The Count of Monte Cristo

The Spectre of the Château d’If

“But what have I done to you?” exclaimed Villefort, whose mind was balancing between reason and insanity, in that cloud which is neither a dream nor reality; “what have I done to you? Tell me, then! Speak!” “You condemned me to a horrible, tedious death; you killed my father; you deprived me of liberty, of love, and happiness.” “Who are you, then? Who are you?” “I am the spectre of a wretch you buried in the dungeons of the Château d’If. God gave that spectre the form of the Count of Monte Cristo when he at length issued from his tomb, enriched him with gold and diamonds, and led him to you!” “Ah, I recognize you—I recognize you!” exclaimed the king’s attorney; “you are——” “I am Edmond Dantès!” “You are Edmond Dantès,” cried Villefort, seizing the count by the wrist; “then come here!”

A Horrific Revelation

And up the stairs he dragged Monte Cristo; who, ignorant of what had happened, followed him in astonishment, foreseeing some new catastrophe. “There, Edmond Dantès!” he said, pointing to the bodies of his wife and child, “see, are you well avenged?” Monte Cristo became pale at this horrible sight; he felt that he had passed beyond the bounds of vengeance, and that he could no longer say, “God is for and with me.” With an expression of indescribable anguish he threw himself upon the body of the child, reopened its eyes, felt its pulse, and then rushed with him into Valentine’s room, of which he double-locked the door. “My child,” cried Villefort, “he carries away the body of my child! Oh, curses, woe, death to you!” He tried to follow Monte Cristo, but as though in a dream he was transfixed to the spot—his eyes glared as though they were starting through the sockets; he griped the flesh on his chest until his nails were stained with blood; the veins of his temples swelled and boiled as though they would burst their narrow boundary and deluge his brain with living fire. This lasted several minutes, until the frightful overturn of reason was accomplished; then uttering a loud cry followed by a burst of laughter, he rushed down the stairs.

The Limits of Vengeance

A quarter of an hour afterwards the door of Valentine’s room opened, and Monte Cristo reappeared. Pale, with a dull eye and heavy heart, all the noble features of that face, usually so calm and serene, were overcast by grief. In his arms he held the child, whom no skill had been able to recall to life. Bending on one knee, he placed it reverently by the side of its mother, with its head upon her breast. Then, rising, he went out, and meeting a servant on the stairs, he asked: “Where is M. de Villefort?” The servant, instead of answering, pointed to the garden. Monte Cristo ran down the steps and, advancing towards the spot designated, beheld Villefort, encircled by his servants, with a spade in his hand, and digging the earth with fury. “It is not here!” he cried. “It is not here!” And then he moved farther on and began again to dig. Monte Cristo approached him and said in a low voice, with an expression almost humble: “Sir, you have indeed lost a son; but——” Villefort interrupted him; he had neither listened nor heard. “Oh, I will find it,” he cried; “you may pretend he is not here, but I will find him, though I dig forever!” Monte Cristo drew back in horror. “Oh,” he said, “he is mad!” And as though he feared that the walls of the accursed house would crumble around him, he rushed into the street, for the first time doubting whether he had the right to do as he had done. “Oh, enough of this—enough of this,” he cried; “let me save the last.”

Villefort’s Descent into Madness

The scene at the house revealed the full horror of Monte Cristo’s vengeance. Villefort, who had prided himself on his inflexible justice, now found himself facing the complete destruction of everything he held dear. His wife, driven to poison herself and their child rather than face his judgment, had enacted a terrible revenge. When Monte Cristo showed him the bodies, asking “are you well avenged?”, the magistrate’s remaining sanity shattered. He could not comprehend the scope of what had happened—that his own rigid moralism had driven his wife to such desperation. His attempts to dig in the garden for a phantom child, his incoherent ravings about finding what was not there, showed that his mind had completely broken under the weight of his losses. The man who had once condemned others with such certainty now wandered in hopeless confusion, his reason utterly destroyed.