Exclamations, insults directed at Benedetto, who remained perfectly calm, energetic gestures, movent from the guards, jeers from the lowest elents in the crowd who always rose to the surface during any disturbance, all of this continued for five full minutes before the bailiffs and magistrates could restore order.
In the midst of the tumult, the judge’s voice rang out, "Are you mocking justice, accused? How dare you set such an example of disorder!"
Several people rushed to Monsieur de Villefort, who sat half-collapsed in his chair. They offered consolation, encouragent, and expressions of support and sympathy.
Order was gradually restored, though a few people still moved about, whispering to one another. Soone ntioned that a lady had just fainted. They’d revived her with slling salts.
During the chaotic scene, Andrea had turned his smiling face toward the assembly. Now, leaning with one hand on the oak railing of the dock in the most graceful pose imaginable, he said: "Gentlen, I assure you I had no intention of insulting the court or causing a disturbance before this honorable assembly. They ask my age, I tell them. They ask where I was born, I answer. They ask my na, and I can’t give it because my parents abandoned . But though I can’t give my own na, having never been given one, I can tell you my father’s na. I repeat: my father is nad Monsieur de Villefort, and I’m ready to prove it."
There was such energy, such conviction, such sincerity in the young man’s manner that it silenced the crowd. All eyes turned montarily to the prosecutor, who sat motionless as a corpse struck by lightning.
"Gentlen," Andrea continued, his voice and manner commanding silence, "I owe you proof and explanation of what I’ve said."
"But," the irritated judge interjected, "you called yourself Benedetto. You declared yourself an orphan and claid Corsica as your holand."
"I said whatever I pleased to ensure that this solemn declaration wouldn’t be suppressed, which it certainly would have been otherwise. I repeat: I was born in Auteuil on the night of September 27th, 1817, and I am the son of the prosecutor, Monsieur de Villefort. Do you want more details? I’ll give them to you. I was born at Number 28, Rue de la Fontaine, in a room with red damask wallpaper. My father took in his arms, told my mother I was dead, wrapped in a cloth marked with the initials H and N, carried into a garden, and buried alive."
A collective shudder ran through the assembly. They could see the prisoner’s confidence growing in direct proportion to Monsieur de Villefort’s terror.
"How do you know all these details?" the judge demanded.
"I’ll tell you, Mister President. A man who had sworn vengeance against my father had been watching for his chance to kill him. That night, he’d hidden himself in the garden where my father buried . He was concealed in the bushes. He saw my father bury sothing in the ground, so he stabbed him. Then, thinking the buried object might be treasure, he dug it up and found , still alive. This man took to an orphanage, where I was registered as Number 37. Three months later, a woman traveled from Rogliano to Paris to claim as her son and take away. So you see, though I was born in Paris, I was raised in Corsica."
A mont of silence followed, so profound that the hall might have been empty.
"Continue," the judge said quietly.
"Certainly. I might have lived happily with those good people who loved , but my twisted nature won out over the virtues my adoptive mother tried to teach . I grew more wicked until I turned to cri. One day, when I cursed fate for making so evil, my adoptive father said to , ’Don’t blasphe, unhappy child. The cri is your father’s, not yours, your father, who condemned you to hell if you died and to misery if you sohow survived.’ After that, I stopped blaming God and started cursing my father instead. That’s why I’ve spoken the words you condemn for. That’s why I’ve horrified this entire assembly. If I’ve committed an additional cri by telling this story, then punish . But if you’ll acknowledge that my fate has been sad, bitter, and tragic from the day I was born, then have pity on ."
"But your mother?" the judge asked. "What about her?"
"My mother thought I was dead. She’s not guilty. I never wanted to know her na, and I still don’t."
Just then, a piercing cry, ending in a sob, burst from the center of the crowd. The sa lady who had fainted earlier now fell into violent hysterics. She was carried out of the hall. As she was removed, the thick veil covering her face fell away.
It was Mada Danglars.
Despite his shattered nerves and the chaos in his mind, Villefort rose to his feet when he saw her.
"The proof!" the judge demanded. "Rember, these horrible accusations must be supported by the clearest evidence!"
"The proof?" Benedetto laughed. "You want proof?"
"Yes!"
"Very well. Look at Monsieur de Villefort, and then ask for proof."
Everyone turned toward the prosecutor. Unable to bear the weight of so many eyes fixed on him alone, Villefort staggered forward into the center of the court. His hair was disheveled, his face marked by his own fingernails where he’d clawed at it in anguish.
The entire assembly let out a long murmur of astonishnt.
"Father," Benedetto said, "they’re asking for proof. Do you want to provide it?"
"No, no, it’s useless," Villefort stamred in a hoarse voice. "Useless."
"How is it useless?" the judge cried. "What do you an?"
"I an that I cannot fight against this crushing weight that’s destroying . Gentlen, I know I’m in the hands of an avenging God! We don’t need proof. Everything this young man has said is true."
A dull, heavy silence, like the one that precedes a natural disaster, filled the courtroom. Everyone sat in dismay.
"What, Monsieur de Villefort?" the judge exclaid. "Are you suffering from so hallucination? Have you lost your senses? This strange, unexpected, terrible accusation has disordered your mind. Please, collect yourself!"
The prosecutor hung his head. His teeth chattered as if he had a violent fever, yet his face was deathly pale.
"I’m perfectly sane, sir," he said. "My body may be suffering, as you can see, but my mind is clear. I admit my guilt in everything this young man has accused of. From this mont, I place myself under the authority of whoever will succeed as prosecutor."
As he spoke these words in a hoarse, choking voice, he staggered toward the door, which a bailiff chanically opened for him.
The entire assembly sat in stunned silence. The revelation and confession had produced a catastrophe completely different from what Paris had been expecting.
"Well," Beauchamp finally said, "let them tell now that drama is unrealistic!"
"Good God!" Château-Renaud muttered. "I’d rather end my career like Monsieur de Morcerf did. A pistol shot seems downright pleasant compared to this disaster."
"And at least it actually kills you," Beauchamp added darkly.
"To think," Debray said in a hollow voice, "I almost married his daughter."
"She was fortunate to die, poor girl."
"The session is adjourned, gentlen," the judge announced. "Further investigation will be conducted, and the case will be tried in the next session by a different magistrate."
As for Andrea, who remained calm and more interesting than ever, he left the hall escorted by guards who couldn’t help but treat him with a certain involuntary respect.
"Well," Debray asked the sergeant, slipping a gold coin into his hand, "what do you think of all this?"
The sergeant pocketed the money and shrugged. "There will be extenuating circumstances," he replied.
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