THE RESULT OF THE CATASTROPHE
On the 14th day of January, 1830, three months after the incidents
related in the last chapter, Benedetto's trial was again before the
Court of Special Sessions. Then, as now, life beat rapidly in Paris, one
important thing followed the other, and it came about that the affair of
the handsome "Prince Cavalcanti" was in danger of being tried before an
audience consisting only of lawyers and policemen.
The weather was miserable. The snow fell in thick flakes, and the cold
was so penetrating that it became impossible to remain long out of
doors.
It was about eleven o'clock in the morning when an elegant carriage
stopped in front of the court-house. A gentleman stepped out, and was
about to ascend the broad steps of the building, when he suddenly stood
still. He clapped his monocle to his eye, and loudly exclaimed:
"Ah, Chateau-Renaud!"
"Beauchamp," came back the answer; and the two friends cordially shook
hands.
"Really," said Chateau-Renaud, laughing, "I must be grateful to chance,
which threw me in your way."
"What brings you here?"
"The trial of his highness Prince Benedetto de Cavalcanti, of course."
"I'm here for the same reason. I also wish to see the concluding act of
the drama which has interested Paris so long. Do you think the poor
devil has a chance of escaping the hangman's noose?"
"Hardly--but here we are. Why, the hall is about empty," exclaimed
Beauchamp, wonderingly.
"Does that astonish you? Paris has always been ungrateful, and has long
since forgotten that the Benedetto affair was once an important topic,"
replied Chateau-Renaud in a tone of indifference.
"Perhaps the trial has been postponed," said the journalist, and turning
to a reporter of his acquaintance, he hurriedly asked: "Does Benedetto's
trial take place to-day?"
"Benedetto's trial," answered the reporter, musingly: "ah, yes, now I
know--the murder in Monte-Cristo's garden, and, if my memory is right, I
believe the murderer pretends that he is the son of the procureur du
roi, Monsieur de Villefort."
"Perfectly right; you have an enviable memory," laughingly said
Beauchamp. "Well, does the trial take place?"
"Certainly, it's the third day of the case."
"Thank you. We can get some refreshments now and pass the time until the
Benedetto case comes up," said Chateau-Renaud.
"If you desire to attend the trial, I will inform you when it's time,"
said the reporter, politely.
"You are very kind," answered Beauchamp, as he departed with his friend.
As they were leaving the corridor, Beauchamp nudged his companion
lightly.
"Every one is not so ungrateful as to forget Benedetto. Debray is here
too."
"Why not?" said Chateau-Renaud. "Debray has plenty of time to himself
since the Ministry was overturned and carried a poor _attaché_ along
with it in its fall."
"Well, he rescued his millions anyway," replied Beauchamp,
indifferently, "Though, come to think of it," he continued maliciously,
"it is quite natural for Debray to interest himself in Benedetto--the
latter was half and half his son-in-law."
"Oh, Beauchamp, you are cynical; the relationship reminds one of a
morganatic marriage," Chateau-Renaud laughingly interposed.
"By the way, has anything new been found out about the Baroness
Danglars?"
"H'm--they say she has disappeared."
"And her good, honest husband?"
"Is knocking about somewhere. God only knows."
"Well, I must say there is nothing like Parisian life. The house of
Danglars breaks. Father and mother Danglars disappear, in consequence of
which Debray is without his flame; and the daughter--is anything known
of her? To my taste, she was the best of the lot."
"Mademoiselle d'Armilly undoubtedly knows where she is--they were
inseparable companions. They will come to the surface again; from what I
know of Mademoiselle Danglars, she has about as much talent for singing
as a lioness."
"A beautiful constellation. What became of Monsieur de Villefort?"
"He is an incurable maniac, and is in Dr. d'Avigny's private asylum."
"Not a bad business for the old gentleman. The house of Villefort has
had a terrible end. Madame de Villefort and her son are dead, and poor
Valentine--I am not generally sentimental, but I confess the death of
the young girl was a terrible shock to me."
"Beauchamp, do you believe in miracles?" asked Chateau-Renaud, suddenly.
"That depends. Why do you ask?"
"Well, one of my friends gave me his word of honor that he saw
Mademoiselle Valentine in Marseilles."
"Before or after the funeral?"
"After, certainly."
"That seems rather wonderful, but one is already accustomed to look upon
everything with which the Count of Monte-Cristo has any connection as
something miraculous."
"Have you heard the fable that the count was a vampire?"
"Who could have said such a thing? What is old Noirtier doing?"
"He has gone to the South; and the Morcerf family--"
"Well, what of them?"
"Nothing new. The father a suicide, the son in Africa, and the mother
has disappeared."
"Just like Baroness Danglars."
"Yes, only with this difference, that Madame de Morcerf and her son gave
their whole fortune to the poor."
"I am glad for the poor--I--"
"The Benedetto affair is now on," broke in the voice of the reporter,
interrupting their conversation.
"Ah--thank you." And with this they all entered the court-room.
"Beauchamp," whispered Chateau-Renaud, pointing to a veiled lady who sat
near them, "if I wasn't sure that the Baroness Dangl--"
"Hush! Do not mention any names. I think you are right, but I cannot
understand why she comes in such disreputable company."
The lady spoken about, heavily veiled, held her head on her hand and
awaited the beginning of the case. Her companion, a thin, yellow,
dried-up old man, whose bald head in form and color recalled a ripe
melon, sat as straight as a stick, and kept his eyes on the crucifix
opposite him.
"Bring in the prisoner," ordered the judge.
A shudder ran through the lady, but she did not look up as Benedetto
entered.