THE
MUMMY OF MONTE CRISTO
J.
Trevor Robinson
Adapted
from The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas
Free
preview for mailing list subscribers.
BOOK 1: The Death and Life of Edmond Dantes
Chapter 1 - Arrival in Marseille
Chapter 2 - The Assistant Prosecutor
BOOK
1: The Death and Life of Edmond Dantes
Chapter
1 - Arrival in Marseille
As Edmond Dantes was mummified alive in the
darkness beneath Monte Cristo, he reflected on the events which had brought him
there.
The look-out at the
Marseille docks spotted the Michaeleon pulling in from sea on the 24th of
February, 1815. The big three-mast ship came from Tunisia with untold exotic
goods nestled in the hold. Spectators gathered to watch the Michaeleon sail
into the harbour, past the rocky islands in the bay and the imposing walls of
the prison of the Chateau d’If. The locals took a sense of pride in seeing the
Marseille-built Michaeleon return to port.
A massive grey appendage emerged
from the water just outside of the harbour and interrupted the spectacle. The
slithering tentacle covered in razor-sharp ringed cups rose twenty feet
straight up into the air before slamming down onto the deck of the Michaeleon.
The ship’s pilot sounded the warning bell; the bell of the old fort on shore
answered it. The sailors sprang into action with pistols and swords to dislodge
the tentacle before it could pull them under.
Another incoming ship, the
Pharaon, increased their sails to pick up more speed. A young man next to the
pilot directed the deckhands to man the ship’s harpoon guns. They fired the
large metal hooks into the blubbery sides of the kraken surfacing next to the
imperiled Michaeleon. The beast’s ivory beak breached the surface, surrounded
by smaller tendrils. One of them wrapped around the leg of an unfortunate
seaman, dragging him closer to the beak to be torn in half.
The Pharaon drew closer.
As a defensive measure against just this sort of creature, it had an extendable
steel spike beneath the water line. The young man ordered it deployed, and
their course allowed them to ram the kraken at full speed. The wounded creature
screeched and flailed, withdrawing from its attack on the Michaeleon to focus
on removing itself from the spike as the crew brought four-pounder cannons to
the deck. With the tentacle clear of the Michaeleon’s deck, the sailors on that
vessel brought their own cannons to bear as well. Fired upon on both flanks, the
kraken decided to submerge and flee in search of an easier meal.
Monsieur Pierre Morrel,
owner of the shipping company Morrel & Son and of the Pharaon, stood on the
dock with great agitation. The Michaeleon was not one of his ships, but a
kraken attack was never an easy thing to witness, especially when lives were
lost. He made a mental note to check in with the ship’s owner later and see if the
dead man had any family.
Another concern for him stood
aboard the Pharaon itself; or rather, not aboard it. The young man giving
orders was certainly not Captain LeClere. Furthermore, the ship was several
days late in returning to Marseille.
Whoever the acting captain
was, he had handled the kraken and now threw tow lines to the injured vessel.
Morrel’s wooden leg beat an uneven rhythm against the dock as he rushed to a
small skiff and paid the oarsman to bring him out to the Pharaon.
“Did you see that,
monsieur?” the oarsman asked. “I’ve never seen a kraken so big in the harbour
in all my days! Isn’t the coast guard supposed to keep them at bay?”
“Some ambassadors are
returning from abroad and requested an escort, from what I hear,” Morrel said.
“It seems that kept them busy.”
When Morrel came
alongside, a rope ladder waited for him, and the young man stood at the top of
it. A tall and slim young fellow of about eighteen or twenty, with hazel eyes
and hair as black as a raven, and as pale as a hardy life under the
Mediterranean sun allowed. His demeanour, even in the wake of battle, radiated
a sort of calm peculiar to men who are equipped to deal with danger.
Nevertheless, he looked worried.
“Edmond Dantes? Is that
you, then?” Morrel asked as he climbed. “Where is Captain LeClere? Why did he
leave you in command?”
“M. Morrel, I regret to
tell you that Captain LeClere has died,” Edmond said as he helped to pull
Morrel up onto the deck. “We lost him when we made port at Naples.”
“Lost him?” Morrel asked,
devastated to hear such news about his best captain. Morrel’s wife and LeClere’s
were bridge partners, and their children played together. “Was it pirates?”
“Just a moment, sir,”
Edmond said. He gave new orders for a course correction to bring themselves and
the Michaeleon into the docks. The pilot and eight other seamen sprang into
action to respond. It impressed Morrel despite the terrible news.
“Ah, M. Morrel!” called
another voice behind him. Morrel recognized the accent at once and was not
surprised to see M. Danglars approaching.
Danglars was the ship’s
supercargo, responsible for buying and selling as Morrel’s representative in
foreign ports. His curly brown hair, receding already at twenty-five, resisted
any attempt to tame it. It framed a round and rubbery face, with a large gap
between the front teeth. Danglars pushed his way past the deckhands to reach
Morrel without bothering to excuse himself, and his beady eyes kept tabs on
Edmond as he did so.
“All of our transactions
have been processed as directed, sir,” Danglars said when he reached Morrel.
His voice was somehow both deep and nasal at the same time, a combination that
Morrel found both unique and unpleasant. “I have a summary of the ledger here
if you’d care to review it.”
“I’ll look at it shortly,
Danglars,” Morrel said. Danglars was adept with figures, but his logs had a
history of irregularities that worried Morrel. Every inconsistency had an
explanation, and there had never been any trouble, but Morrel would not be
surprised to learn Danglars was embezzling. Still, he had never been able to
find any proof of it. “Tell me, what happened to Captain LeClere?”
