Chapter 31: A Dangerous Game: III
"Sometimes it’s essential for the government to make a person disappear without leaving any trace, so that no written records can interfere with their plans." Villefort said.
Morrel tried reasoning, "That might have been true under the Bourbons, but now-"
"It’s always been this way, my dear Morrel, since the reign of Louis XIV. The emperor is even stricter about prison discipline than Louis was, and the number of prisoners whose names aren’t in any official register is impossible to count."
Even if Morrel had harbored any suspicions, such apparent kindness would have dispelled them.
"Well, Mr. Villefort, what would you advise me to do?" he asked.
"Petition the minister."
"Oh, I know how that goes. The minister receives two hundred petitions every day and doesn’t read three of them."
"That’s true, but he will read a petition that I countersign and present."
"And you’ll take care of delivering it?"
"With the greatest pleasure. Dantès was guilty then, and now he’s innocent. It’s as much my duty to free him as it was to condemn him."
By doing this, Villefort prevented any danger of an investigation which, however unlikely, would leave him defenseless if it ever happened.
"But how should I address the minister?"
"Sit down here," Villefort said, giving up his chair to Morrel, "and write what I dictate."
"You’ll really do this?"
"Absolutely. But don’t waste time, we’ve lost too much already."
"That’s true. Just think what that poor man might be suffering right now."
Villefort shuddered at the thought, but he’d gone too far to back down now. Dantès had to be destroyed to satisfy Villefort’s ambition.
Villefort dictated a petition that, with supposedly good intentions, exaggerated Dantès’ patriotic service and made him out to be one of the most active agents in Napoleon’s return. It was obvious that upon seeing this document, the minister would immediately order his release. When the petition was finished, Villefort read it aloud.
"That should do it," he said. "Leave the rest to me."
"Will the petition be sent soon?"
"Today."
"With your signature?"
"The best thing I can do is certify the truth of your petition." Sitting down, Villefort wrote his certification at the bottom.
"What else needs to be done?"
"I’ll handle whatever is necessary."
This assurance delighted Morrel, who said goodbye to Villefort and hurried off to tell old Dantès that he would see his son soon.
As for Villefort, instead of sending the petition to Paris, he carefully preserved the document that so dangerously implicated Dantès, hoping for an event that seemed quite possible, a second restoration of the monarchy. Dantès remained a prisoner, hearing nothing of the fall of Louis XVIII’s throne or the even more tragic destruction of the empire.
Twice during Napoleon’s Hundred Days, Morrel renewed his demand, and twice Villefort calmed him with promises. Finally came Waterloo, and Morrel stopped coming. He had done everything in his power, and any further attempts would only pointlessly compromise himself.
Louis XVIII returned to the throne. Villefort, for whom Marseilles had become filled with guilty memories, requested and obtained the position of prosecutor in Toulouse. Two weeks later, he married Miss Saint-Méran, whose father now stood higher at court than ever.
And so Dantès, after the Hundred Days and after Waterloo, remained in his dungeon, forgotten by earth and heaven.
Danglars understood the full extent of the miserable fate that had befallen Dantès. When Napoleon returned to France, he, like all small-minded people, called this coincidence "divine providence." But when Napoleon returned to Paris, Danglars lost his nerve and lived in constant fear of Dantès returning on a mission of revenge.
So he told Morrel he wanted to quit the sea and got a recommendation to a Spanish merchant. He entered this new service at the end of March, ten or twelve days after Napoleon’s return. Then he left for Madrid and was never heard from again.
Fernand understood nothing except that Dantès was gone. What had happened to him, Fernand didn’t care to ask. But during the break that his rival’s absence gave him, he spent time thinking, partly about how to deceive Mercédès about the real reason for Dantès’ absence, partly about plans for running away with her.
He would sit sadly and motionlessly on the summit of Cape Pharo, at the spot where you could see both Marseilles and the Catalan village, watching for the appearance of a young, handsome man who would also be his messenger of doom.
Fernand had made up his mind, he would shoot Dantès and then kill himself. But Fernand was wrong about himself, a man of his character never actually kills himself, because he’s always hoping things will get better.
During this time, the empire made its final draft, and every man in France capable of bearing arms rushed to answer the emperor’s call. Fernand left with the rest, carrying the terrible thought that while he was away, his rival might return and marry Mercédès.
If Fernand had really meant to kill himself, he would have done it when he left Mercédès. His devotion and the compassion he showed for her troubles had the effect they always have on noble hearts, Mercédès had always felt genuine affection for Fernand, and this was now strengthened by gratitude.
"My brother," she said as she placed his backpack on his shoulders, "be careful, because if you’re killed, I’ll be alone in the world."
These words brought a ray of hope to Fernand’s heart. If Dantès didn’t return, maybe one day Mercédès could be his.
Mercédès was left alone, facing the vast plain that had never seemed so empty and the sea that had never seemed so endless. Bathed in tears, she wandered around the Catalan village. Sometimes she stood silent and motionless like a statue, looking toward Marseilles.
Other times she stared at the sea, wondering if it wouldn’t be better to throw herself into the ocean’s depths and end her suffering. It wasn’t lack of courage that prevented her from carrying out this plan, but her religious faith came to her aid and saved her.
Caderousse, like Fernand, was drafted into the army. But being married and eight years older, he was only sent to the frontier. Old Dantès, who had been sustained only by hope, lost all hope when Napoleon fell. Five months after being separated from his son, and almost at the same hour as his son’s arrest, he died in Mercédès’ arms.
Morrel paid for his funeral and settled the few small debts the poor old man had accumulated. This was more than just kindness, it took courage. The south was in flames, and helping even on his deathbed the father of such a dangerous Napoleon supporter as Dantès was branded as a crime.