Chapter 7. The Examination

No sooner had the somber magistrate, Gérard de Villefort, stepped out of the enchanted salon—a room softly lit by flickering runes and moonlit crystals—than his face took on the stern look of a man who holds others' fates in his hands. Despite his dignified appearance—perfected by countless hours spent studying himself in enchanted mirrors and shaped by the solemn oaths of his forebears—wearing the robes of judicial authority never felt easy. Still, the memory of his father's old political teachings, written in the lost language of rune-wrights, reminded him to act carefully. A single misstep could endanger both his rising career and his own peace of mind.

Already wealthy and holding a prominent legal post at only twenty-seven, Villefort stood on the threshold of marriage to a charming young woman whose gentle beauty seemed to radiate magical grace. Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran was not only captivating but also influential in the enchanted courts of Marseilles. Her dowry of fifty thousand enchanted crowns was just the beginning—once her father passed on, her inheritance would grow to half a million. The thought filled Villefort with a glowing sense of destiny and clouded his mind with ambitions of future success.

At the entrance to his office, he was greeted by the commissary of police, a grim figure wearing armor etched with protective runes. The sight snapped Villefort out of his daydreams. Pulling himself together like an actor rehearsing a well-known spell, he addressed the officer:

"I've read the letter, and you did the right thing by detaining this suspect. Now, tell me everything you know about him and the scheme he's supposedly involved in."

The commissary's reply was calm but hinted at a heavy finality:

"We don't know much about any real conspiracy, sir. Every document we found is sealed by ancient wards and is on your desk. The prisoner's name is Edmond Dantès. He's the mate of the three-masted spellcruiser Pharaon, which transports enchanted cotton from Alexandria and Smyrna under contract with Morrel & Son of Marseilles."

"Did he ever serve in the navy?" Villefort asked, his voice measured but laced with suspicion.

"Oh, no, sir," the officer answered. "He's quite young—not yet twenty, by our guess."

Just then, at the fabled corner of the Rue des Conseils—where weathered arches bore ancient runic prophecies—M. Morrel appeared, as though summoned by fate. Concern glimmered in his eyes.

"Ah, M. de Villefort," Morrel said, his voice both warm and urgent, "I'm so glad to have found you. Something is very wrong. Some of your men just arrested Edmond Dantès, the mate on my ship!"

"I know," Villefort replied coolly. "I'm on my way to question him."

"But you don't know him like I do," Morrel protested. "Edmond's a good man, the most reliable sailor around. There's no better navigator in our merchant fleet. Please, M. de Villefort, be fair to him."

Villefort's expression remained distant and controlled. "You must understand, sir, a person can be outstanding in everyday life, yet still be a dangerous threat in political affairs. Wouldn't you agree?"

He cast a sharp look at Morrel, as if silently suggesting that the shipowner himself might be under scrutiny. The remark made Morrel blush with anger and unease, for politics were like a storm-tossed sea, and one misplaced step could sink him.

"I'm only asking you, sir, to be the fair and kind magistrate I know you are," Morrel said, sounding almost desperate. "Please free him quickly. We need him."

Villefort's eyes narrowed. "You keep saying 'we.' So you speak for him and his... circle of acquaintances?"

Morrel flushed again. "I mean only that many depend on him—friends, colleagues, family."

"Then don't worry," Villefort said in a firm voice. "If Dantès is innocent, you'll have done right by appealing to me. But if he's guilty, letting him go free in these tense times would be a grave mistake."

With that, Villefort headed for his office, his thoughts torn between sense of duty and a begrudging admiration for Morrel's loyalty. Arriving at the entrance to his own stately residence—connected to the Palais de Justice, whose ancient walls buzzed with secrets—he noticed Morrel still standing in the street as though frozen in place, anxiety plain on his face.

Inside, the antechamber bustled with police officers and gendarmes moving quietly through shifting shadows. There, under the wavering lights, stood the prisoner—calm, even smiling a bit, as if holding on to some hidden hope. Villefort walked past, not lingering on Dantès but taking in every detail: the young man's intelligent eyes, set beneath slightly furrowed brows, the confidence that hinted at courage, and the genuine sincerity in his features when he spoke.

Villefort's first impression of Dantès was positive, touched by a faint respect for the younger man. But the magistrate had learned—through ancient proverbs, if not direct experience—that first impressions could be deceptive. Drawing himself up, he stifled any rising sympathy and arranged his face into a stern mask. He sat at his broad, obsidian desk inlaid with intricate runes, waiting for the prisoner to be brought in.