“Ah, I see young Edmond
has told you about our entirely avoidable misfortune,” Danglars said with a
sniff. “We were ashore in Naples having supper, and LeClere heard a commotion
in the street. A loup-garou was
running loose in the street, and the captain put himself in harm’s way to draw
the beast’s attention from some young women. It was elaborate suicide, really.”
“Werewolves! Foul
creatures, the lot of them,” Morrel said. “Was the captain at least suitably
equipped?”
“Not in the least,”
Danglars said. “A jeweler arrived with silver bullets and put the wolf down,
but it had already mauled the captain beyond hope of rescue. All we could do
was bring him back to his cabin; he wanted to breathe his last aboard the
Pharaon.”
“Mon dieu,” Morrel said, making the sign of the cross. “It will be a
small comfort to his widow that he died a hero, but small comfort is better
than none. Did he have any last words?”
“Ask Edmond; he was alone
with the captain when he died and took it upon himself to give the crew new
orders immediately,” Danglars said, staring at Morrel with intent. He pressed his
thin lips together and stretched his cheeks, an expression which Morrel had
learned served as a smile on Danglars’ face. “While you’re at it, I would
suggest asking him about the unscheduled stop which not only delayed us but
also brings us into port under the Hunger Moon. It’s a bad omen, sir.”
“I doubt very much that
the moon cares about your date of arrival, M. Danglars, and Edmond was, after
all, the first mate,” Morrel said, frowning. Danglars’ superstitions could be
tiresome, but if Edmond had ordered the delay he would need to learn why. “See
to it that everything is ready for customs to come aboard. I will check in with
you before I leave the ship.”
Morrel hobbled across the
deck on his wooden leg, grateful that the harbour was calm. He had lost the leg
twelve years earlier, during the darkest period of Europe’s history: the Dead
Plague.
Beginning in late 1787 in
Eastern Europe, a mysterious event set in motion a terrible perversion of
nature. The source of it was a tightly-guarded secret, but something spread
across the continent which turned men, women, and children into walking corpses,
hungry for human flesh. People called the creatures many names: undead,
revenants, ghouls, zombies. Whatever the label, the Plague spread like fire and
raged for seventeen years. One bite from an undead transmitted the infection;
if the victim could avoid being devoured completely, they were doomed to become
a zombie themselves.
Morrel had just avoided
that fate in 1803, when a zombie concealed itself in the shadows beneath his
front porch. Cold hands had clamped onto his ankle, and the zombie’s teeth
passed through his boot to tear off a chunk of the flesh and tendons beneath.
Morrel had only just been able to put a bullet through the zombie’s head when
he fell. The quick action of his neighbour, a doctor, resulted in his losing
the leg beneath the knee soon enough to prevent total infection.
He found Edmond
supervising the crew from the upper deck. The crew responded as well to him as
they ever had to Captain LeClere, and he handled the responsibility well.
Morrel had seen many young men in their first command position turn to
arrogance, but Edmond gave his orders respectfully. LeClere seemed to have
taught him well. Morrel beckoned for Edmond to follow him to the captain’s office
and waited for Edmond to close the door.
“M. Danglars tells me that
there was an unscheduled stop,” Morrel said. “Can you explain it, please?”
“Of course, but it is a
delicate matter,” Edmond said, standing at attention. “I wasn’t certain whether
to log it before talking to you first. It has to do with Captain LeClere.”
“LeClere ordered the
detour?” Morrel asked.
“In a way, sir. When he
was dying on his bed, he sent everyone else away. His last request was that we deliver
a letter to Marshal Bertrand at the island of Elba,” Edmond said. “The crew
were allowed to come ashore as far as the beach, and I was taken to see the
marshal alone.”
Morrel stroked his chin,
surprised by the young man’s words. Omitting the visit from the logbook was
prudent; Elba was the prison of Napoleon Bonaparte.
When the Dead Plague
reached France in the summer of 1788, King Louis XVI and his court showed
little concern for the commoners and instead focused on protecting themselves. The
people revolted against this indifference in 1789 and overthrew the monarchy in
a grand Revolution. Napoleon, a Corsican commander in the French army,
organized his troops to subdue the worst of the undead uprising within France and
earned the country’s adoration. The revolutionary government made him first a
general and later their highest rank of First Consul.
Seeing an opportunity to
increase French power, Napoleon led the army across Europe. Wherever he went,
he wiped out the undead and demanded that the countries he liberated become
vassals of France. Weakened by the Plague, they submitted to French rule. Finally,
in 1804, he found something in a region of Eastern Europe which would one day
become Ukraine. Napoleon never publicized his actions there, but because of
what he did, every zombie in the world was destroyed in the same instant. He
returned to Paris and gave himself a new title: Emperor.
All was not well for
Napoleon, however. Royalist aristocrats who had survived the Revolution
remained in exile, working among the new vassal states to stir up resentment
against Napoleon and reclaim their former positions. The end of the Dead Plague
did not end Napoleon’s ambitions, and he continued to expand his empire; in
1812, he overextended himself with a disastrous attempt to invade Russia and gave
the Royalists their opportunity. Humiliated by his Russian defeat, Napoleon
returned to Paris to find a coalition of Royalist-backed rebel forces waiting
for him. He was forced to abdicate his throne, and the monarchy was restored
with King Louis XVIII. Napoleon was exiled to Elba with his marshal and six-hundred
men in his personal guard, and allowed to rule the native population there as a
king.
