“What would you have me continue?”
“To give all the information in your power.”
“Tell me on which point you desire information, and I will tell all I know; only,” added he, with a smile, “I warn you I know very little.”
“Have you served under the usurper?”
“I was about to be incorporated in the royal marines when he fell.”
“It is reported your political opinions are extreme,” said Villefort, who had never heard anything of the kind, but was not sorry to make this inquiry, as if it were an accusation.
“My political opinions!” replied Dantès. “Alas! sir, I never had any opinions. I am hardly nineteen; I know nothing; I have no part to play. If I obtain the situation I desire, I shall owe it to M. Morrel. Thus all my opinions—I will not say public, but private, are confined to these three sentiments—I love my father, I respect M. Morrel, and I adore Mercédès. This, sir, is all I can tell you, and you see how uninteresting it is.”
As Dantès spoke, Villefort gazed at his ingenuous and open countenance, and recollected the words of Renée, who, without knowing who the culprit was, had besought his indulgence for him. With the deputy’s knowledge of crime and criminals, every word the young man uttered convinced him more and more of his innocence.
This lad, for he was scarcely a man, simple, natural, eloquent with that eloquence of the heart, never found when sought for, full of affection for everybody, because he was happy, and because happiness renders even the wicked good, extended his affection even to his judge, spite of Villefort’s severe look and stern accent. Dantès seemed full of kindness.
“Pardieu!” said Villefort, “he is a noble fellow! I hope I shall gain Renée’s favour easily by obeying the first command she ever imposed on me. I shall have at least a pressure of the hand in public, and a sweet kiss in private.”
Full of this idea, Villefort’s face became so joyous that, when he turned to Dantès, the latter, who had watched the change on his physiognomy, was smiling also.
“Sir,” said Villefort, “have you any enemies, at least that you know?”
“Enemies?” replied Dantès; “my position is not sufficiently elevated for that. As for my character, that is, perhaps, somewhat too hasty, but I have striven to repress it. I have had ten or twelve sailors under me; and if you question them, they will tell you that they love and respect me, not as a father, for I am too young, but as an elder brother.”
“But instead of enemies you may have excited jealousy. You are about to become captain at nineteen, an elevated post; you are about to marry a pretty girl, who loves you, and these two pieces of good fortune may have excited the envy of some one.”
“You are right; you know men better than I do, and what you say may possibly be the case, I confess; I prefer not knowing them, because then I should be forced to hate them.”
“You are wrong; you should always strive to see clearly around you. You seem a worthy young man; I will depart from the strict line of my duty to aid you in discovering the author of this accusation. Here is the paper; do you know the writing?”
As he spoke, Villefort drew the letter from his pocket, and presented it to Dantès. Dantès read it. A cloud passed over his brow as he said:
“No, monsieur, I do not know the writing, and yet it is tolerably plain. Whoever did it writes well. I am very fortunate,” added he, looking gratefully at Villefort, “to be examined by such a man as you, for this envious person is a real enemy.”
And by the rapid glance that the young man’s eyes shot forth, Villefort saw how much energy lay hid beneath this mildness.
“Now,” said the deputy, “answer me frankly, not as a prisoner to a judge, but as one man to another who takes an interest in him, what truth is there in the accusation contained in this anonymous letter?”
And Villefort threw disdainfully on his bureau the letter Dantès had just given back to him.
“None at all. I will tell you the real facts. I swear by my honour as a sailor, by my love for Mercédès, by the life of my father———”
“Speak, monsieur,” said Villefort. Then, internally: “If Renée could see me, I hope she would be satisfied, and would no longer call me a decapitator.”
“Well, when we quitted Naples, Captain Leclere was attacked with a brain fever. As we had no doctor on board, and he was so anxious to arrive at Elba, that he would not touch at any other port, his disorder rose to such a height, that at the end of the third day, feeling he was dying, he called me to him. ‘My dear Dantès,’ said he, ‘swear to perform what I am going to tell you, for it is a matter of the deepest importance.’
“‘I swear, captain,’ replied I.
“‘Well, as after my death the command devolves on you as mate, assume the command, and bear up for the Isle of Elba, disembark at Porto-Ferrajo, ask for the grand-marshal, give him this letter, perhaps they will give you another letter, and charge you with a commission. You will accomplish what I was to have done, and derive all the honour and profit from it.’
“‘I will do it, captain; but, perhaps, I shall not be admitted to the grand-marshal’s presence as easily as you expect?’
“‘Here is a ring that will obtain audience of him, and remove every difficulty,’ said the captain.
“At these words he gave me a ring. It was time: two hours after he was delirious; the next day he died.”
“And what did you do then?”
“What I ought to have done, and what every one would have done in my place. Everywhere the last requests of a dying man are sacred; but amongst sailors the last requests of his superior are commands. I sailed for the Isle of Elba, where I arrived the next day; I ordered everybody to remain on board, and went on shore alone. As I had expected, I found some difficulty in obtaining access to the grand-marshal; but I sent the ring I had received from the captain to him, and was instantly admitted. He questioned me concerning Captain Leclere’s death; and, as the latter had told me, gave me a letter to carry on to a person in Paris. I undertook it because it was what my captain had bade me do. I landed here, regulated the affairs of the vessel, and hastened to visit my affianced bride, whom I found more lovely than ever. Thanks to M. Morrel, all the forms were got over; in a word, I was, as I told you, at my marriage-feast, and I should have been married in an hour, and tomorrow I intended to start for Paris.”
“Ah!” said Villefort, “this seems to me the truth. If you have been culpable, it was imprudence, and this imprudence was legitimised by the orders of your captain. Give up this letter you have brought from Elba, and pass your word you will appear should you be required, and go and rejoin your friends.”
“I am free, then, sir?” cried Dantès joyfully.
“Yes; but first give me this letter.”
“You have it already; for it was taken from me with some others which I see in that packet.”
“Stop a moment,” said the deputy, as Dantès took his hat and gloves. “To whom is it addressed?”
“To Monsieur Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, Paris.”
Had a thunderbolt fallen into the room, Villefort could not have been more stupefied. He sank into his seat, and hastily turning over the packet, drew forth the fatal letter, at which he glanced with an expression of terror.
“M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, No. 13,” murmured he, growing still paler.
“Yes,” said Dantès; “do you then know him?”
“No,” replied Villefort; “a faithful servant of the king does not know conspirators.”
“It is a conspiracy, then?” asked Dantès, who, after believing