The Count of Monte-Cristo/Volume 1/Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII
THE HUNDRED DAYS
NOIRTIER was a true prophet, and things progressed rapidly, as he had predicted. Every one knows the history of the famous return from Elba, a return which, without example in the past, will probably remain without imitation in the future.
Louis XVIII. made but a faint attempt to parry this unexpected blow; his lack of confidence in men deprived him of his confidence in events; the royalty, or rather the monarchy, he had scarcely reconstructed tottered on its precarious foundation, and it needed but a sign of the emperor to hurl to the ground all this edifice composed of ancient prejudices and new ideas. Villefort, therefore, gained nothing save the king's gratitude, which was rather likely to injure him at the present time, and the Cross of the Legion of Honor, which he had the prudence not to wear, although M. de Blacas had duly forwarded the brevet.
Napoleon would, doubtless, have deprived Villefort of his office had it not been for Noirtier, who was all-powerful at the court of the Hundred Days, by the dangers he had faced and the services he had rendered, and thus the Girondin of '93 and the senator of 1806 protected him who so lately had been his protector. All Villefort's influence barely enabled him to stifle the secret Dantès had so nearly divulged. During this re-appearance of the empire, whose second fall could be easily foreseen, the king's procureur alone was deprived of his office, being suspected of royalism.
However, scarcely was the imperial power established — that is, scarcely had the emperor reëntered the Tuileries and issued his numerous orders from that little cabinet into which we have introduced our readers, and on the table of which he found Louis XVIII.'s snuff-box, half full — than Marseilles began to rekindle the flames of civil war, always unextinguished in the south, and it required but little to excite the populace to acts of far greater violence than the shouts and insults with which they assailed the royalists whenever they ventured abroad.
Owing to this natural change, the worthy shipowner became at that moment — we will not say all-powerful, because Morrel was a prudent and rather a timid man, like all who have made a slow success in business; so much so, that many of the most zealous partisans of parte accused him of moderation — but sufficiently influential to make a demand; and this demand, as may be divined, was in favor of Dantès.
Villefort retained his place in spite of the fall of his superior, but his marriage was put off until a more favorable opportunity. If the emperor remained on the throne, Gérard required a different alliance to aid his career, and his father undertook to find it; if Louis XVIII. returned, the influence of M. Saint-Méran and himself became double, and the marriage must be still more suitable. The deputy procureur was, therefore, the first magistrate of Marseilles, when one morning his door opened, and M. Morrel was announced.
Any one else would have hastened to receive him and revealed his weakness; but Villefort was a man of ability, who, if he had not the experience, had the instinct for everything. He made Morrel wait in the antechamber, although he had no one with him, for the simple reason that the king’s procureur always makes every one wait; and after a quarter of an hour had passed in reading the papers, he ordered Morrel to be admitted.
Morrel expected Villefort would be dejected; he found him, as he had found him six weeks before, calm, firm, and full of that glacial politeness, that most insurmountable barrier, which separates the well-bred and the vulgar man.
He had penetrated into Villefort’s cabinet, convinced the magistrate would tremble at the sight of him; on the contrary, he felt a cold shudder all over him when he beheld Villefort seated, his elbow on his desk, and his head leaning on his hand. He stopped at the door; Villefort gazed at him as if he had some difficulty in recognizing him; then, after a brief interval, during which the honest shipowner turned and turned his hat in his hands,
“M. Morrel, I believe?” said Villefort.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come nearer,” said the magistrate, with a patronizing wave of the hand, "and tell me to what circumstance I owe the honor of this visit.”
“Do you not guess, monsieur?” asked Morrel.
“Not in the least; but, if I can serve you in any way, I shall be delighted."
“Everything depends on you.”
“Explain yourself, pray.”
“Monsieur,” said Morrel, recovering his assurance as he proceeded, encouraged by the justice of his cause, “do you recollect that a few days before the landing of his majesty the emperor, I came to intercede for an unfortunate young man, the mate of my ship, who was accused of being concerned in a correspondence with the isle of Elba? and what was the other day a crime is to-day a title of favor. You then served Louis XVIII., and you did not show any favor — it was your duty; to-day you serve Napoleon, and you ought to protect him — it is equally your duty. I come, therefore, to ask what has become of him.”
Villefort made a violent effort.
“What is his name?" said he; “tell me his name.”