“Sir?” Edmond said,
bringing Morrel’s thoughts back to the present. Morrel realized he hadn’t
spoken for several minutes.
“You should be alright,”
Morrel said carefully. “As you said, the landing was made at LeClere’s request;
no judge in the country would convict you for a dying man’s last wishes. As for
the letter, I would not expect trouble. The postal service already carries news
to and from the island, and what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”
“Thank goodness, sir,”
Edmond said, relaxing his shoulders. “I had half-convinced myself of the same
thing, but it’s good to hear you say it.”
“Yes yes, that’s often the
way of things,” Morrel said with a smile. He checked for eavesdroppers at the
cabin door, then returned to Edmond. "Did you see the emperor? How is he
doing?"
“He entered the marshal’s
apartment while I was there and seemed quite well. In fact, he spoke to me,
sir,” Edmond said.
“And what did he say to
you?” Morrel asked.
“He asked me questions
about the Pharaon, our trip from Marseille, and what was our cargo. He seemed
pleased to have someone new to talk to, if only for a few minutes,” Edmond
said. “I told him that she belonged to you; he told me he knew the firm and
that a Morrel had served in his regiment many years ago.”
“Imagine that, the emperor
remembers the name Morrel! That was my uncle, Policar. He would love to hear
that, but...” Morrel stopped his joyful exclamations and laid a hand on Edmond’s
shoulder. “Edmond, you did well to follow Captain LeClere’s last wishes.
Regardless, I think it would be best if you tell nobody else about your visit
to Elba.”
Edmond nodded, and then
they heard a clamour outside signaling that they had reached the docks. Men
shouted to each other as they lowered the gangway for the customs officers and
health inspectors to come aboard.
“Excuse me sir, but as
acting captain I should be out there,” Edmond said.
“True enough, true enough.
Go!” Morrel said, watching Edmond leave before following him out onto the deck.
The health inspectors came
aboard first, wearing thick leather overcoats and masks of fine mesh to avoid
any possible contagion. The uniforms made Morrel imagine Hell’s own fencing
team. They verified the ship’s logbook and compared the entries to a list of recent
known outbreaks. With everything in order, they presented their bill to Edmond
and left to admit the customs officers.
The customs officers wore
ordinary suits and cravats and were accompanied by several pairs of uniformed
gendarmes. Each pair brought with them a drake on a leash, a four-legged reptilian
creature the size of a wolf. The gendarmes and their drakes inspected the cargo
hold for any smuggled contraband. Meanwhile, the customs officers went to the
supercargo’s office with Danglars’ assistant to inspect the books and determine
what taxes would be excised from Morrel’s profits.
“I take it that young
Edmond has given a satisfactory explanation for the landing at Elba?” Danglars
asked, unhappy to see Morrel smiling after meeting with Edmond.
“He did,” Morrel said.
“Ah, very good,” Danglars said
with a frown. “Speaking of the late Captain LeClere, did Edmond give you his
letter? I think the captain entrusted him with one.”
“You’re awfully
knowledgeable about a private meeting between Edmond and the dying captain, M.
Danglars,” Morrel said, his eyes narrowing.
“I may have passed the
door of the captain’s cabin as they were talking,” Danglars said, blushing. “It
must have slipped my mind.”
Edmond soon returned and Danglars
took the opportunity to retreat, though he remained close enough to keep an ear
on their conversation.
“The customs details are
taken care of, sir,” Edmond reported, “and the Michaeleon is safely at dock as
well. The voyage is over!”
“Expertly handled,
Edmond,” Morrel said. “When you’re done, I insist you join me for lunch. We should
talk about the late captain, the journey at large, and perhaps your career as
well.”
“It would be my honour, M.
Morrel,” Edmond said, not bothering to hide his brilliant grin. “But I’ve been
away for three months and need to see my father. How has his health been? Have
you seen him lately?”
Morrel chuckled and rapped
his knuckles against his wooden leg. “Us old cripples need to stick together!
Your father has been fine, although you know how he likes to keep to himself. I
expect a certain someone else will be receiving a visit soon after? A certain
girl in the Catalan village?”
“Well, sir, that reminds
me of something,” Edmond said, a flush creeping up to his high cheekbones.
“Mercedes, that is the Catalan girl, agreed to marry me once I returned; I’d
like to request a few days leave, sir.”
“For your wedding? Of
course, dear boy! Consider it done,” Morrel said.
“The wedding, yes, but
also an important errand I need to conduct in Paris. I’ll be back as soon as
possible,” Edmond said.
“Not to worry,” Morrel
said. “Take the time you need. It will take six weeks to unload the cargo, and
three months to prepare for the next voyage. Just be back by then; after all,
the Pharaon cannot sail without her captain!”
“Sir? I told you, Captain
LeClere has…” Edmond trailed off, his eyes growing wide as he realized what
Morrel had said. “If this is a joke, it’s a cruel one. I’ve dreamt of being
captain of this ship since I first saw her and learned every inch of every job
on her to prepare for it.”
“No joke, Edmond,” Morrel
said. “Mind you, I still need to confer with my business partner before it can
be official. But it’s a formality; he leaves the staffing decisions largely in
my hands.”
“M. Morrel, I swear that I
won’t let you down,” Edmond said with tears in his eyes as he shook Morrel’s
hand.
“You can thank me once it’s
official. Now go see your father! Go see your blushing bride!” Morrel said.
