He recollected the call he had made upon him after the dinner at Auteuil, and then the visit the abbe had himself paid to his house on the day of Valentine’s death.
“You here, sir!” he exclaimed; “do you, then, never appear but to act as an escort to death?”
Busoni turned round, and perceiving the excitement depicted on the magistrate’s face, the savage luster of his eyes, he understood that the scene of the assizes had been accomplished; but beyond this he was ignorant.
“I came to pray over the body of your daughter.”
“And, now, why are you here?”
“I come to tell you that you have sufficiently repaid your debt, and that from this moment I will pray to God to forgive you as I do.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Villefort, stepping back fearfully, “surely that is not the voice of the Abbe Busoni!”
“No!” the abbe threw off his false tonsure, shook his head, and his hair, no longer confined, fell in black masses around his manly face.
“It is the face of the Count of Monte-Cristo!” exclaimed the procureur du roi, with a haggard expression.
“You are not exactly right, M. le Procureur du Roi; you must go farther back.”
“That voice! that voice! – where did I first hear it?”
“You heard it for the first time at Marseilles, twenty-three years ago, the day of your marriage with Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran. Refer to your papers.”
“You are not Busoni? – You are not Monte-Cristo? Oh, heavens! you are, then, some concealed, implacable, and mortal enemy! I must have wronged you in some way at Marseilles. Oh! woe to me!”
“Yes; you are, indeed, right,” said the count, crossing his arms over his broad chest; “search! search!”
“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 specter of a wretch you buried in the dungeons of the Chateau-d’If. The form of the Count of Monte-Cristo was given to that specter when he at length issued from his tomb, enriched with gold and diamonds to conceal his identity from you.”
“Ah! I recognize you! I recognize you!” exclaimed the procureur du roi; “you are –”
“I am Edmond Dantes!”
“You are Edmond Dantes! cried Villefort, seizing the count by t wrist, “then come here!”
And he dragged Monte-Cristo up the stairs; who, ignorant of what had happened, followed him in astonishment, presaging some new catastrophe.
“See, Edmond Dantes!” he said, pointing to the bodies of his wife and child. “See! look, are you well avenged?”
Moute-Cristo became pale at this horrible sight; he felt 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 temple 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.
A quarter of an hour afterward, 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, appeared overturned 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 toward 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 further on, and recommenced digging.
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.” On entering his house, he met Morrel, who wandered about, silent, like a ghost waiting the moment appointed for its return to the tomb.
“Prepare yourself, Maximilian,” he said, with a smile; “we leave Paris to-morrow.”
“Have you nothing more to do there?” asked Morrel.
“No,” replied Monte-Cristo; “God grant I may not have done too much already.”