deposit might contain some treasure he turned up the ground, and
found me still living. The man carried me to the foundling asylum,
where I was registered under the number 37. Three months
afterwards, a woman travelled from Rogliano to Paris to fetch me,
and having claimed me as her son, carried me away. Thus, you see,
though born in Paris, I was brought up in Corsica."
There was a moment's silence, during which one could have
fancied the hall empty, so profound was the stillness. "Proceed,"
said the president.
"Certainly, I might have lived happily amongst those good
people, who adored me, but my perverse disposition prevailed over
the virtues which my adopted mother endeavored to instil into my
heart. I increased in wickedness till I committed crime. One day
when I cursed providence for making me so wicked, and ordaining me
to such a fate, my adopted father said to me, `Do not blaspheme,
unhappy child, the crime is that of your father, not yours, — of
your father, who consigned you to hell if you died, and to misery
if a miracle preserved you alive.' After that I ceased to
blaspheme, but I cursed my father. That is why I have uttered the
words for which you blame me; that is why I have filled this whole
assembly with horror. If I have committed an additional crime,
punish me, but if you will allow that ever since the day of my
birth my fate has been sad, bitter, and lamentable, then pity
me."
"But your mother?" asked the president.
"My mother thought me dead; she is not guilty. I did not even
wish to know her name, nor do I know it." Just then a piercing cry,
ending in a sob, burst from the centre of the crowd, who encircled
the lady who had before fainted, and who now fell into a violent
fit of hysterics. She was carried out of the hall, the thick veil
which concealed her face dropped off, and Madame Danglars was
recognized. Notwithstanding his shattered nerves, the ringing
sensation in his ears, and the madness which turned his brain,
Villefort rose as he perceived her. "The proofs, the proofs!" saidVillefort rose as he perceived her. "The proofs, the proofs!" said
the president; "remember this tissue of horrors must be supported
by the clearest proofs "
"The proofs?" said Benedetto, laughing; "do you want
proofs?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, look at M. de Villefort, and then ask me for
proofs."
Every one turned towards the procureur, who, unable to bear the
universal gaze now riveted on him alone, advanced staggering into
the midst of the tribunal, with his hair dishevelled and his face
indented with the mark of his nails. The whole assembly uttered a
long murmur of astonishment. "Father," said Benedetto, "I am asked
for proofs, do you wish me to give them?"
"No, no, it is useless," stammered M. de Villefort in a hoarse
voice; "no, it is useless!"
"How useless?" cried the president, "what do you mean?"
"I mean that I feel it impossible to struggle against this
deadly weight which crushes me. Gentlemen, I know I am in the hands
of an avenging God! We need no proofs; everything relating to this
young man is true." A dull, gloomy silence, like that which
precedes some awful phenomenon of nature, pervaded the assembly,
who shuddered in dismay. "What, M. de Villefort," cried the
president, "do you yield to an hallucination? What, are you no
longer in possession of your senses? This strange, unexpected,
terrible accusation has disordered your reason. Come, recover."
The procureur dropped his head; his teeth chattered like those
of a man under a violent attack of fever, and yet he was deadly
pale.
"I am in possession of all my senses, sir," he said; "my body
alone suffers, as you may suppose. I acknowledge myself guilty of
all the young man has brought against me, and from this hour hold
myself under the authority of the procureur who will succeed
me."
And as he spoke these words with a hoarse, choking voice, he
staggered towards the door, which was mechanically opened by a
door-keeper. The whole assembly were dumb with astonishment at the
revelation and confession which had produced a catastrophe sorevelation and confession which had produced a catastrophe so
different from that which had been expected during the last
fortnight by the Parisian world.
"Well," said Beauchamp, "let them now say that drama is
unnatural!"
"Ma foi!" said Chateau-Renaud, "I would rather end my career
like M. de Morcerf; a pistol-shot seems quite delightful compared
with this catastrophe."
"And moreover, it kills," said Beauchamp.
"And to think that I had an idea of marrying his daughter," said
Debray. "She did well to die, poor girl!"
"The sitting is adjourned, gentlemen," said the president;
"fresh inquiries will be made, and the case will be tried next
session by another magistrate." As for Andrea, who was calm and
more interesting than ever, he left the hall, escorted by
gendarmes, who involuntarily paid him some attention. "Well, what
do you think of this, my fine fellow?" asked Debray of the
sergeant-at-arms, slipping a louis into his hand. "There will be
extenuating circumstances," he replied.Notwithstanding the density of the crowd, M. de Villefort saw it
open before him. There is something so awe-inspiring in great
afflictions that even in the worst times the first emotion of a
crowd has generally been to sympathize with the sufferer in a great
catastrophe. Many people have been assassinated in a tumult, but
even criminals have rarely been insulted during trial. Thus
Villefort passed through the mass of spectators and officers of the
Palais, and withdrew. Though he had acknowledged his guilt, he was
protected by his grief. There are some situations which men
understand by instinct, but which reason is powerless to explain;
in such cases the greatest poet is he who gives utterance to the
most natural and vehement outburst of sorrow. Those who hear the
bitter cry are as much impressed as if they listened to an entire
poem, and when the sufferer is sincere they are right in regarding
his outburst as sublime.
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, and every
part of his body seemed to suffer distinctly from the rest, thus
multiplying his agony a thousand-fold. He made his way along the
corridors through force of habit; he threw aside his magisterial
robe, not out of 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 by opening the door
himself, threw himself on the cushions, and pointed towards the
Faubourg Saint-Honore; the carriage drove on. The weight of his
fallen fortunes seemed suddenly to crush him; he could not foresee
the consequences; he could not contemplate the future with the
indifference of the hardened criminal who merely faces a
contingency already familiar. God was still in his heart. "God," he
murmured, not knowing what he said, — "God — God!" Behind the event