where is he being sent?"
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"I fear so. Napoleon is very close to France on the island of Elba, and his presence almost within sight of our coast sustains the hopes of his supporters. Marseille is full of officers on half pay who daily seek quarrels with the Royalists on some trivial pretext: this leads to duels among the upper classes and murders among the common people."
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"To Saint Helena."
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"An island lying two thousand leagues from here, on the far side of the Equator," the Comte replied.
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"Saint Helena! What is that?" asked the marquise.
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"And about time! As Villefort says, it was a fine folly to leave such a man between Corsica where he was born, and Naples where his brother-in-law is still king, overlooking Italy, the country that he wanted to offer as a kingdom to his son."
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"Yes," said the Comte de Salvieux, an old friend of M. de Saint-Méran and chamberlain to the Comte d"Artois. "Yes, but, as you know, he is being moved away by the Holy Alliance."
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"Unfortunately, Madame," Villefort said, smiling, "a deputy prosecutor to the Crown always arrives on the scene when the wrong has been done."
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"Unfortunately," said Villefort, "there are the treaties of 1814, and Napoleon cannot be touched without breaching them."
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"Ah, Monsieur de Villefort," said a pretty young thing, the daughter of the Comte de Salvieux and a friend of Mlle de Saint-Méran, "do please try to have a fine trial while we are in Marseille. I have never been to a court of assizes, and I am told it is most interesting."
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"Why, then, they shall be breached," said M. de Salvieux. "Was he himself so scrupulous, when it came to shooting the poor Duc d"Enghien?"
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"Yes," the Marquise said. "It's agreed. The Holy Alliance will cleanse Europe of Napoleon and Villefort will cleanse Marseille of his supporters. Either the king reigns or he does not: if he does, his government must be strong and its agents unyielding: that is how we shall prevent wrongdoing."
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"Then it is up to him to repair it."
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"To which I might again reply, Madame, that we do not repair wrongs, but avenge them, that is all."
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"Most interesting, indeed, Mademoiselle, since it is a veritable drama and not an invented tragedy, real sorrows in place of ones that are merely feigned. The man that you see there, instead of returning home, once the curtain is lowered, to dine with his family and go peacefully to bed before starting again the next day, is taken into a prison, there to meet his executioner. You may well understand that, for nervous people who wish to experience strong sensations, no spectacle can equal it. Don't worry, Mademoiselle; if the opportunity arises, I shall present it to you."
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"What did you think? It is a duel. I have already five or six times asked for the death penalty against those accused of political crimes, or others. Well, who can tell how many daggers are at this very moment being sharpened in the shadows, or are already pointed at me?"
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"Heavens!" Renée exclaimed, feeling increasingly faint. "Are you really serious, Monsieur de Villefort?"
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"He makes us shudder -- yet he is laughing," said Renée, going pale.
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"I could not be more serious, Mademoiselle," the young magistrate said with a smile. "And the situation can only get worse with these fine trials that the young lady requires to satisfy her curiosity and which I require to satisfy my ambition. Do you imagine that all these soldiers of Napoleon's, who are accustomed to walk blindly in the direction of the enemy, pause to think before firing a shot or marching forward with fixed bayonets? And, in that case, will they hesitate to kill a man whom they consider their personal foe, any more than they would to kill a Russian, an Austrian or a Hungarian whom they have never set eyes on? In any case, you understand, this is as it should be, because without it there would be no excuse for my profession. As for me, when I see a bright spark of hatred shining in the eye of an accused man, I feel encouraged, I rejoice: it is no longer a trial, but a duel. I go for him, he ripostes, I press harder, and the fight ends, like all fights, in victory or defeat. That is what advocacy means! That is the risk run by eloquence. If a defendant were to smile at me after my speech, he would make me feel that I had spoken poorly, that what I had said was bland, inadequate and lacking in vigour. Imagine the feeling of pride a crown prosecutor experiences when he is convinced of the defendant's guilt and sees the guilty man go pale and bend under the weight of his evidence and the blast of his oratory! The head is lowered; it will fall."