Edmond saluted Morrel and
sprinted down the gangway, dashing towards the famous street of La Canebiere.
From dawn to midnight, people swarmed La Canebiere’s many markets and
restaurants and social clubs; the saying went that if Paris had La Canebiere,
Paris would be a second Marseille. Morrel felt a large measure of paternal
pride. He had a son of his own, only eight years old, but he couldn’t help seeing
Edmond as a de facto godson.
Lurking by a mast,
Danglars held a distinctly different attitude.
“Captain? At only
nineteen?” he muttered with a scowl, too low for anyone to hear.
Chapter
2 - The Assistant Prosecutor
Late the following
afternoon, a most unusual wedding ceremony began on the outskirts of Marseille.
Though Marseillais weddings were often colourful, no common citizen of the town
would recognize these rites as traditional.
This wedding took place
deep in a grotto by the coast. Instead of jubilant guests in their Sunday best,
the solemn attendees wore dark cloaks and hoods. Instead of dancing, all but three
stood in a circle at the very rear of the grotto where the afternoon sunlight
did not reach, and the only light came from candles and large brazier. Instead
of laughter and singing, a Latin chant and the crashing of waves on the rocks
outside mingled with the muffled protests of a man gagged and bound to a stone
chair in the middle of the circle.
Three cloaked figures remained
apart in the center of the circle behind the stone chair. One of them stood,
while the other two knelt on the stone floor.
“We uphold the ancient
tradition of the divine right of kings,” the standing figure proclaimed in a
deep baritone. A diamond pendant hung on a chain from his neck. “As we serve
our monarch on earth, so do the merciless and inscrutable angels serve God in heaven.
As the angels are brutal in persecuting the forces of hell, so must we be
brutal in persecuting those forces as they exist on earth.”
“Amen,” the two kneeling
figures said. The circle around them echoed this response.
“All of life flows to us
from God through the crown,” the standing figure continued. “To trespass
against the crown is to trespass against life itself.”
“Amen,” the kneeling
figures repeated, followed again by the circle.
“Brothers and sisters, we
gather here today to witness an ascension within our ranks. Our Stone Brother
Gerard de Villefort rises to the rank of Silver Brother, with the
responsibilities and hidden knowledge which accompany the position,” the
standing figure said. “If he can demonstrate his dedication, then his ascension
and marriage to Sister Renee will be complete. Brother Gerard, Sister Renee,
lower your hoods.”
The kneeling figures
looked at each other and nodded. Once lowered, the hoods revealed a man of
about twenty-seven and a woman just turned eighteen. The young man had ice-blue
eyes, tightly curled brown hair, and soft features to the point of being feminine.
The young woman was a vision of Venus, with a heart-shaped face and delicate
nose, and chestnut hair that gleamed red in the firelight. A stone pendant hung
from the young man’s neck, and a square steel pendant hung from hers.
“Brother Gerard de
Villefort, do you solemnly swear to use your life and influence to uphold the
position and authority of the king, and to do whatever is necessary in service
to the king’s embodiment of the greater good?” the standing figure asked.
“I do so swear, Diamond
Brother,” the young man said.
“Sister Renee de
Villefort, born Saint-Meran, do you solemnly swear to use your life and
influence to uphold the position and authority of the king, and to do whatever
is necessary in service to the king’s embodiment of the greater good?” Diamond
Brother asked.
The young woman swallowed
and glanced back at the stone chair behind her only for a moment. “I do so
swear,” she said.
“The Revolution and the
usurper forced those of us loyal to the crown to desperate measures,” Diamond
Brother said. “In the light, we worked with the rulers of other lands to
overthrow the usurper. In darkness, like today, we made offerings to the forces
of heaven to restore our beloved monarchy. In keeping with that tradition, it
is time to extract the tax.”
Diamond Brother beckoned to
members of the circle. One stepped forward to hand Renee two silver chalices. A
second figure handed Villefort a weathered, bloodstained axe; a headsman’s
blade used in executions before the Revolution, when the guillotine had come
into vogue and replaced it.
The guillotine, capable of
more rapid and reliable beheadings than an axe, had become popular during the
Dead Plague as a quick method to dispatch bitten victims before their turning. Once
decapitated, a body could not reanimate. During the Revolution, it took on a
new primary purpose: the separation of aristocratic heads from their shoulders.
Villefort took a position
next to the chair and hefted the axe. Once Renee knelt in front of the chair
with the silver chalices ready, Diamond Brother’s hood bobbed in a nod.
Villefort brought the blade down to sever the prisoner’s wrist in one stroke.
The victim screamed against
the gag. Renee winced, but caught the falling hand in one of the chalices
without looking away. She held the second beneath the stump, catching the spray
of blood. Villefort handed the axe away and reached into the prisoner’s pocket.
He retrieved a handful of coins and dropped them into the blood-filled chalice.
Together he and Renee carried the chalices to the brazier.
“A tax of blood for the
crown,” Villefort and Renee said together. Renee eased the blood onto the
coals, producing a hiss of steam.
“A tax of gold for the
crown,” they added. Renee upended her chalice and allowed the coins to fall
into the flames.
“A tax of flesh and bone
for the crown,” they finished, and Villefort dumped the hand into the fire. An
aroma like roasting pork filled the cave, and the circle resumed their chanting
until the prisoner in the chair stopped struggling. Diamond Brother raised his
arms.
“Via the power granted to
me by the monarchy, I now pronounce you man and wife, and members in good
standing of the Silver tier of the Eternal Royalist League. Long live the
king!” he declared and drew back his hood as the circle repeated the cheer.