“Edmond Dantès.”
Villefort would, evidently, have rather stood opposite the muzzle of a pistol at five-and-twenty paces than have heard this name pronounced; but he betrayed no emotion.
"In this way," said Villefort to himself, "I cannot be accused of making the arrest of this young man a personal question."
"Dantès," repeated he, "Edmond Dantès."
"Yes, monsieur."
Villefort opened a large register, then went to a table, from the table turned to his registers, and then, turning to Morrel,
"Are you quite sure you are not mistaken, monsieur?" said he, in the most natural tone in the world.
Had Morrel been a more quick-sighted man, or better versed in these matters, he would have been surprised at the king's procureur answering him on such a subject so entirely out of his line, instead of referring him to the governors of the prison or the prefect of the department. But Morrel, disappointed in his expectations of exciting fear, saw only, where no fear was visible, condescension. Villefort had calculated lightly.
"No," said Morrel, "I am not mistaken. I have known him ten years, and the last four he has been in my service. Do not you recollect, I came about six weeks ago to beseech your clemency, as I come to-day to beseech your justice — you received me very coldly, and answered me rudely? Oh, the royalists were very severe with the Bonapartists in those days."
"Monsieur," returned Villefort, "I was then a royalist, because I believed the Bourbons not only the heirs to the throne but the chosen of the nation. The miraculous return which we have seen proves me mistaken; the genius of Napoleon has conquered; the legitimate monarch is he who is loved by his people."
"That's right!" cried Morrel. "I like to hear you speak thus, and I augur well for Edmond from it."
"Wait a moment," said Villefort, turning over the leaves of a register; "I have it — a sailor, who was about to marry a young Catalan girl. I recollect now, it was a very serious charge."
"How so?"
"You know that when he left here he was taken to the Palais de Justice."
"Well?"
"I made my report to the authorities at Paris, and sent to them the papers found on him, — it was my duty, — and a week after, he was carried off."
"Carried off!" said Morrel. "What can they have done with him?"
"Oh, he has been taken to Fenestrelles, to Pignerol, or to the Iles Sainte-Marguérite. Some fine morning he will return to assume the command of your vessel."
"Come when he will, it shall be kept for him. But how is it he is not already returned? It seems to me, the first care of the Bonapartist government should be to set at liberty those who have suffered from that of the Bourbons."
"Do not be too hasty, M. Morrel," replied Villefort. "The order of imprisonment came from high authority, and the order for his liberation must proceed from the same source; and, as Napoleon has scarcely been reinstated a fortnight, the letters have not yet been forwarded."
"But," said Morrel, "is there no way of expediting all these formalities? We are victorious; I have friends and some influence; I can obtain the canceling of his arrest."
"There has been no arrest."
"How?"
"It is sometimes essential to government to cause a man's disappearance without leaving any traces, so that no written forms or documents may defeat their wishes."
"It might be so under the Bourbons, but at present———"
"It is always the same, my dear Morrel, since the reign of Louis XIV., all governments are alike; we have the Bastile to-day. The emperor is more strict in prison discipline than even Louis himself, and the number of prisoners whose names are not on the register is incalculable."
Had Morrel even any suspicions, so much kindness would have dispelled them.
"Well, M. de Villefort, how would you advise me to act?" asked he.
"Petition the minister."
"Oh, I know what that is; the minister receives two hundred every day, and does not read four."
"That is true; but he will read a petition countersigned and presented by me."
"And will you undertake to deliver it?"
"With the greatest pleasure. Dantès was then guilty, and now he is innocent; and it is as much my duty to free him as it was to condemn him."
Villefort foresaw the danger of an inquiry, possible but not probable, which might ruin him beyond retrieval.
"But how shall I address the minister?"
"Sit down there," said Villefort, giving up his place to Morrel, "and write what I dictate."
"Will you be so good?"
"Certainly. But lose no time; we have lost too much already."
“That is true. Only think that perhaps this poor young man is pining in despair.”
Villefort shuddered at this picture of the prisoner cursing him in silence and obscurity, but he was too far gone to recede; Dantès must be crushed beneath the weight of Villefort’s ambition.
“I am waiting,” said Morrel, pen in hand.
Villefort dictated a petition, in which, from an excellent intention, no doubt, Dantès’ services to the Bonapartists were exaggerated, and he was made out one of the most active agents of Napoleon’s return. It was evident that at the sight of this document the minister would instantly release him. The petition finished, Villefort read it aloud.
