"So apparently, the dear little boy got his hands on a bottle of poison. Whenever soone annoys him, he doses them with it. First, it was Monsieur and Mada de Saint-Méran, they must have displeased him sohow. Three drops of his special mixture, and they were done for. Then ca Barrois, old Monsieur Noirtier’s servant, who sotis scolded the brat. Sa dose, sa result. Finally, there was Valentine, whom he was jealous of. Sa amount, sa outco."
"That’s absolutely ridiculous," Château-Renaud scoffed.
"It’s an interesting story though, isn’t it?" Beauchamp said with a grin.
"It’s absurd," Debray insisted.
"You doubt ? Ask my soon-to-be-ex-servant. It was the talk of the entire household."
"And this poison, where is it? What is it?"
"The child hides it."
"But where did he get it?"
"From his mother’s laboratory."
"His mother keeps poisons in her laboratory?"
"How should I know? You’re interrogating like I’m on trial. I’m just repeating what I heard. My informant was so scared he refused to eat anything."
"Unbelievable!"
"Not really, my friend. Rember that child last year on Rue Richelieu who amused himself by sticking pins in his siblings’ ears while they slept? Kids these days are sothing else."
"Co on, Beauchamp," Château-Renaud said. "I’ll bet anything you don’t actually believe a word of what you just told us."
"Say, where’s the Count of Monte Cristo? I don’t see him here."
"He’s exhausted," Debray explained. "Besides, it would be awkward for him to appear in public after being duped by the Cavalcantis. Apparently, they presented him with fake letters of credit and swindled him out of a hundred thousand francs with all this prince nonsense."
"By the way," Beauchamp asked, "how is Morrel doing?"
"I’ve called on him three tis without seeing him once. His sister didn’t seem worried, though. She said she hasn’t seen him in a few days but she’s sure he’s fine."
"Now that I think about it," Beauchamp said, "the Count of Monte Cristo can’t appear in this courtroom anyway."
"Why not?"
"Because he’s part of the case."
"Did he kill soone?"
"No, quite the opposite, soone tried to kill him. Rember, it was while leaving the count’s house that Monsieur de Caderousse was murdered by his friend Benedetto. And you know they found that famous waistcoat in the count’s house, the one with the letter that stopped the marriage contract from being signed. Look, there it is on the prosecutor’s desk, bloodstained and everything. Physical evidence."
"Ah, interesting."
"Quiet, gentlen. The court is coming in. Back to our places."
A hush fell over the hall. The sergeant called his two privileged companions with an emphatic clearing of his throat. Then the bailiff appeared and shouted in that peculiar shrill voice that seed unchanged since ti immorial: "The court, gentlen! The court!"
The judges took their seats amid profound silence. The jury settled into their box. Then Monsieur de Villefort entered, the object of intense curiosity and, it must be said, a certain amount of awe. He sat in his chair and cast a calm glance around the room.
Everyone stared at that grave, severe face. Its expression remained completely composed despite the personal tragedies he’d recently endured. There was sothing almost frightening about a man who seed immune to human emotion.
"Guards," the judge announced, "bring in the accused."
Every eye turned toward the door. The tension in the room was electric.
The door opened, and Benedetto appeared.
Everyone present felt the sa shock. His expression was nothing like what they’d expected. There was no sign of the deep anguish that should accompany a man on trial for his life. His hands, one resting gracefully on his hat, the other tucked into his white waistcoat, were perfectly steady. His eyes were calm, even bright with confidence.
The mont he entered, he scanned the entire assembly. His gaze lingered on the judge, then even longer on the prosecutor.
A court-appointed lawyer stood beside Andrea. The young attorney, with his light hair and anxious expression, seed a hundred tis more nervous than his client, who appeared completely indifferent to the proceedings.
The judge called for the indictnt to be read. It had been written by Villefort himself with devastating precision and eloquence. The docunt was long, and throughout its reading, all eyes kept returning to Andrea, who endured the scrutiny with almost superhuman composure.
