The Count of Monte Cristo

Villefort’s Departure

Despite the density of the crowd at the Palais, M. de Villefort saw it part before him. Great afflictions inspire awe even in the worst times, and crowds generally sympathize with those suffering catastrophic misfortune. Even criminals are rarely insulted during trial. Though he had acknowledged his guilt, Villefort was protected by his grief. There are situations that men understand by instinct but which reason cannot explain—the greatest poet is he who gives utterance to the most natural and vehement outburst of sorrow. When the sufferer is sincere, listeners rightly regard his cry as sublime.

A Desperate Plan

It would be difficult to describe the state of stupor in which Villefort left the Palais. Every pulse beat with feverish excitement, every nerve was strained, every vein swollen. His body seemed to suffer distinctly from each part, multiplying his agony a thousand-fold. He made his way along the corridors through force of habit and threw aside his magisterial robe, not from deference to etiquette but because it was an unbearable burden—a veritable garb of Nessus, insatiate in torture. Having staggered as far as the Rue Dauphine, he perceived his carriage, awoke his sleeping coachman, threw himself on the cushions, and pointed towards the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. All the weight of his fallen fortune seemed suddenly to crush him. God was still in his heart. “God—God!” he murmured, not knowing what he said. Behind the event that had overwhelmed him, he saw the hand of God.

The Return Home

The carriage rolled rapidly onward. While turning restlessly on the cushions, Villefort felt something press against him—a fan which Madame de Villefort had left in the carriage. This awakened a recollection that darted through his mind like lightning. He thought of his wife. During the last hour his own crime had alone been presented to his mind; now another object, not less terrible, suddenly presented itself. His wife! He had just acted the inexorable judge with her, had condemned her to death, and she—a poor, weak woman without help or the power to defend herself—might at that very moment be preparing to die! An hour had elapsed since her condemnation; she was likely recalling all her crimes to memory, asking pardon for her sins, perhaps even writing a letter imploring forgiveness from her virtuous husband—a forgiveness she was purchasing with her death. “That woman became criminal only from associating with me! I carried the infection of crime with me, and she has caught it as she would the typhus fever, the cholera, the plague! And yet I have punished her—‘Repent and die!’ No, she must not die; she shall live, and with me. We will flee from Paris and go as far as the earth reaches.”

The Locked Door

The carriage stopped at the door of the house. Villefort leaped out, saw that his servants were surprised at his early return, but could read no other expression on their features. Neither spoke to him; they merely stood aside to let him pass. As he passed by M. Noirtier’s room, he perceived two figures through the half-open door, but anxiety carried him on further. He ascended the stairs to his wife’s room, closed the landing door, and said, “No one must disturb us.” He approached the door, touched the crystal handle, which yielded. “Not locked,” he cried. He entered the little room in which Edward slept, but the child was not there. “Not here,” he said; “doubtless she is in her bedroom.” He rushed towards the door, found it bolted, and stopped, shuddering. “Héloïse!” he cried. He fancied he heard the sound of a piece of furniture being removed. He repeated the name, but the door remained closed. Villefort burst it open with a violent blow.

The Poisoned Wife

At the entrance of the room which led to her boudoir, Madame de Villefort was standing erect, pale, her features contracted, and her eyes glaring horribly. “Héloïse, Héloïse! What is the matter? Speak!” The young woman extended her stiff white hands towards him. “It is done, monsieur,” she said with a rattling noise which seemed to tear her throat. “What more do you want?” and she fell full length on the floor. Villefort ran to her and seized her hand, which convulsively clasped a crystal bottle with a golden stopper. Madame de Villefort was dead. Villefort, maddened with horror, stepped back to the threshold of the door, fixing his eyes on the corpse. “My son! Where is my son? Edward, Edward!” The name was pronounced in such a tone of anguish that the servants ran up. “Where is my son? Let him be removed from the house, that he may not see——” “Master Edward is not downstairs, sir,” replied the valet. “Then he must be playing in the garden; go and see.” “No, sir; Madame de Villefort sent for him half an hour ago; he went into her room, and has not been downstairs since.”