Diamond Brother’s hood
revealed Marquis Alphonse de Saint-Meran, Renee’s father and the Minister of
Finance to King Louis XVIII. Driven into hiding by the Revolution, the
Saint-Merans could only return to France after Napoleon had been dethroned. He
shook his new son-in-law’s hand while two other members of the circle stepped
forward to present Villefort and Renee with new silver pendants to replace those
they already wore.
With the ritual complete,
the other cloaked figures lowered their own hoods to talk amongst themselves as
the circle dissolved into small groups. Servants removed the corpse from the
chair, threw it into the sea, and worked to scrub away the fresh bloodstains.
“You both did very well,”
Saint-Meran said with a smile.
“Father, you know I love
the king with all my heart,” Renee said, her face pale. “But doesn’t it seem…
extreme, to kill a man this way?”
“Renee my dear, you mustn’t
think of him as a man. He was a criminal and worse, a Bonapartist,” Villefort
said. “I verified everything myself.”
“How good it is to have an
assistant prosecutor in the order!” Saint-Meran said with a chuckle. “Between
your position and your dedication, you’ll soon reach the rank of Inquisitor.”
“It is nothing more than
my duty, sir,” Villefort said in a deep bow. “All Bonapartists are traitors,
and however distasteful it may be, exterminating them is the price we pay for a
civilized society.”
Saint-Meran put his arm
around Villefort’s shoulder. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I must admit,
considering your father’s history, I was wary when you applied to become a member
of the League.”
“My father is dead to me,
sir. I haven’t spoken to him in years,” Villefort said with a scowl. “I don’t
share his convictions, beliefs, or even his name; Villefort was my loyal mother’s
maiden name.”
“Quite right,” Saint-Meran
said. “I was going to say, once you paid the ascension fee to graduate from
Wooden to Stone Brother and I learned of your record as a prosecutor, it
soothed my doubts considerably. You’ll be a fine husband to my dear Renee.”
“Thank you, sir,”
Villefort said.
A fat balding man,
Minister of Health M. Chastain, approached them with a glass of wine in his
hand and a deep flush in his jowls.
“Did someone mention young
Villefort’s law career?” Chastain said. “Gerard, you must invite me to the
trial of that Provencal man, the one accused of killing his father. My gut
tells me it will be a show not to miss, especially after seeing you swing that
axe, and you can imagine how loudly my gut can speak!” He chuckled and patted
his expansive stomach.
Renee spoke up again. “You
see, there is a case I can support! A man who would kill his own father
obviously deserves no mercy at all.”
“Then you’re halfway to
understanding why stamping out Bonapartism is so necessary,” Villefort said,
laying a hand on Renee’s shoulder. “Think of it this way: the king is the
father of the entire nation. Rebelling against him is like conspiring in
millions of counts of patricide at once, and so they are guilty of a far worse
offence than murdering one man. Do you see, my love?”
“I suppose so,” Renee
replied, her brow furrowed. “I cannot help but think sometimes that I would
rest easier if you had chosen a different profession, like medicine, rather
than the role of avenging angel that you have taken on.”
Villefort smiled. “If I do
my job well, you may consider me one of the moral physicians of our nation.”
“Indeed, let us hope so,”
said the Count de Salvieux, a narrow man who had sidled up to the conversation.
His gold pendant shone in the candlelight; rumours said that he had reached the
rank of Gold Brother for his role in securing military support from England for
the returning king. “You know, I visited the Tuileries just the other day to advise
His Majesty. I spoke to his chief aide while waiting for my appointment, and
the subject of this very marriage came about. News of the union of a
Bonapartist’s son and a Minister’s daughter travels far, it would seem. The
King himself overheard our conversation and gave his royal opinion on our young
friend.”
“What did he say?” Villefort
asked, spellbound.
Salvieux took a long
inhalation from a slim cigarette, savouring the smoke before replying. “His
Majesty’s view was that Villefort—notice that he used your new name—is a young
man of great discretion and loyalty, and sure to become a great figure in the
legal profession. Those were his very words.”
Villefort was so elated to
hear this that his legs shook beneath him. Renee passed him a cup of wine, and
the smooth warmth of it soon restored his strength to stand.
“If only another of the
usurper’s supporters were in front of me, so I could demonstrate loyalty worthy
of this praise!” Villefort muttered. “I almost feel as if I could swim to Elba
and execute the ogre himself!”
As if Villefort’s words
had manifested into reality, a grotto servant approached to whisper in his ear.
Villefort’s eyes widened, and he retreated with the servant to a quiet corner
to confirm the details. When Villefort returned to Renee and the ministers, an
exuberant joy illuminated his face.
“My dear, you were wishing
that I was a doctor instead of a lawyer,” Villefort said. “Well, the two
professions share one quality: my time is not my own, not even on the day of my
wedding. I’ve been called away for a serious matter that may yet make work for
the executioner.”
“How dreadful!” Renee
exclaimed, once again turning pale. “What happened?”
“If my information is
correct,” Villefort said, “a Bonapartist conspiracy has been uncovered. I’ve
just been given the letter of accusation.”
The letter had been
addressed to Villefort’s direct superior, M. Desmarais, but a bout of illness
had bedridden Desmarais for several days. In his absence, his secretary opened
all incoming mail and determined which matters needed to be forwarded to
Villefort.
“The letter is anonymous,
but given the nature of the accusation I must take it seriously,” Villefort
said.