Villefort had outdone himself. The cri was painted in vivid, damning colors. The prisoner’s forr life, his transformation, his entire history from childhood, all of it was laid bare with the skill that only cos from a brilliant legal mind deeply versed in human nature. Before the law even passed judgnt, Benedetto was condemned in the court of public opinion.
Andrea seed to pay no attention to the charges piling up against him. Monsieur de Villefort watched him intently, no doubt applying every psychological technique he knew, trying to make the young man break eye contact. But despite the prosecutor’s penetrating stare, Andrea never looked away.
Finally, the reading ended.
"Accused," the judge said, "state your na and surna."
Andrea stood up smoothly.
"Excuse , Mister President," he said in a clear, pleasant voice, "but I can see you’re about to follow the standard questioning procedure. I can’t go along with that. I have my own idea about how to handle this, which I’ll explain shortly. I’d like to make an exception to the usual format. So please, allow to answer in a different order, or I won’t answer at all."
The astonished judge looked at the jury. The jury looked at Villefort. The whole courtroom buzzed with surprise. Only Andrea remained perfectly composed.
"Your age?" the judge tried. "Will you at least answer that?"
"I’ll answer that and everything else, Mister President. Just in my own order."
"Your age?" the judge repeated, his patience wearing thin.
"I’m twenty-one years old. Or rather, I will be in a few days, since I was born on the night of September 27th, 1817."
Monsieur de Villefort, who had been taking notes, suddenly looked up at the ntion of that date.
"Where were you born?" the judge continued.
"In Auteuil, just outside Paris."
Villefort’s head snapped up again. He stared at Benedetto as if seeing a ghost, his face draining of all color. Andrea, anwhile, calmly wiped his lips with a fine linen handkerchief.
"Your profession?"
"First, I was a forger," Andrea answered as casually as if discussing the weather. "Then I beca a thief. And most recently, I’ve beco a murderer."
A wave of outrage swept through the courtroom. Even the judges looked shocked. The jury mbers showed visible disgust at such brazen cynicism from soone who’d posed as a gentleman.
Monsieur de Villefort pressed his hand to his forehead, which had gone from pale to burning red. Then he suddenly stood up, looking around as if disoriented. He needed air.
"Are you looking for sothing, Mister Prosecutor?" Benedetto asked with his most charming smile.
Villefort didn’t answer. He collapsed back into his chair, or rather, threw himself into it.
"Now then, prisoner," the judge said, his voice hard with disapproval, "will you tell us your na? The brutal way you’ve listed your cris demands severe condemnation from this court, both in the na of morality and basic human decency. You seem to consider your criminal history so kind of badge of honor. Perhaps that’s why you’ve delayed revealing your na, you wanted it preceded by all these impressive titles."
"It’s quite wonderful, Mister President, how perfectly you’ve read my thoughts," Benedetto said in his softest, most polite tone. "That’s exactly why I asked to change the order of questioning."
The courtroom had reached peak astonishnt. There was no trace of deception or bravado in the accused’s manner anymore. Everyone could sense that sothing explosive was about to be revealed.
"Well then," the judge demanded, "your na?"
"I can’t tell you my na, since I don’t know it. But I know my father’s na, and I can tell you that."
A sickening dizziness overwheld Villefort. Large drops of acrid sweat fell from his face onto the papers clutched in his trembling hands.
"State your father’s na," the judge ordered.
Not a whisper, not a breath could be heard in the vast courtroom. Everyone waited with bated breath.
"My father," Andrea said calmly, "is the king’s prosecutor."
"The king’s prosecutor?" the judge repeated, stunned. He didn’t notice the agitation spreading across Villefort’s face. "The king’s prosecutor?"
"Yes. And if you want to know his na, I’ll tell you. He’s nad Villefort."
The explosion of shock that had been held back out of respect for the court finally burst forth like thunder. The entire assembly erupted in chaos. The court made no attempt to restrain the audience’s reaction.
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