murmured, not knowing what he said, — "God — God!" Behind the event
that had overwhelmed him he saw the hand of God. The carriage
rolled rapidly onward. Villefort, while turning restlessly on the
cushions, felt something press against him. He put out his hand to
remove the object; it was a fan which Madame de Villefort had left
in the carriage; this fan awakened a recollection which darted
through his mind like lightning. He thought of his wife.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, as though a redhot iron were piercing his
heart. 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, he had condemned her to death, and she, crushed by
remorse, struck with terror, covered with the shame inspired by the
eloquence of his irreproachable virtue, — she, a poor, weak woman,
without help or the power of defending herself against his absolute
and supreme will, — she might at that very moment, perhaps, be
preparing to die! An hour had elapsed since her condemnation; at
that moment, doubtless, she was recalling all her crimes to her
memory; she was asking pardon for her sins; perhaps she was even
writing a letter imploring forgiveness from her virtuous husband —
a forgiveness she was purchasing with her death! Villefort again
groaned with anguish and despair. "Ah," he exclaimed, "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
— I have dared to tell her — I have — `Repent and die!' But no, she
must not die; she shall live, and with me. We will flee from Paris
and go as far as the earth reaches. I told her of the scaffold; oh,
heavens, I forgot that it awaits me also! How could I pronounce
that word? Yes, we will fly; I will confess all to her, — I will
tell her daily that I also have committed a crime! — Oh, what antell her daily that I also have committed a crime! — Oh, what an
alliance — the tiger and the serpent; worthy wife of such as I am!
She must live that my infamy may diminish hers." And Villefort
dashed open the window in front of the carriage.
"Faster, faster!" he cried, in a tone which electrified the
coachman. The horses, impelled by fear, flew towards the house.
"Yes, yes," repeated Villefort, as he approached his home —
"yes, that woman must live; she must repent, and educate my son,
the sole survivor, with the exception of the indestructible old
man, of the wreck of my house. She loves him; it was for his sake
she has committed these crimes. We ought never to despair of
softening the heart of a mother who loves her child. She will
repent, and no one will know that she has been guilty. The events
which have taken place in my house, though they now occupy the
public mind, will be forgotten in time, or if, indeed, a few
enemies should persist in remembering them, why then I will add
them to my list of crimes. What will it signify if one, two, or
three more are added? My wife and child shall escape from this
gulf, carrying treasures with them; she will live and may yet be
happy, since her child, in whom all her love is centred, will be
with her. I shall have performed a good action, and my heart will
be lighter." And the procureur breathed more freely than he had
done for some time.
The carriage stopped at the door of the house. Villefort leaped
out of the carriage, and saw that his servants were surprised at
his early return; he could read no other expression on their
features. Neither of them spoke to him; they merely stood aside to
let him pass by, as usual, nothing more. As he passed by M.
Noirtier's room, he perceived two figures through the half-open
door; but he experienced no curiosity to know who was visiting his
father: anxiety carried him on further.
"Come," he said, as he ascended the stairs leading to his wife's
room, "nothing is changed here." He then closed the door of theroom, "nothing is changed here." He then closed the door of the
landing. "No one must disturb us," he said; "I must speak freely to
her, accuse myself, and say" — he approached the door, touched the
crystal handle, which yielded to his hand. "Not locked," he cried;
"that is well." And he entered the little room in which Edward
slept; for though the child went to school during the day, his
mother could not allow him to be separated from her at night. With
a single glance Villefort's eye ran through the room. "Not here,"
he said; "doubtless she is in her bedroom." He rushed towards the
door, found it bolted, and stopped, shuddering. "Heloise!" he
cried. He fancied he heard the sound of a piece of furniture being
removed. "Heloise!" he repeated.
"Who is there?" answered the voice of her he sought. He thought
that voice more feeble than usual.
"Open the door!" cried Villefort. "Open; it is I." But
notwithstanding this request, notwithstanding the tone of anguish
in which it was uttered, the door remained closed. Villefort burst
it open with a violent blow. 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. "Heloise,
Heloise!" he said, "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
threshhold of the door, fixing his eyes on the corpse: "My son!" he
exclaimed suddenly, "where is my son? — Edward, Edward!" and he
rushed out of the room, still crying, "Edward, Edward!" The name
was pronounced in such a tone of anguish that the servants ran
up.
"Where is my son?" asked Villefort; "let him be removed from the
house, that he may not see" —