“And the accused person,”
M. Chastain asked, “are they in custody?”
“The gendarmes have
brought him to my house, under close guard. Please excuse me, but duty calls,”
Villefort said. “I must find out if this Edmond Dantes is truly a traitor to
his country.”
“By all means, Brother
Gerard, make haste!” Saint-Meran said. “You are the king’s servant, after all.”
As Villefort shed his cloak,
Renee grabbed his arm.
“My dear husband, please
be merciful on our wedding day,” Renee said with her deep brown eyes wide.
“All I can promise is to
be fair. If M. Dantes is innocent, I shall be as gentle as a dove and set him
free,” Villefort said, smoothing her hair as he kissed her forehead.
With that, he dashed up
the cliffside path to a waiting coach. It wasn’t until he had set off that he
noticed a spot of blood drying on the leather of his boot.
Chapter
3 - The Examination
On the way to his home,
Villefort made great effort to assume the detached air that was vital for
examinations. Though he could command his features like a seasoned actor, his
joy risked overpowering the need to appear stern. Even the bitter reminder of
his father in the grotto couldn’t spoil how everything in his life was
aligning.
Not yet thirty, Villefort already
held a high official position and the salary which came with it. As Saint-Meran
had said, his influence would help him to rise within the Eternal Royalist
League. He had also just married a young and charming woman, whose family
possessed considerable political clout which could also further bolster his
career.
Renee’s mother had escaped
the guillotine, only to be dragged from a carriage by the undead and devoured.
When the Marquis died, Renee would inherit a fortune and increase Villefort’s
own fortune even further. The fees paid to the League for his initial Wooden
status and elevation to Stone would be recouped soon enough, and the world
would be at his feet through the connections he would make in the League.
Far from Villefort being
heartless, he did enjoy Renee’s company in a reasonable sort of manner. He intended
to be kind to her and keep her happy, and to help her if she needed it, but in
a heart so full of love for the king little room remained to truly love anyone
else.
Villefort arrived in front
of his house, next door to the Marseille Palais de Justice. Magistrate Berger waited
on the front step, which brought Villefort’s happy daydreams down to earth and
reminded him of the solemn work to be done.
“Berger, good evening. I’ve
seen the letter, good work arresting this man,” Villefort said with his features
composed. “Have you discovered anything since then?”
“Nothing new, monsieur.
The special order from M. Desmarais’ secretary said only to arrest him and
await your directions,” Berger said. “All papers related to the suspect are
sealed and on your desk. The prisoner is named Edmond Dantes, quite young, but
the new captain of a ship belonging to Morrel & Son of Marseille.”
“M. de Villefort! Thank
goodness.” Another man approached, hobbling at speed on a wooden leg. “Your men
have committed a dreadful mistake and arrested one of my captains.”
“M. Morrel, I presume?”
Villefort asked. “I am about to examine your M. Dantes.”
“Excellent, excellent,”
said Morrel. “You do not know him, but I am sure that you will see straight
away that he is one of the most trustworthy people you will ever meet. Your
secretary told me the charge is treason; this must be a mistake!”
Villefort stood looking
down on Morrel. He knew of Morrel by reputation, but not his well-earned reputation
of being an honest businessman. Instead, Villefort knew of Morrel’s connection
through family and business associates to known Bonapartists. Morrel’s professional
reputation did him no favours in Villefort’s mind either; Villefort considered
businessmen to be a vulgar class, interested more in their customers and ledgers
than in the king’s good name or the smooth operation of the bureaucracy.
“You must be well aware,
M. Morrel, that a man can seem quite trustworthy while still being the vilest
sort of political criminal. Is that not true?” Villefort said.
His tone chilled Morrel
and made him remember Edmond’s account of Napoleon’s kind words regarding
serving with a Morrel.
“Monsieur,” Villefort
added, “I will perform my duty as impartially as ever. If your man is innocent,
he will be released. If he is guilty, leniency would set a dangerous example in
the current climate.”
Without waiting for another
reply from Morrel, Villefort entered his house and shut the door. Police filled
the antechamber, and chained drakes guarded the prisoner. Edmond stood steady
against a wall, taking in his surroundings with interest. Villefort gave Edmond
a sidelong glance as he passed to his office, where his secretary Mariane waited
with a packet of documents.
Villefort still found it
odd to be working with a woman even after so many years. Necessity had driven
adaptation after the Dead Plague ended. So many skilled and able-bodied men had
died fighting the horde, either in the army abroad or defending the women and
children in their communities at home, that many women faced no choice but to
leave the home and find work. The alternative was to starve.
“Bring in the prisoner,”
Villefort said as he entered his office. He compartmentalized his first
impression of a courageous and bright young man, quite unlike the cowards and
dullards who tended to get caught up in revolutionary activities.
The office was kept dark
aside from a fire in the hearth and a candle on the desk when prisoners were
brought in, as an intimidation tactic. Guards led Edmond to a chair which was
positioned to keep his features illuminated while Villefort could remain in
shadow. Edmond remained as calm as could be expected and took his seat with as
much ease as he could manage. As soon as his wrists touched the arms of the
chair, manacles sprang out from beneath and clamped shut, locking him in place.
“Monsieur, are these
necessary?” Edmond asked, staring at the cuffs. “There must be some mistake; I
need to get back to my wedding, right away.”
Edmond felt the first
stirrings of panic as officers returned, wheeling a large contraption between
them. The device consisted of an arched frame which fit on either side of the
interrogation chair, and two pale dagger-sharp crystals of aquamarine as narrow
as tapers.