Moments later, Edmond Dantès entered. He looked pale but composed, giving Villefort a polite bow reminiscent of old maritime courtesy. It was almost as if he expected to be welcomed into M. Morrel's drawing room, not a judge's office. Then he met Villefort's intense gaze—a look that, while revealing none of the magistrate's private thoughts, suggested deep secrets waiting to be uncovered.

"What's your name and position?" Villefort asked briskly, flipping through the sealed papers gathered by a diligent agent.

"I'm Edmond Dantès," the young man answered, "first mate on the Pharaon, under Messrs. Morrel & Son."

"Your age?"

"Nineteen, sir."

"And what were you doing at the time of your arrest?" Villefort pressed.

"I was at my own engagement celebration," Dantès said, his voice trembling slightly as he remembered the joy that had abruptly turned into a nightmare.

"Getting married," Villefort repeated quietly, as if weighing the words. "You were about to be wed on what should be the happiest day of your life, and you stand here accused of conspiracy."

"Yes, sir. Mercédès and I have been promised to each other for three years," Edmond admitted, a flicker of sadness in his eyes.

Villefort felt a strange tug inside him—an unexpected sympathy fighting against the cold rules of his office. He tried to shake it off. He reminded himself that his duty was to discover the truth, no matter how regrettable the circumstances.

Edmond explained what had happened aboard the Pharaon: how Captain Leclere was struck by a violent fever. In his delirium, the dying captain gave him a rune-carved ring and a letter that needed to be delivered to the "grand-marshal." Edmond detailed his unplanned stop at Elba, how he struggled to meet the grand-marshal, and how, upon returning, he wanted only to marry Mercédès. Now, without warning, he was accused of a crime he didn't understand.

As Edmond spoke, Villefort read an incriminating letter—one addressed to "Monsieur Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, No. 13, Paris." The name made him shudder. "M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron…" he murmured, sounding unsettled.

"Do you know this man, sir?" Edmond asked, sensing Villefort's shift in mood.

"No," Villefort lied smoothly. "A faithful servant of the crown isn't in touch with potential conspirators."

"Then it's all a misunderstanding? I knew nothing about what was in that letter," Dantès insisted, fear creeping into his voice.

"But you read the address. That means you understood where it was going," Villefort shot back.

"I had to read it to know where to deliver it," Edmond replied, sounding helpless.

"Did you show this letter to anyone?" the magistrate demanded, growing paler by the second.

"No one, I swear," Edmond pleaded.

"That alone is bad enough," Villefort muttered, glancing again at the letter, his hands shaking slightly. If only he knew: Noirtier is my father… I'm finished if this gets out. Fear flitted across his face, mixed with reluctant admiration for the young man.

"Ask me anything," Dantès said with desperation. "I have nothing to hide. By my honor as a sailor, by my love for Mercédès, by my respect for my father—"

"Enough," Villefort cut in, his tone rougher than before. If only Renée could see me now, he thought. I hope she'll understand why I'm being so harsh.

Dantès repeated the story in greater detail: his captain's sudden illness, the feverish command to deliver the letter, and how Dantès had merely followed a sailor's duty. Villefort listened while his expression hardened. Finally, he walked to the fireplace and, without a word, dropped the damning letter into the flames.

"Look," he said, pointing at the burning parchment. "It's gone now. Only you and I know it existed. When they question you further, deny it completely, and you'll survive this."

"I promise," Dantès murmured, earnest relief shining in his eyes.

"Was that the only letter?" Villefort asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Swear it."

"I swear."

A faint chime in the corridor announced the arrival of a police agent. Villefort whispered instructions. The agent stepped forward to lead Edmond away. The young man gave Villefort a respectful nod and left, his stride dignified despite everything. When the heavy door closed behind him, Villefort sank into his chair, breathing out in a mix of relief and anguish.

"If the head prosecutor were in Marseilles right now," he said under his breath, "I'd be ruined. This cursed letter nearly destroyed all my hopes. Oh, Father, will your past sins haunt me forever?" He paused, then took a shaky breath and let a slight smile tug at his lips. His eyes—still shadowed by worry—sparkled with a newfound determination. "At least I've managed this for now. Maybe I can build a future from these ashes."

Ensuring the prisoner was led away, the deputy hastened toward the modest residence of his betrothed.