Chapter 6. The Deputy Procureur du Roi

In one of the stately manors wrought by the famed enchanter Puget along the mystic Boulevard du Grand Cours—directly opposite the fabled Medusa Fountain, whose waters were said to glimmer with echoes of ancient prophecies—a second wedding feast was underway. But unlike the more modest festivities for the crew of the spellcruiser Pharaon at Dantès' celebration, this gathering belonged to the upper circles of Marseilles' noble society. Here, under vaulted ceilings adorned with runic motifs and in halls lined with tapestries telling stories of legendary heroes, guests mingled in an atmosphere of glittering sophistication.

These were magistrates who had left their posts under the usurper's regime, officers who had deserted the imperial ranks to follow the noble Condé, and young heirs of venerable families whose bloodlines were steeped in centuries of myth and magic. They had been raised to despise the man who, after five years of exile, had become a sort of tragic symbol, and who, after fifteen years of restoration, had been elevated to a near‐divine status by his supporters.

The guests were still seated at long tables carved from ancient oak, each setting gleaming with crystal goblets reflecting the light of enchanted chandeliers. Their conversation was intense, filled with strong opinions and echoes of old grudges. The voices rose and fell like well‐rehearsed incantations, brimming with the sharp passion that had defined this southern region for centuries, ever since religion and politics first entwined to fan the flames of enmity.

While some viewed the emperor—now just the "petty king" of the spellbound Isle of Elba, commanding only a tiny domain—as nothing more than a fallen figure, they also remembered that he had once ruled over lands with a population of 120 million, speaking at least ten different magical tongues. But in these halls, he was merely a dethroned mortal with no claim left to the ancient kingdom of France.

From one corner of the banquet, elderly magistrates thoughtfully discussed their experiences like seasoned spell-scholars, while military officers in glittering uniforms recounted the battles of Moscow and Leipzig, boasting of magical victories and near escapes. Women in fine gowns embroidered with subtle protective runes whispered excitedly about Josephine's divorce—some considering it the downfall of a man once deemed invincible. They were convinced that new hope shone on the horizon, promising a more stable and righteous order.

An older nobleman, proudly displaying the jeweled Cross of Saint Louis (which legend claimed was blessed by divine forces), stood and proposed a toast to King Louis XVIII. The Marquis de Saint-Méran, a dignified figure whose voice resounded with the authority of history and spellcraft, spoke of the long exile of the patient Hartwell and praised the gentle spirit of their restored monarch. His speech sparked cheers, prompting everyone to raise their glasses in the English style, while the ladies scattered blossoms of enchanted flowers across the table. In that moment, it felt as though an ancient, poetic spirit had been summoned to bless their assembly.

"Ah," intoned the Marquise de Saint-Méran, a woman whose stern gaze hinted at an iron will despite her fifty years, "those revolutionaries who once forced us out of our ancestral homes—which they later bought for a song—must now acknowledge that true loyalty rests with us. We, who followed our fallen king, protect 'Louis the Well-Beloved,' while that usurper remains 'Napoleon the Accursed.' Isn't that so, Villefort?"

"I beg your pardon, Madame," said M. de Villefort, the Deputy Procureur du Roi, his manner polite but slightly distracted. "Forgive me—I wasn't fully following the conversation."

"Marquise, marquise!" cut in the old nobleman who had raised the toast, "let the young man have his moment. After all, on one's wedding day, there are sweeter topics than politics."

A lovely young woman—her light brown hair gleaming like spun gold, her eyes bright as crystal—stepped closer with a playful smile. "It's my fault if M. de Villefort missed your words, dear Marquise. But here he is, at your service. M. de Villefort, maybe you should repeat what my mother said?"

"If the Marquise would be so kind as to repeat her last remark," Villefort offered with a courteous nod, "I'd be glad to respond."

"Never mind, Renée," said the Marquise with a gentler tone, her features softening. "What I was saying, Villefort, is that Bonapartists can never match our sincerity, our devotion, and our loyalty."

"They made up for that," Villefort said, "with a kind of fanaticism. Napoleon was a sort of Mahomet for the West, worshipped not just as a leader but as the living proof of 'equality.'"

"Equality!" exclaimed the Marquise. "They dare talk about equality with Napoleon at the helm? And what about Robespierre? Surely, he could claim credit for introducing that concept long before the Corsican stole all the glory."