“If you have nothing to
hide, then you have nothing to fear,” Villefort said.
The officers adjusted the
pointed crystals on the frame to be level with Edmond’s temples without quite
touching his flesh. A third crystal, colourless and the size of a man’s head, sat
on a pedestal in front of Edmond connected to the frame with a thick cable. Their
task complete, the officers returned to the hall.
“Before we begin,”
Villefort said, “we must calibrate this device. Answer honestly: what colour
are my eyes?”
“Your eyes?” Edmond asked,
quite bewildered by the experience. “I would say a very pale blue.”
As Edmond spoke, the large
crystal glowed with a soft white light. It reminded him of Mercedes, and he
felt a pang in his heart at the thought of her anguish. The light dimmed after
a few seconds.
“Good,” Villefort said.
“Next, I need you to tell a lie. Large or small, as long as it’s untrue.”
Edmond frowned in silence
for a few moments. He turned his head the barest fraction but straightened again
at the prick of the crystals.
“Your eyes are dark brown,”
Edmond said. He had struggled to think of something appropriate to say;
dishonesty was not in his nature.
The large crystal darkened
to black, but still managed to emit a glow. Like before, it remained in this
state for only a few seconds before returning to the colourless default.
“An uninspired lie, but
good enough,” Villefort said, fighting not to smirk. He read aloud from his papers.
“Edmond Dantes, nineteen years old, already captain of a merchant vessel. Accused
of conspiracy against the crown.”
Villefort glanced at
Edmond but Edmond said nothing, afraid of what the crystal device would do if
he spoke out of turn.
“What were you doing at
the time of your arrest?” Villefort asked.
“I was celebrating my
wedding day, monsieur,” Edmond said. A crack in his voice was the only sign of
his emotions as the crystal glowed white again. “I was about to marry the love
of my life; in fact, we were just about to leave for the town hall to make it
official.”
Despite his professional
impassiveness, Villefort could not help but be moved. His own marriage was only
an hour old, and Edmond had been perhaps that far away from marriage himself.
Villefort had heard of the lively wedding celebrations of the lower class and
imagined the contrast between that ceremony and Edmond’s present circumstances.
Villefort allowed Edmond to wait as the light from the crystal dimmed again, already
composing a speech about this juxtaposition to impress the Marquis de
Saint-Meran with later. Finally, he returned to the task at hand.
“Have you ever served
under the usurper?” Villefort asked.
“No, monsieur,” Edmond
said. The crystal cast its white glow upon his face.
“It is reported that you
hold extremist views,” Villefort said. No such report existed, but he found
that he could learn a great deal about a man from his reaction to a blatant
lie.
“Sir, I hardly hold any
views at all,” Edmond said. “I’m only nineteen, I have no experience of the
world besides my journeys aboard the Pharaon, and certainly no worthwhile opinions
on how it should be run. The only extreme feelings in my life are my gratitude
and affection towards my father, Mercedes, and M. Morrel. The three of them
have enabled me to create everything good that exists in my life.”
As Edmond spoke, the crystal’s
light remained steady. Villefort wasn’t pleased that Edmond neglected to give
the king due credit in his fortunes but admitted that the omission could be due
to ignorance. After all, Edmond was eight years younger than Villefort, and
that was very little time to learn how the world worked.
More importantly,
Villefort grew convinced that the accusation was false. He was not interviewing
some radical plotting against the crown; he was interviewing the victim of a
cruel prank. It was a blessing in disguise for Villefort; he could return to
Renee and tell her that he had shown mercy to Edmond and obeyed her first
request as his wife. It would be a simple way to make her happy and start their
marriage on a good footing. Villefort summoned the guards, who took away the
interrogation device and unfastened Edmond’s shackles.
“M. Dantes,” Villefort
said, stepping around his desk to sit on the edge of it, “do you have any
enemies?”
“Enemies?” Edmond replied.
He rubbed at his wrists, already red from their brief time in restraints. “None
that I can imagine. The crew seem to like and respect me and were happy enough
to see me made captain; I haven’t been in contact with anyone else for months.”
“Your career is moving
quickly, and you’re about to be married; someone could have had their eye on
your position, or your betrothed, or is simply jealous of you having them,”
Villefort said. “Can you think of anyone like that?”
“I should hope not! I’m
not sure I would want to know if such people were in my life, since I would be
forced to hate them,” Edmond said.
For just a moment, a face
came to his mind of a new acquaintance from the day before. He dismissed it
just as quickly; he believed Mercedes when she said Fernand was happy for them
and couldn’t imagine that anyone she called a friend could be capable of such a
thing.
“Take my advice, Edmond: a
man should always be aware of those who wish him harm,” Villefort said,
convinced that Edmond lacked a malicious impulse in his entire being. “It’s
clear to me that someone is attempting to ruin you. Here is the letter that was
sent to me, do you recognize the writing?”
Villefort presented the
letter of accusation to Edmond. A cloud passed over Edmond’s brow as he read
the note.
The crown prosecutor is informed by a friend of
the throne, that one Edmond Dantes, first mate of the ship Pharaon, arrived
this morning after stopping at the Island of Elba. There, he delivered a letter
to the usurper and was given one to deliver to the Bonapartist faction in
Paris. Proof of this crime will be found on arresting him, for the letter will
be found upon him, or at his father’s room, or in his cabin on board the
Pharaon.
