At half-past noon, Mada Danglars ordered her horses and left ho in her carriage. She headed toward the wealthy district on the Left Bank, taking a winding route through narrow streets before stopping at a covered passage.
She stepped out, dressed simply, the kind of understated elegance a woman of taste would wear for morning errands. After walking through the passage, she hailed a cab and gave the driver an address in the legal district.
Once seated inside, she pulled a thick black veil from her pocket and tied it over her straw hat. Checking herself in a small compact mirror, she was satisfied. Only her pale complexion and bright eyes were visible now.
The cab crossed the bridge and entered the street she’d requested. She paid the driver as soon as they arrived, then quickly climbed the courthouse steps.
The palace of justice was bustling that morning, crowded with lawyers and officials absorbed in their own business. No one paid attention to just another woman visiting her attorney. Mada Danglars crossed the main hall unnoticed.
There was a crowd waiting in the prosecutor’s antechamber, but she didn’t even need to give her na. The mont she appeared, the doorkeeper stood up and asked if she was the person who had an appointnt. When she nodded, he led her through a private corridor to the prosecutor’s office.
The magistrate sat at his desk, writing, his back to the door. He didn’t turn when it opened or when the doorkeeper announced, "Walk in, mada," before closing the door behind her. But the instant the man’s footsteps faded away, the prosecutor jumped up. He bolted the door, drew the curtains, and checked every corner of the room. Only when he was certain no one could see or hear them did he relax.
"Thank you, mada," he said. "Thank you for being punctual." He offered her a chair.
Mada Danglars accepted it gratefully. Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely breathe.
"It’s been a long ti, mada," the prosecutor said, turning his chair to face her directly. "It’s been a long ti since we spoke alone. I regret that we et now only to discuss sothing painful."
"Nevertheless, sir, I ca when you called," she replied. "Though I assure you, this conversation will be far more painful for than for you."
Villefort smiled bitterly. "Is it true then," he said, almost talking to himself, "that every action we take leaves a mark? So bright, so dark, trailing behind us through life like footprints in sand? And for so many of us, those paths are traced in tears."
"Sir," Mada Danglars said, her voice shaking, "surely you can understand how I feel. Please, spare . When I look at this room where so many guilty people have stood trembling with sha, when I look at that chair where I now sit, also trembling, I need all my willpower to convince myself that I’m not so terrible criminal and you’re not my judge."
Villefort lowered his head and sighed. "And I feel that my place is not in the judge’s seat, but in the defendant’s chair."
"You?" Mada Danglars said, surprised.
"Yes. ."
"I think you’re exaggerating, sir," she said, her beautiful eyes flashing briefly. "The paths you ntioned, all young n with passionate natures have walked them. Yes, we feel remorse after indulging our desires, but what do you n really have to fear? Society forgives you. Scandal even elevates your status."
"Mada," Villefort replied, "you know I’m not a hypocrite, or at least, I never lie without reason. If my face seems severe, it’s because misfortunes have clouded it. If my heart seems stone, it’s because it had to harden to survive the blows it’s received. I wasn’t always like this. I wasn’t like this on the night of our engagent party, when we all sat around that table in Marseilles. But everything has changed since then. I’ve learned to face difficulties head-on, to crush anyone who interferes with my path, whether deliberately or by accident."
He paused, his expression darkening. "Usually, what we desire most is exactly what others try to keep from us. Most of our mistakes co disguised as necessity. Only after we’ve acted, in a mont of excitent, delirium, or fear, do we realize we could have avoided it. The solution we couldn’t see in our blindness suddenly seems simple, and we wonder why we didn’t choose differently."
He looked at her intently. "But won are rarely tornted by such remorse. Your decisions aren’t truly your own. Your misfortunes are imposed upon you, and your faults are usually the result of others’ cris."
"In any case, sir," Mada Danglars said, "even if the fault were entirely mine, I received severe punishnt for it last night."
"Poor thing," Villefort said, pressing her hand. "It was too much for you to bear. You were overwheld twice, and yet-"
"And yet what?"
"I must tell you sothing. Gather your courage, because you haven’t heard everything yet."