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"That's oratory for you," said one of the guests.
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"Ah, if it's a matter of parricide," Renée said, "then I'm not bothered. There is no torture bad enough for such men. But those unfortunate political prisoners…"
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"There's the man we need in times like these," said another.
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Renée gave a little cry.
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"And in your last case," a third remarked, "you were magnificent, my dear Villefort. You know: that man who murdered his father. Well, you literally killed him before the executioner had laid a hand on him."
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"They are even worse, Renée, for the king is the father of the nation, so wishing to overthrow or kill the king is the same as wanting to kill the father of thirty-two million men."
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"Ah, but even so, Monsieur de Villefort," said Renée, "will you promise me to be indulgent towards those I commend to you?"
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"My dearest," said the marquise, "you look after your little birds, your spaniels and your ribbons, and let your fiancé get on with his work. Nowadays, the sword has been put aside and the gown is supreme: there is a wise Latin tag to that effect."
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"Have no fear," said Villefort, with his most charming smile. "We shall prepare my speeches together."
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"I think I should rather that you were a physician," Renée went on. "The exterminating angel may be an angel, but he has always terrified me."
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"I did not dare attempt it in Latin," the marquise replied.
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"Cedant arma togae," Villefort said, with a bow.
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"Daughter," the marquis said, "Monsieur de Villefort will be the moral and political physician of our region. Believe me, that is a fine part to play."
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"Which will serve to obliterate the memory of the one played by his father," added the incorrigible marquise.
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"My sweet!" Villefort murmured, enfolding her in a loving glance.
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"Madame," Villefort replied with a sad smile, "I have already had the honour of remarking to you that my father renounced the errors of his past; or, at least, I hope he did, and that he became an ardent friend of religion and order, perhaps a better Royalist than I am myself, since he was fired by repentance, whilst I am fired only by passion."
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After which well-turned phrases, Villefort looked at the guests to judge the effect of his oratory, as he might have looked up from the court towards the public gallery at the end of a similar declaration.
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"The king told you that, Comte?" Villefort exclaimed with delight.
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"Just so, my dear Villefort," said the Comte de Salvieux. "This is precisely what I replied to the Minister of the King's Household, two days ago in the Tuileries, when he asked me how I might explain this singular union between the son of a Girondin and the daughter of an officer in Condé's army; and the minister fully understood. This policy of alliances is that of Louis XVIII. Hence the king, who had been listening to our conversation without our knowing it, interrupted us in the following terms: "Villefort…" -- observe that the king did not pronounce the name of Noirtier, but on the contrary stressed that of Villefort -- "Villefort", he said, "has a bright future before him. He is a young man who is already mature, and one of us. I was pleased to see that the Marquis and Marquise of Saint-Méran were taking him as their son-in-law, and I should have recommended the match to them if they had not themselves come to ask my permission for it.""
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"I give you his very words; and if the Marquis so wishes, he will frankly admit that what I am now telling you accords precisely with what the king told him when he himself spoke with His Majesty, six months ago, about the proposed marriage between you and his daughter."
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"That is true," said the marquis.
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Villefort laughed: "That is as if you were to wish on the physician nothing but migraines, measles and wasp stings, only ailments that are skin-deep. If, on the contrary, you wish to see me as crown prosecutor, you should wish on me those fearful illnesses that bring honour to the doctor who cures them."
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"Ah! But this means I owe everything to that worthy monarch. What would I not do to serve him!"
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"At last," said the marquise. "That is what I want to hear: let a conspirator come here now, and he will be welcome."
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"Speaking for myself, mother," said Renée, "I beg God that He does not listen to you, but sends Monsieur de Villefort only petty thieves, puny bankrupts and faint-hearted swindlers; in that case, I shall sleep easy."