“Sadly, I cannot guess who
wrote this,” Edmond said, returning the letter.
“You seem like an honest
fellow,” Villefort said. “So tell me, not as prisoner to prosecutor but man to
man, is there any truth at all to this anonymous letter?”
“Well, yes, in the
strictest sense,” Edmond admitted. “I was given a letter to be taken to Elba
and given one there to take to Paris. But I only undertook the errand because
it was the dying wish of my captain, Jean-Michel LeClere.”
Edmond then told Villefort
the entire story which he had already told to Morrel, of the loup-garou and
LeClere’s death, meeting Marshal Bertrand and Napoleon, and the planned journey
to Paris.
“I swore to my captain
that I would do as he asked, without knowing what it was, and here we are,”
Edmond said.
Villefort considered the
tale, no longer needing the crystal device to be assured of the other man’s
honesty.
“If you are guilty of
anything, it is nothing worse than failing to ask questions before giving your
word. Thankfully, imprudence is not a crime,” Villefort said. “I will need to
fine you for landing on Elba without authorization, and also for carrying mail
without a permit, but it’s clear that the charge of treason is baseless.”
“Oh, thank you monsieur!”
Edmond said, laughing aloud with relief. “I knew this would turn out to be a
misunderstanding. When I tell Mercedes, she’ll be so happy!”
“I’m sure she will,”
Villefort said with a smile. “There’s no reason to keep you from her any
longer. Just give me the letter from Elba, and your word that you will be
available for further questions if needed.”
“Of course, the letter,”
Edmond said. “I had it in my breast pocket for safekeeping, but the officers
took it when they searched me. Is it among the papers on your desk already? It
was a cream-coloured envelope, addressed to M. Noirtier.”
Only Villefort’s skill prevented
him from showing his shock at hearing the name Noirtier. He shuffled through
the stack of documents and soon found the envelope, addressed to M. Jules
Noirtier at No. 13 Rue Coq-Heron in Paris. If a cockatrice had burst into the
room at that very moment and turned Villefort to stone, he could not have been
more stupefied.
“Do you know M. Noirtier?
Have you ever met, or heard his name before?” Villefort asked, still staring at
the envelope. “Who knows you were sent to deliver this to him?”
“I don’t know him, sir; I’ve
heard wartime stories about Bonaparte’s senator Jules Noirtier, but it couldn’t
be the same man, could it?” Edmond said, alarmed at the change in Villefort’s
tone when freedom had seemed so close. “I haven’t told anybody about the
letter, not even Mercedes. Marshal Bertrand gave it to me, obviously he knows,
but I can’t say who else he may have told.”
“Three people know, and
that’s already too many,” Villefort muttered through clenched teeth. He broke
the envelope’s seal and read the contents twice.
“Have you read this?” he
asked aloud.
“No sir; you broke the
seal yourself,” Edmond said.
“Letters can be
re-sealed,” Villefort said absently, reading it a third time. He discarded all impressions
of Edmond’s character in the face of the danger Villefort held in his hands. If
Edmond was lying and knew the contents of the letter, it would be the end of
Villefort’s career. Nobody could ignore the connection between the names
Villefort and Noirtier if the existence of the letter came to light.
“M. Dantes,” Villefort
said, surprising himself when his voice came out almost at the level of a yell.
He regulated his volume before continuing. “Unfortunately, I spoke hastily
before and cannot release you tonight. I need to speak to M. Desmarais, the
crown prosecutor, and see what he thinks. It’s a formality, but an important
one which must be observed.”
“I’ve dealt with enough
customs officers to understand formalities,” Edmond said, relaxing by a
fraction. “May I say, you’ve been more of a friend than a judge during this
awful joke.”
“Yes, well,” Villefort
said without anything in mind to finish the sentence. He walked in a circle
around the desk, committing Noirtier’s letter to memory. “I will do what I can
to keep you detained for as short a time as possible. Meanwhile, the only
evidence supporting the accusations against you is this letter from Elba.”
Villefort crumpled the
paper into a ball and cast it into the fireplace. Neither man spoke, but both
heaved a great sigh when the last of it crumbled to ash.
“Now, it is important that
you understand what will happen next,” Villefort said. “You will be detained
until the evening in the Palais de Justice next door. Keep this in mind: if
anyone else comes to question you, tell them exactly what you told me except
for any mention of this letter. Don’t tell anyone else that you were given
anything when you stopped at Elba. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course,” Edmond
said.
Villefort summoned the
guards once more and gave them instructions in a low voice, to which they
nodded.
“Follow them,” he said to
Edmond.
Edmond saluted Villefort
and left. Villefort half-threw himself into a chair once the door closed behind
them.
“By the king’s own grace!”
he muttered. “If Desmarais had been at his desk and seen this, I would have
been ruined. This cursed letter and my poisonous father would have destroyed
all my prospects.”
Life returned to his ashen
features and a smile revived his thin lips. He realized that, while the letter
could have ruined him, the near miss with disaster could catapult him to even
greater fortune. With a plan in mind and Edmond safe in a holding cell,
Villefort gave orders to his valet to prepare for an immediate trip to Paris.
“But first, I need to
return to the Marquis!” he said.
---
The Mummy
of Monte Cristo will be released on Amazon in October 2020. Related news,
offers, and updates about future books will be sent to the J Trevor Robinson
mailing list.
If you’ve
enjoyed what you’ve read so far, I look forward to seeing your review on Amazon
or Goodreads after you have a chance to finish reading the rest!
Comments
Post a Comment