"Ah," Mada Danglars gasped, alard. "What more is there?"
"You’re only thinking about the past, and yes, it’s terrible enough. But imagine a future even darker, frightening, perhaps even bloody."
The baroness knew how calm Villefort normally was. His current agitation terrified her so much that she opened her mouth to scream, but no sound ca out.
"How has this terrible past been dug up?" Villefort cried. "How has it escaped from the grave, from the deepest recesses of our hearts where we buried it? Why does it visit us now like a ghost, draining the color from our faces and burning us with sha?"
"It must be... chance," Hermine whispered.
"Chance?" Villefort repeated. "No, mada. There’s no such thing as chance."
"But wasn’t it by chance that the Count of Monte Cristo bought that house? By chance that he had the earth dug up? By chance that our unfortunate child was discovered under the trees? That poor innocent baby of mine, whom I never even kissed, though I wept so many tears for them. My heart broke when the count ntioned that precious discovery beneath the flowers."
"That’s exactly it, that’s the terrible news I have to tell you," Villefort said in a hollow voice. "Nothing was found beneath the flowers. There was no child discovered. You mustn’t weep, you must tremble!"
"What do you an?" Mada Danglars asked, shuddering.
"I an that when Monte Cristo dug beneath those trees, he found no skeleton, no box, because neither of them was there!"
"Not there?" Mada Danglars repeated, her eyes wide with alarm. "Not there?" she said again, as if trying to make herself understand.
"No," Villefort said, burying his face in his hands. "No, a hundred tis no!"
"Then you didn’t bury the child there? Why did you lie to ? Where did you put them? Tell !"
"Listen to ," he said urgently. "Listen, and you’ll pity . I’ve carried this burden alone for twenty years without sharing even a piece of it with you."
"You’re frightening . But speak, I’m listening."
"You rember that terrible night. You were half-dying in that red bedroom while I waited, hardly less agitated than you, for the birth. The child was born and given to , motionless, breathless and silent. We thought it was dead."
Mada Danglars jerked as if to spring from her chair, but Villefort held up his hands, pleading for her attention.
"We thought it was dead," he repeated. "I placed it in a wooden box ant to serve as a coffin. I went down to the garden, dug a hole, and quickly buried it. I’d barely covered it with earth when I saw a shadow rise up. At the sa mont, there was a flash of steel. I felt pain. I tried to cry out, but an icy chill ran through and choked my voice. I collapsed, certain I was dying."
He took a shaky breath. "I’ll never forget your courage. When I regained consciousness and dragged myself to the stairs, you ca to et despite being near death yourself. We had to stay silent about the catastrophe. You found the strength to return to the house with your nurse’s help. We claid my wound ca from a duel. Miraculously, our secret remained safe.
I was taken to Versailles. For three months I fought death. Finally, when I seed to cling to life, they sent south to recover. Four n carried all the way, and Mada de Villefort followed in her carriage. My recovery took six months total. I never heard your na ntioned, and I didn’t dare ask about you. When I returned to Paris, I learned you’d married Monsieur Danglars.
What haunted my thoughts from the mont consciousness returned? Always the sa thing, the child’s corpse, appearing in my dreams every night, rising from the earth, hovering over the grave with nacing looks. As soon as I returned to Paris, I made inquiries. The house hadn’t been occupied since we left, but it had just been leased for nine years. I found the tenant and pretended I didn’t want my wife’s family property in strangers’ hands. I offered to pay them to cancel the lease. They demanded 6,000 francs. I would have paid 10,000, even 20,000. I had cash with . I made them sign the cancellation papers, and as soon as I had what I wanted, I rode straight to the house.
No one had entered since I’d left. It was five in the afternoon. I went up to the red room and waited for darkness. All the thoughts that had tornted during that year of agony ca rushing back with double force. The Corsican who’d sworn revenge against , who’d followed from the south to Paris, who’d hidden in the garden and stabbed , he’d seen dig the grave, seen bury the child. He might learn your identity. Wouldn’t he make you pay for keeping this terrible secret? Wouldn’t that be sweet revenge when he realized his dagger hadn’t killed ?"
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