“That will do,” said he; “leave the rest to me.”
“Will the petition go soon?”
“To-day.”
“Countersigned by you?”
“The best thing I can do will be to certify the truth of the contents of your petition.”
And, sitting down, Villefort wrote the certificate at the bottom.
“What more is to be done?”
“I will answer for everything.”
This assurance charmed Morrel, who took leave of Villefort, and hastened to announce to old Dantès that he would soon see his son.
As for Villefort, instead of sending to Paris, he carefully preserved the petition that so fearfully compromised Dantès, in the case of an event that seemed not unlikely, that is, a second restoration. Dantès remained a prisoner, and heard not the noise of the fall of Louis XVIII.’s throne, nor the more terrible collapse of the Empire.
Twice during the brief imperial apparition which is called the Hundred Days had Morrel renewed his demand, and twice had Villefort soothed him with promises. At last there was Waterloo, and Morrel came no more: he had done all that was in his power, and any fresh attempt under the second restoration would only compromise himself uselessly.
Louis XVIII. remounted the throne, Villefort demanded and obtained the situation of king’s procureur at Toulouse, and a fortnight afterward married Renée, whose father was more influential at court than ever.
Thus Dantès, during the Hundred Days and after Waterloo, remained under bolt and bar, forgotten by God and man.
Danglars comprehended the full extent of the wretched fate that overwhelmed Dantès, and, like all men of small abilities, he termed this a decree of Providence. But when Napoleon returned to the imperial
throne in Paris, Danglars’ heart failed him, and he feared at every 
instant to behold Dantès eager for vengeance. He therefore informed M. Morrel of his wish to quit the sea, and obtained a recommendation from him to a Spanish merchant, into whose service he entered at the end of March, — that is, ten or twelve days after Napoleon's return to the Tuileries. He then left for Madrid, and was no more heard of.
Fernand understood nothing except that Dantès was absent. What had become of him he cared not to inquire. Only, during the respite the absence of his rival afforded him, he reflected, partly on the means of deceiving Mercédès as to the cause of his absence, partly on plans of emigration and abduction, as from time to time he sat sad and motionless on the summit of Cape Pharo, at the spot from whence Marseilles and the village of the Catalans are visible, watching for the apparition of a young and handsome man, who was for him also the messenger of vengeance. Fernand's mind was made up: he would shoot Dantès, and then kill himself. But Fernand was mistaken; a man of his disposition never kills himself, for he constantly hopes.
During this time the Empire made a last appeal, and every man in France capable of bearing arms rushed to obey the summons of his Emperor. Fernand departed with the rest, bearing with him the terrible thought that perhaps his rival was behind him, and would marry Mercédès. Had Fernand really meant to kill himself, he would have done so when he parted from Mercédès. His devotion, his constant attentions, and the compassion he showed for her misfortunes, produced the effect they always produce on noble minds — Mercédès had always had a sincere regard for Fernand, and this was now strengthened by gratitude. "My brother," said she, as she placed his knapsack on his shoulders, "be careful of yourself, for if you are killed I shall be alone in the world."
These words infused a ray of hope into Fernand's heart. Should Dantès not return, Mercédès might one day be his. Mercédès was left alone to gaze on this bare earth that had never seemed so barren, and the sea that had never seemed so vast. Sometimes, bathed in tears, she wandered, without ceasing, around the little village of the Catalans, sometimes she stood mute and motionless as a statue beneath the burning sun of the South, gazing toward Marseilles; at other times gazing on the sea, and debating as to whether it were not better to cast herself into the abyss of the ocean, and thus end her woes. It was not want of courage that prevented her putting this resolution into execution; but her religious feelings came to her aid and saved her.
Caderousse was, like Fernand, enrolled in the army, but, being married and eight years older, he was merely sent to the coast fortresses. Old Dantès, who was only sustained by hope, lost all hope at Napoleon's downfall. Five months after he had been separated from his son, and almost at the very hour at which he was arrested, he breathed his last in Mercédès’ arms. Morrel paid the expenses of his funeral and a few small debts the poor old man had contracted.
There was more than benevolence in this action; there was courage; for to assist, even on his death-bed, the father of so dangerous a Bona partist as Dantès was stigmatized as a crime.