"You may be right," Villefort replied with a patient smile. "But each figure belongs on a specific pedestal. Robespierre belongs on the scaffold in Place Louis Quinze, and Napoleon on the great column in Place Vendôme. Their forms of equality, however, differ greatly: one reduces kings to beggars, the other raises the common people almost to the throne. Though both men were revolutionaries, for France, the 9th Thermidor and the 4th of April, 1814, are milestones marking the downfall of tyranny. Even exiled, Napoleon still holds on to a circle of loyal supporters. But remember—plenty of history's usurpers, like Cromwell, share a tainted legacy."

"You really think so?" the Marquise asked, her voice wavering between sternness and curiosity.

"I do, Madame," Villefort answered gravely. "With Napoleon so close to France—just off the enchanted Isle of Elba—his presence keeps the dreams of his followers alive. Our dear Marseilles is full of half‐pay officers who might, under the flimsiest excuse, provoke fights or worse among loyal citizens."

"Well, I hear," said the Comte de Salvieux, an old friend of the Marquise and chamberlain to the Comte d'Artois, "that the Holy Alliance plans to move him somewhere far away."

"Yes," agreed M. de Saint-Méran, "I believe they're sending him to Saint Helena."

"Saint Helena?" echoed the Marquise. "Where on earth is that?"

"It's an island below the equator," the Comte explained. "More than two thousand leagues from here."

"Even better," she said. "As Villefort rightly points out, leaving that man between Corsica—his birthplace—and Naples, where his relatives reign, not to mention his ambitions in Italy, is unwise."

"Unfortunately," Villefort said with a resigned sigh, "treaties from 1814 tie our hands. We can't simply move against Napoleon without violating international agreements."

"Oh, they'll find a way," the Comte de Salvieux insisted with a knowing smile. "They didn't worry about legalities when it came to arresting the Duc d'Enghien, after all."

Nodding firmly, the Marquise declared, "No doubt the Holy Alliance will solve the Napoleon problem once and for all, and I trust M. de Villefort will rid Marseilles of any troublemakers loyal to him. We need to keep the king secure, and that requires strong measures against any conspiracy."

"With all respect, Madame," Villefort replied, "the law only steps in after a crime has been committed. We can punish, but we can't always prevent."

A graceful young lady, the Comte de Salvieux's daughter and a close friend of Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran, chimed in with an eager tone. "Oh, M. de Villefort, please arrange a sensational trial while we're here! They say watching an actual court case, with real people and real tragedies, is more gripping than any stage play."

"Trials can be quite dramatic," Villefort admitted, "because you see genuine sorrow and fear, not pretend tears. Imagine a defendant, terrified and trembling, torn from his home and family, suddenly facing a judge's stern decree. It's a shock to the nerves that no theater can match. If the chance arises, I'll make sure you can see the process firsthand."

"Oh, M. de Villefort!" Renée blurted, turning pale. "That sounds so grim—and you're smiling about it!"

"What do you expect me to do?" he asked softly. "I've condemned conspirators to death more than once. How many daggers might be waiting for me in some dark corner? Yet I can't deny there's a part of me—my 'professional pride,' let's call it—that's satisfied when a criminal trembles at my words."

"That's exactly what we need right now," someone said approvingly. "Strong leadership, unwavering convictions."

"Yes, your latest trial was talked about everywhere," another guest added. "The parricide. You practically handed down a death sentence before the executioner even stepped in."

"Parricide is horrifying," Renée said quietly, "but I pity people caught in political conspiracies."

"Understand, dear Renée," Villefort said, his voice carrying the weight of an old judge, "the king is the father of his people. Plotting against the king is a form of parricide too."

"I don't know," she murmured. "But at least you promised you'd show mercy to anyone I speak for."

"Rest assured," Villefort assured her gently, "I'll keep my word."

"My dear," the Marquise interjected, her manner still somewhat stern, "let's not stray into trifling sentiments. Today, being a magistrate is a badge of honor. There's an old Latin saying that might guide us here."

"Cedant arma togæ," Villefort answered with a polite bow. "Let arms yield to the gown."

"I'm not well versed in Latin," the Marquise admitted with a faint smile.

"As for me," Renée said, "I sometimes wish Villefort had chosen a kinder profession, like a physician. I can't help trembling whenever I think of a 'destroying angel.'"

Villefort leaned in close to Renée. "My dear, you might think of me as a healer of sorts—someone who tries to cure society's ills. I can't promise every remedy will be gentle, but I'll do my best to be fair."

