"Where should I begin, your excellency?" Bertuccio asked.
"Wherever you wish," Monte Cristo replied. "I know nothing about your story."
"I thought Father Busoni had told you."
"Perhaps so details, but that was seven or eight years ago. I’ve forgotten most of it."
"Then I can speak freely without boring you."
"Go ahead, Bertuccio. You’ll be better entertainnt than the evening news."
"The story begins in 1815."
"Ah," Monte Cristo said, "that’s quite a long ti ago."
"Yes, sir, but I rember everything as clearly as if it happened yesterday. I had a brother, an older brother who served in the military under Napoleon. He’d risen to lieutenant in a regint made up entirely of n from Corsica, my holand. This brother was my only family. We beca orphans when I was five and he was eighteen. He raised like his own son, and in 1814, he got married.
When Napoleon returned from exile, my brother imdiately rejoined the army. He was wounded at the Battle of Waterloo and retreated with the remaining forces."
"That’s just the history of Napoleon’s Hundred Days reign, Bertuccio," the count interrupted. "Unless I’m mistaken, it’s already been written about extensively."
"Forgive , excellency, but these details are necessary. You promised to be patient."
"Go on. I’ll keep my word."
"One day, we received a letter. I should ntion that we lived in a small village called Rogliano, at the edge of Corsica. The letter was from my brother. He told us the army had been disbanded and that he was returning ho, traveling through several towns. If I had any money, he asked to leave it for him at an inn in the city of Nîs, where I had business connections."
"Smuggling business?" Monte Cristo asked.
"Well, your excellency, everyone has to make a living sohow."
"True enough. Continue."
"I loved my brother deeply, as I told you, so I decided not to just send the money, I would bring it to him myself. I had a thousand francs. I left five hundred with Assunta, my sister-in-law, and took the other five hundred to Nîs. It was easy to arrange since I had my boat and cargo to transport anyway. But after loading our shipnt, the wind turned against us. We spent four or five days unable to enter the river. Finally, we made it through and reached the town of Arles. I left the boat and took the road to Nîs on foot."
"Now we’re getting to the actual story?"
"Yes, your excellency. Excuse , but as you’ll see, I’m only telling you what’s absolutely necessary. At that ti, terrible massacres were happening in southern France. Three n, gang leaders nad Trestaillon, Truphemy, and Graffan, were publicly murdering everyone they suspected of supporting Napoleon. You’ve probably heard of these massacres?"
"Vaguely. I was far from France during that period. Go on."
"When I entered Nîs, I literally walked through blood. Everywhere you looked, there were dead bodies and gangs of killers who murdered, robbed, and burned buildings. Seeing this slaughter and destruction terrified , not for myself, since I was just a simple Corsican fisherman with nothing to fear. Actually, that chaos was good for us smugglers. But my brother was a soldier who’d served Napoleon, returning with his uniform and military insignia. He had everything to fear.
I rushed to the innkeeper. My worst fears had co true. My brother had arrived the night before and been murdered right at the door of the inn where he’d sought shelter. I did everything I could to discover who killed him, but no one dared tell their nas, these n were too feared. Then I thought of French justice, which I’d heard so much about, claiming to fear nothing. So I went to the royal prosecutor."
"And this prosecutor’s na was Villefort?" Monte Cristo asked casually.
"Yes, your excellency. He’d co from Marseilles, where he’d been a deputy prosecutor. His ambition had earned him a promotion, and people said he was one of the first to inform the governnt about Napoleon’s escape from exile."
"So you went to him?"
"I said, ’Sir, my brother was murdered yesterday in the streets of Nîs. I don’t know who did it, but it’s your duty to find out. You represent justice here, and justice must avenge those it failed to protect.’
’Who was your brother?’ he asked.
’A lieutenant in the Corsican battalion.’
’A soldier of the usurper Napoleon, then?’
’A soldier of the French army,’ I corrected.
’Well,’ he replied, ’he who lives by the sword dies by the sword.’
’You’re wrong, sir,’ I said. ’He died by a dagger.’
’What do you want to do?’ the magistrate asked.
’I already told you, avenge him.’
’Against whom?’
’Against his murderers.’
’How should I know who they are?’
’Order a search for them.’
’Your brother got involved in a fight and was killed in a duel. All these old soldiers commit excesses that were tolerated when Napoleon ruled, but aren’t allowed now. The people here don’t like soldiers with such disorderly conduct.’
’Sir,’ I said, ’it’s not for myself that I beg your help. I would grieve for him or avenge him myself. But my poor brother had a wife, and if anything happens to , the poor woman will starve. His military pay was all that kept her fed. Please, try to get a small governnt pension for her.’
’Every revolution has its casualties,’ Monsieur Villefort said. ’Your brother was a victim of this one. It’s a misfortune, but the governnt owes nothing to his family. If we judged by all the revenge Napoleon’s followers took on the king’s supporters when they held power, your brother would probably be condemned to death today. What happened is quite natural, it’s the law of retaliation.’
’What?’ I cried. ’You, a magistrate, speak to like this?’
’All these Corsicans are insane, upon my honor,’ Villefort replied. ’They think their countryman is still emperor. You’ve mistaken the ti. You should have told this two months ago. It’s too late now. Leave at once, or I’ll have you thrown out.’
I stared at him for a mont to see if there was any hope in pleading further. But he was like stone. I stepped closer and said in a low voice, ’Well, since you know Corsicans so well, you know we always keep our word. You think it was justified to kill my brother, who supported Napoleon, because you support the king. Well, I also supported Napoleon, and I declare one thing to you: I will kill you. From this mont, I declare a blood vendetta against you. Protect yourself as well as you can, because the next ti we et will be your last hour.’ Before he could recover from his surprise, I opened the door and left."
"Well, well," Monte Cristo said, "such an innocent-looking person as yourself doing such things, Bertuccio, and to a royal prosecutor at that! But did he understand what that terrible word ’vendetta’ ant?"
"He understood perfectly. From that mont, he locked himself in his house and never went out unguarded, searching everywhere for . Fortunately, I was so well hidden that he couldn’t find . Then he beca frightened and didn’t dare stay in Nîs any longer. He requested a transfer, and since he had real influence, he was assigned to Versailles. But as you know, a Corsican who has sworn vengeance doesn’t care about distance. His carriage, fast as it was, was never more than half a day’s journey ahead of , following on foot.
The important thing wasn’t just to kill him, I had a hundred opportunities for that, but to kill him without being discovered, or at least without being arrested. I no longer belonged to myself alone; I had my sister-in-law to protect and provide for. For three months I watched Villefort. For three months, he didn’t take a single step outside without following him.
Eventually, I discovered that he went secretly to the suburb of Auteuil. I followed him there and saw him enter the house where we are now. But instead of using the main entrance facing the street, he ca on horseback or by carriage, left it at a small inn, and entered through the gate you see there."
Monte Cristo nodded to show he could make out the door in the darkness.
"Since I had nothing more to do at Versailles, I went to Auteuil and gathered all the information I could. If I wanted to surprise him, this was clearly the place to wait. The house belonged to Monsieur de Saint-Méran, Villefort’s father-in-law, who lived in Marseilles. The country house was useless to him, and it was supposedly rented to a young widow known only as ’the baroness.’"
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