THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. Alexandre Dumas

is true,” answered the marquis.

      “How much do I owe this gracious prince! What is there I would not do to evince my earnest gratitude!”

      “That is right,” cried the marquise. “I love to see you thus. Now, then, were a conspirator to fall into your hands, he would be most welcome.”

      “For my part, dear mother.” interposed Renee, “I trust your wishes will not prosper, and that Providence will only permit petty offenders, poor debtors, and miserable cheats to fall into M. de Villefort’s hands, — then I shall be contented.”

      “Just the same as though you prayed that a physician might only be called upon to prescribe for headaches, measles, and the stings of wasps, or any other slight affection of the epidermis. If you wish to see me the king’s attorney, you must desire for me some of those violent and dangerous diseases from the cure of which so much honor redounds to the physician.”

      At this moment, and as though the utterance of Villefort’s wish had sufficed to effect its accomplishment, a servant entered the room, and whispered a few words in his ear. Villefort immediately rose from table and quitted the room upon the plea of urgent business; he soon, however, returned, his whole face beaming with delight. Renee regarded him with fond affection; and certainly his handsome features, lit up as they then were with more than usual fire and animation, seemed formed to excite the innocent admiration with which she gazed on her graceful and intelligent lover.

      “You were wishing just now,” said Villefort, addressing her, “that I were a doctor instead of a lawyer. Well, I at least resemble the disciples of Esculapius in one thing — that of not being able to call a day my own, not even that of my betrothal.”

      “And wherefore were you called away just now?” asked Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran, with an air of deep interest.

      “For a very serious matter, which bids fair to make work for the executioner.”

      “How dreadful!” exclaimed Renee, turning pale.

      “Is it possible?” burst simultaneously from all who were near enough to the magistrate to hear his words.

      “Why, if my information prove correct, a sort of Bonaparte conspiracy has just been discovered.”

      “Can I believe my ears?” cried the marquise.

      “I will read you the letter containing the accusation, at least,” said Villefort: —

      “`The king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and the religions institutions of his country, that one named Edmond Dantes, mate of the ship Pharaon, this day arrived from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been the bearer of a letter from Murat to the usurper, and again taken charge of another letter from the usurper to the Bonapartist club in Paris. Ample corroboration of this statement may be obtained by arresting the above-mentioned Edmond Dantes, who either carries the letter for Paris about with him, or has it at his father’s abode. Should it not be found in the possession of father or son, then it will assuredly be discovered in the cabin belonging to the said Dantes on board the Pharaon.’”

      “But,” said Renee, “this letter, which, after all, is but an anonymous scrawl, is not even addressed to you, but to the king’s attorney.”

      “True; but that gentleman being absent, his secretary, by his orders, opened his letters; thinking this one of importance, he sent for me, but not finding me, took upon himself to give the necessary orders for arresting the accused party.”

      “Then the guilty person is absolutely in custody?” said the marquise.

      “Nay, dear mother, say the accused person. You know we cannot yet pronounce him guilty.”

      “He is in safe custody,” answered Villefort; “and rely upon it, if the letter is found, he will not be likely to be trusted abroad again, unless he goes forth under the especial protection of the headsman.”

      “And where is the unfortunate being?” asked Renee.

      “He is at my house.”

      “Come, come, my friend,” interrupted the marquise, “do not neglect your duty to linger with us. You are the king’s servant, and must go wherever that service calls you.”

      “O Villefort!” cried Renee, clasping her hands, and looking towards her lover with piteous earnestness, “be merciful on this the day of our betrothal.”

      The young man passed round to the side of the table where the fair pleader sat, and leaning over her chair said tenderly, —

      “To give you pleasure, my sweet Renee, I promise to show all the lenity in my power; but if the charges brought against this Bonapartist hero prove correct, why, then, you really must give me leave to order his head to be cut off.” Renee shuddered.

      “Never mind that foolish girl, Villefort,” said the marquise. “She will soon get over these things.” So saying, Madame de Saint-Meran extended her dry bony hand to Villefort, who, while imprinting a son-in-law’s respectful salute on it, looked at Renee, as much as to say, “I must try and fancy ‘tis your dear hand I kiss, as it should have been.”

      “These are mournful auspices to accompany a betrothal,” sighed poor Renee.

      “Upon my word, child!” exclaimed the angry marquise, “your folly exceeds all bounds. I should be glad to know what connection there can possibly be between your sickly sentimentality and the affairs of the state!”

      “O mother!” murmured Renee.

      “Nay, madame, I pray you pardon this little traitor. I promise you that to make up for her want of loyalty, I will be most inflexibly severe;” then casting an expressive glance at his betrothed, which seemed to say, “Fear not, for your dear sake my justice shall be tempered with mercy,” and receiving a sweet and approving smile in return, Villefort quitted the room.

      Chapter 7 The Examination.

      No sooner had Villefort left the salon, than he assumed the grave air of a man who holds the balance of life and death in his hands. Now, in spite of the mobility of his countenance, the command of which, like a finished actor, he had carefully studied before the glass, it was by no means easy for him to assume an air of judicial severity. Except the recollection of the line of politics his father had adopted, and which might interfere, unless he acted with the greatest prudence, with his own career, Gerard de Villefort was as happy as a man could be. Already rich, he held a high official situation, though only twenty-seven. He was about to marry a young and charming woman, whom he loved, not passionately, but reasonably, as became a deputy attorney of the king; and besides her personal attractions, which were very great, Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran’s family possessed considerable political influence, which they would, of course, exert in his favor. The dowry of his wife amounted to fifty thousand crowns, and he had, besides, the prospect of seeing her fortune increased to half a million at her father’s death. These considerations naturally gave Villefort a feeling of such complete felicity that his mind was fairly dazzled in its contemplation.

      At the door he met the commissary of police, who was waiting for him. The sight of this officer recalled Villefort from the third heaven to earth; he composed his face, as we have before described, and said, “I have read the letter, sir, and you have acted rightly in arresting this man; now inform me what you have discovered concerning him and the conspiracy.”

      “We know nothing as yet of the conspiracy, monsieur; all the papers found have been sealed up and placed on your desk. The prisoner himself is named Edmond Dantes, mate on board the three-master the Pharaon, trading in cotton with Alexandria and Smyrna, and belonging to Morrel & Son, of Marseilles.”

      “Before he entered the merchant service, had he ever served in the marines?”

      “Oh, no, monsieur, he is very young.”

      “How old?”

      “Nineteen or twenty