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"Well, Mademoiselle," said Villefort, "a moment ago you wished to have a physician for your husband: I have this at least in common with the disciples of Aesculapius' -- they still spoke in such terms in 1815 -- "that my time is never my own and I may even be interrupted when I am beside you, celebrating our betrothal."
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At this moment, as though chance had merely been waiting for Villefort to express the wish for it to be fulfilled, a valet entered and whispered something in his ear. Villefort excused himself and left the table, to return a few moments later with a smile and a delighted expression. Renée responded with a look of love, for the young man was truly elegant and handsome like this, with his blue eyes, his smooth complexion and the dark side-whiskers framing his face, so that she felt her whole being was hanging on his lips, waiting for him to explain the reason for his brief disappearance.
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"Alas, for a patient who, if I am to believe what I am told, is at the last extremity: this time it is a serious case, and the illness is on the verge of the scaffold."
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"And for what reason were you interrupted, Monsieur?" the young woman asked, with slight misgiving.
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"Here is the letter of denunciation." And Villefort read: "The crown prosecutor is advised, by a friend of the monarchy and the faith, that one Edmond Dantès, first mate of the Pharaon, arriving this morning from Smyrna, after putting in at Naples and Porto Ferrajo, was entrusted by Murat with a letter for the usurper and by the usurper with a letter to the Bonapartist committee in Paris. Proof of his guilt will be found when he is arrested, since the letter will be discovered either on his person, or at the house of his father, or in his cabin on board the Pharaon."
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"Truly!" the whole company exclaimed together.
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"Can that be?" said the marquise.
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"But, this letter," said Renée, "which is, in any case, anonymous, is addressed to the crown prosecutor, and not to you."
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"Yes, but the crown prosecutor is away and in his absence the missive reached his secretary, who is entitled to open his letters. He opened this one and sent for me; when he did not find me, he gave orders for the arrest."
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"Heaven preserve us!" Renée cried, paling.
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"It seems that a little Bonapartist conspiracy has been uncovered, nothing less."
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Renée shuddered at the word cut, for the weed that was to be cut down had a head.
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"Go, my friend," said the marquis. "Do not neglect your duty by staying with us, when the king's service demands your presence elsewhere: go where duty requires you."
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"I should do whatever I could to spare you any anxiety, dear Renée. But if the evidence is correct, if the accusation is true, then this Bonapartist weed must be cut down."
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"He is at my house."
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Villefort walked round the table and, coming to the girl's chair, rested his hand on the back of it and said:
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"Oh, Monsieur de Villefort," Renée said, clasping her hands together. "Have pity! This is the day of your betrothal."
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"Pah, pah!" said the marquise. "Don't listen to this little girl, Villefort, she will get used to the idea." And she offered him a dry hand which he kissed, while giving Renée a look that said: "This is your hand I am kissing; or, at least, that I should like to be kissing."
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"Yes, Madame," Villefort replied. "And, as I have just had the honour to tell Mademoiselle Renée, if the letter in question is found, the patient is indeed sick."
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"You mean, the accused man," said Renée.
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"Where is this unfortunate man?" Renée asked.
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"So the guilty man has been arrested," said the marquise.
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"Be indulgent with her lack of royalist zeal, Madame la Marquise," said de Villefort. "I promise that I shall do my duty as the crown prosecutor's deputy conscientiously -- that is to say, I shall be utterly pitiless."
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"Oh, mother!" Renée murmured.
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"Mademoiselle," said the marquise, "your childishness is truly exasperating: what, may I ask, can the destiny of the State have to do with your sentimental fantasies and the mawkish movements of your heart?"
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"Here is an ill omen!" Renée murmured.
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But, even as the magistrate was addressing these words to the marquise, the fiancé was surreptitiously giving his betrothed a look that said: "Have no fear, Renée: for the sake of our love, I shall be merciful." Renée replied to that look with her sweetest smile, and Villefort went out with heaven in his heart.
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