The Son of Monte-Cristo The Son Of Monte Cristo Part 57

Irene beheld a man fastened to the wall with an iron chain. At first she did not recognize him.

"This individual," said Gudel, "is Cyprien, the man who does all the dirty work of his excellency the Marquis de Fongereues, going so far as to do a little poisoning on occasion."

"Undo my chain!" cried Cyprien.

"Not if I know it! But if you answer my questions, you shall have something to eat."

"I am hungry!" murmured the rascal.

"Pshaw! one meal each day will certainly prevent your being miserable.

Now, why did you poison Fanfar?"

The fellow sighed.

"Tell me what interest you had in poisoning Fanfar."

"I don't know."

"That is a lie!"

"He can tell you nothing," whispered Irene, "let him go."

"No, Mademoiselle. This scoundrel bribed one of the jailers to give Fanfar a drug that would have killed him in five minutes. Fortunately, I was on the watch. I captured Cyprien and I brought him here. But I confess I am greatly puzzled by one thing--it is that I can't make out what the Marquis had against Fanfar, and this animal will not tell me."

"My friend," said Irene, "however guilty you may be, you are but the instrument of others. Why, then, do you not try to make amends for your errors by telling the truth?"

Cyprien hesitated, but he said again:

"I do not know."

"Then good-night, my dear fellow!" said Gudel. "Here is a loaf of bread for you, rascal that you are!"

Irene hastened from the dungeon, and when they had again ascended the stairs, Gudel said to her:

"These fellows are all alike, after all!"

"What are you trying to do?" asked Irene.

"It is simple enough. Instead of poison, Fanfar took a narcotic, and lies as if dead. He will be buried, of course, but we will look out for that, and he will be taken care of."

The shock to Irene was so great that she burst into pa.s.sionate weeping.

Gudel was doing his best to soothe her, when suddenly the door was thrown open and Bobichel rushed in, all pale and dishevelled.

"Oh! master," he cried, "all is lost! There is to be an autopsy. One of the great physicians advises it."

Irene uttered a shriek of agony and dropped on her knees.

"Run!" she cried, "the truth must be made known at once. Oh! save him!"

Gudel tore his hair. Suddenly a thought struck him.

"Who is the physician?"

"Dr. Albant, from the Tuileries."

Iron Jaws reflected. He took Irene's hands in his.

"I am but a poor fellow, dear lady, only a strolling player, but I swear to you that Fanfar shall be saved!"

Irene was comforted.

CHAPTER XL.

BETWEEN CHARYBDIS AND SCYLLA.

The situation was indeed a terrible one. Bobichel's words were true.

When Fanfar fell as if dead, it was supposed that it was an attack of apoplexy, and some good people ventured to call it a judgment from heaven for his crimes. Others again spoke of poison, and arraigned the governor of the prison for carelessness. There was one physician among those who were called in who could not agree with the others. He used a number of scientific expressions, but the fact remained the same--Fanfar was dead. But there was so much discussion that a post-mortem examination was deemed essential. The body, therefore, was carried on a litter to the hospital, where he was examined by a crowd of curious medical students, who declared that he was so splendidly developed that he ought to have lived to be a hundred years old.

A messenger was sent to Dr. Albant, and the dissecting table was prepared.

This time the plan of the heroes of the right had failed. Fanfar was alive, but he would certainly be killed now, as his torpidity was so great that he would not utter a cry or a groan until the instruments touched some vital organ.

The door opened and Dr. Albant, a handsome old man, entered with smiles and nods. He removed his coat and tied on a large ap.r.o.n. Trying the edge of his scalpel on his nail, he turned to the students and physicians, and began to talk of the German method of conducting a post mortem.

"We French, however, begin here," he said, lightly placing his scalpel on the tender flesh.

"Dr. Albant!" cried a stentorian voice.

The surgeon turned. A messenger in the king's livery stood in the doorway.

"Gentlemen, excuse me--the king communicates with me!"

A close observer would have thought it singular that the king should send a letter by an ordinary servant, like a simple bourgeois. But this did not seem to strike Dr. Albant, who, with a face beaming with smiles, turned to the students, saying:

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but the king demands my presence."

"But the autopsy?"

"Oh! that may be given up. This man died from cerebral congestion--I see it as plain as day!"

As he spoke he tore off his ap.r.o.n, and got himself into his coat again with all possible speed.

"Bury the man at once!" he said as he left the room. A carriage awaited him at the door, and he drove off.