The Son of Monte-Cristo Volume I Part 2

Listen, and then judge. I was born on the first floor of the house No.

28 Rue de la Fontaine, at Auteuil, on the night of the 27th to the 28th of September, 1807. My father, Monsieur de Villefort, told my mother I was dead, wrapped me in a napkin marked H. 15, put me in a small box and buried me alive in the garden of the house. At the same moment he received a thrust in the side with a knife held by a person who was concealed, and he sank to the ground unconscious. The man who attacked my father dug out the box which had been buried, and which he supposed contained money, and thereby saved my life. He brought me to the foundling asylum, where I was inscribed as No. 37. Three months later I was taken from the asylum by the sister-in-law of the man, who was a Corsican, and brought me to Corsica, where I was brought up, and in spite of the care of my foster-parents acquired vices which steeped me in crime."

"And who was your mother?" asked the judge.

"My mother thought I was dead; I am a child of sin; I do not know my mother and do not wish to know her."

A cry rang through the court-room at this point; a lady had fainted, and was carried out of the hall by several bystanders.

At this cry the procureur du roi arose, and showed his ghastly face to the crowd.

"How are you going to prove these astounding revelations?" asked the judge of the prisoner.

With a malicious look the latter pointed to Monsieur de Villefort.

"Father, they wish to have proofs; do you also want me to give them?"

"No, it is unnecessary; everything you have said is true. I resign my office, and desire the court to appoint my successor as procureur du roi," said Monsieur de Villefort, in a faint voice.

"What!" exclaimed the judge, "you, a man whose character is above suspicion, allow yourself to be intimidated by the crazy declarations of a criminal! Collect yourself, and crush the malicious accusations with a word."

Villefort shook his head. With trembling limbs he left the court-room a broken-down man. The crowd respectfully made way for him, the extent of his misfortune making a deep impression upon all hearts.

"The court is adjourned until further notice," said the judge.

"Policemen, take your prisoner back to jail."

CHAPTER V

THE RESULT OF THE CATASTROPHE

On the 14th day of January, 1830, three months after the incidents related in the last chapter, Benedetto's trial was again before the Court of Special Sessions. Then, as now, life beat rapidly in Paris, one important thing followed the other, and it came about that the affair of the handsome "Prince Cavalcanti" was in danger of being tried before an audience consisting only of lawyers and policemen.

The weather was miserable. The snow fell in thick flakes, and the cold was so penetrating that it became impossible to remain long out of doors.

It was about eleven o'clock in the morning when an elegant carriage stopped in front of the court-house. A gentleman stepped out, and was about to ascend the broad steps of the building, when he suddenly stood still. He clapped his monocle to his eye, and loudly exclaimed:

"Ah, Chateau-Renaud!"

"Beauchamp," came back the answer; and the two friends cordially shook hands.

"Really," said Chateau-Renaud, laughing, "I must be grateful to chance, which threw me in your way."

"What brings you here?"

"The trial of his highness Prince Benedetto de Cavalcanti, of course."

"I'm here for the same reason. I also wish to see the concluding act of the drama which has interested Paris so long. Do you think the poor devil has a chance of escaping the hangman's noose?"

"Hardly--but here we are. Why, the hall is about empty," exclaimed Beauchamp, wonderingly.

"Does that astonish you? Paris has always been ungrateful, and has long since forgotten that the Benedetto affair was once an important topic,"

replied Chateau-Renaud in a tone of indifference.

"Perhaps the trial has been postponed," said the journalist, and turning to a reporter of his acquaintance, he hurriedly asked: "Does Benedetto's trial take place to-day?"

"Benedetto's trial," answered the reporter, musingly: "ah, yes, now I know--the murder in Monte-Cristo's garden, and, if my memory is right, I believe the murderer pretends that he is the son of the procureur du roi, Monsieur de Villefort."

"Perfectly right; you have an enviable memory," laughingly said Beauchamp. "Well, does the trial take place?"

"Certainly, it's the third day of the case."

"Thank you. We can get some refreshments now and pa.s.s the time until the Benedetto case comes up," said Chateau-Renaud.

"If you desire to attend the trial, I will inform you when it's time,"

said the reporter, politely.

"You are very kind," answered Beauchamp, as he departed with his friend.

As they were leaving the corridor, Beauchamp nudged his companion lightly.

"Every one is not so ungrateful as to forget Benedetto. Debray is here too."

"Why not?" said Chateau-Renaud. "Debray has plenty of time to himself since the Ministry was overturned and carried a poor _attache_ along with it in its fall."

"Well, he rescued his millions anyway," replied Beauchamp, indifferently, "Though, come to think of it," he continued maliciously, "it is quite natural for Debray to interest himself in Benedetto--the latter was half and half his son-in-law."

"Oh, Beauchamp, you are cynical; the relationship reminds one of a morganatic marriage," Chateau-Renaud laughingly interposed.

"By the way, has anything new been found out about the Baroness Danglars?"

"H'm--they say she has disappeared."

"And her good, honest husband?"

"Is knocking about somewhere. G.o.d only knows."

"Well, I must say there is nothing like Parisian life. The house of Danglars breaks. Father and mother Danglars disappear, in consequence of which Debray is without his flame; and the daughter--is anything known of her? To my taste, she was the best of the lot."

"Mademoiselle d'Armilly undoubtedly knows where she is--they were inseparable companions. They will come to the surface again; from what I know of Mademoiselle Danglars, she has about as much talent for singing as a lioness."

"A beautiful constellation. What became of Monsieur de Villefort?"

"He is an incurable maniac, and is in Dr. d'Avigny's private asylum."

"Not a bad business for the old gentleman. The house of Villefort has had a terrible end. Madame de Villefort and her son are dead, and poor Valentine--I am not generally sentimental, but I confess the death of the young girl was a terrible shock to me."