"And so," the Marquise said, "perhaps we can let go of the painful memories of the past."

"Madame," Villefort replied gravely, "even my father, once a radical, has changed. I hold no illusions; I've always been loyal to the crown, and I intend to stay that way." He glanced around the room like a judge surveying a courtroom.

"Villefort," the Comte de Salvieux announced, his tone brightening, "I told the king's chamberlain exactly that. His Majesty overheard me and said, 'Villefort is a young man of great sense and integrity.' The king also mentioned your upcoming marriage to the Saint-Méran family. I was planning to recommend you for the match myself, but the Marquis beat me to it and already had the king's blessing!"

"The king spoke kindly of me?" Villefort asked with a mixture of gratitude and awe.

"He did indeed," the Comte de Salvieux replied. "And I'm sure the Marquis here can confirm that when he discussed your marriage with His Majesty six months ago, the king showed real approval."

"That's absolutely true," the Marquis agreed, smiling. "I owe the king so much. If there were any way to prove my gratitude…"

"Well," the Marquise added with a sparkle in her eye, "I hope you catch some traitor soon, so you can show the king you mean business."

"For my part," Renée said softly, "I just hope any criminals you find are petty thieves, not doomed souls. Show them mercy, please."

"My dear Renée," Villefort said in a quieter tone, "if you expect me to be the king's prosecutor, you must let me handle serious threats. A doctor doesn't treat only headaches and rashes—sometimes he faces life‐threatening illness."

As if on cue, a servant tiptoed into the room and spoke in a hushed voice to Villefort. He instantly excused himself, stepping away. When he returned, his face was lit with excitement. Renée watched him, her concern evident, while the others waited curiously for an explanation.

"My apologies," Villefort told them. "As you feared, my work has followed me even to this celebration. It seems we've uncovered a serious Bonapartist plot."

Gasps rose around the table. "A plot?" the Marquise echoed. "How terrible."

"I have a letter of denunciation," Villefort said, holding it up for them to see. He read it aloud:

"The king's attorney is hereby informed by a friend of the throne and our sacred institutions that Edmond Dantès, first mate of the spellcruiser Pharaon, which arrived this morning from Smyrna by way of Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, is carrying a secret letter from Murat to the usurper, and another from the usurper for the Bonapartist group in Paris. Upon his arrest, such a letter will be found on him, at his father's home, or hidden on the Pharaon itself."

"This is unsigned," Renée noted, "and not even addressed directly to you."

"True," Villefort acknowledged, "but with the chief attorney away, his secretary opened it. Convinced it was urgent, he had the man arrested at once. I only just found out."

"So the suspect is in custody?" the Marquise asked.

"He's being detained at my home," Villefort said. "I'll need to question him. If the accusations hold up, he won't see freedom unless the executioner himself shows him mercy."

"And he's there now?" Renée whispered, looking uneasy.

"Precisely," Villefort replied. "I came back here just to let you all know I have to leave on urgent business."

"Oh, Villefort," Renée pleaded. "For the sake of this special day, please be kind to the poor man."

Villefort stepped over to her and spoke quietly. "Because this is our betrothal day, I promise I'll be as lenient as the law allows. But if I find real evidence of treason, I can't just let him go. You'll have to forgive me for doing my duty."

Renée shivered at his mention of a possible death sentence, and the Marquise gently waved her hand, dismissing her daughter's worries. Villefort kissed the Marquise's hand as a respectful goodbye, then turned to Renée with a comforting glance, as if to say, "I'll do what I can." With that, he left to fulfill his duty, leaving a mixture of fear and anticipation among the guests.

As the feast continued, discussions of state affairs, honor, and revolution swirled through the hall like enchanting currents. People debated the downfall of Napoleon—once revered in countless languages, now a mere exile—and they celebrated the restored monarchy with renewed energy. The conversation hit a peak when the Comte de Salvieux repeated the king's praise for Villefort. In that charged atmosphere, every comment felt laden with significance, hinting at big changes that might reshape the realm.

Thus, as the celebration eventually wound down and guests began to drift away in clusters of hushed excitement, a somber feeling lingered. Talk of conspiracies and severe punishments hovered in the air like a dark cloud. Meanwhile, Danglars and those who had worked behind the scenes against Edmond Dantès chose to keep their heads down, convinced that fate would punish the real instigator soon enough.

And so, with hearts heavy and eyes cast toward an uncertain future, they prepared to set forth on the next stage of their treacherous design.