Respawned as The Count of Glow-Up-Chapter 259: The Day of Trial: III

Exclamations, insults directed at Benedetto, who remained perfectly calm, energetic gestures, movement from the guards, jeers from the lowest elements in the crowd who always rose to the surface during any disturbance, all of this continued for five full minutes before the bailiffs and magistrates could restore order.

In the midst of the tumult, the judge’s voice rang out, "Are you mocking justice, accused? How dare you set such an example of disorder!"

Several people rushed to Monsieur de Villefort, who sat half-collapsed in his chair. They offered consolation, encouragement, and expressions of support and sympathy.

Order was gradually restored, though a few people still moved about, whispering to one another. Someone mentioned that a lady had just fainted. They’d revived her with smelling salts.

During the chaotic scene, Andrea had turned his smiling face toward the assembly. Now, leaning with one hand on the oak railing of the dock in the most graceful pose imaginable, he said: "Gentlemen, I assure you I had no intention of insulting the court or causing a disturbance before this honorable assembly. They ask my age, I tell them. They ask where I was born, I answer. They ask my name, and I can’t give it because my parents abandoned me. But though I can’t give my own name, having never been given one, I can tell you my father’s name. I repeat: my father is named Monsieur de Villefort, and I’m ready to prove it."

There was such energy, such conviction, such sincerity in the young man’s manner that it silenced the crowd. All eyes turned momentarily to the prosecutor, who sat motionless as a corpse struck by lightning.

"Gentlemen," Andrea continued, his voice and manner commanding silence, "I owe you proof and explanation of what I’ve said."

"But," the irritated judge interjected, "you called yourself Benedetto. You declared yourself an orphan and claimed Corsica as your homeland."

"I said whatever I pleased to ensure that this solemn declaration wouldn’t be suppressed, which it certainly would have been otherwise. I repeat: I was born in Auteuil on the night of September 27th, 1817, and I am the son of the prosecutor, Monsieur de Villefort. Do you want more details? I’ll give them to you. I was born at Number 28, Rue de la Fontaine, in a room with red damask wallpaper. My father took me in his arms, told my mother I was dead, wrapped me in a cloth marked with the initials H and N, carried me into a garden, and buried me alive."

A collective shudder ran through the assembly. They could see the prisoner’s confidence growing in direct proportion to Monsieur de Villefort’s terror.

"How do you know all these details?" the judge demanded.

"I’ll tell you, Mister President. A man who had sworn vengeance against my father had been watching for his chance to kill him. That night, he’d hidden himself in the garden where my father buried me. He was concealed in the bushes. He saw my father bury something in the ground, so he stabbed him. Then, thinking the buried object might be treasure, he dug it up and found me, still alive. This man took me to an orphanage, where I was registered as Number 37. Three months later, a woman traveled from Rogliano to Paris to claim me as her son and take me away. So you see, though I was born in Paris, I was raised in Corsica."

A moment of silence followed, so profound that the hall might have been empty.

"Continue," the judge said quietly.

"Certainly. I might have lived happily with those good people who loved me, but my twisted nature won out over the virtues my adoptive mother tried to teach me. I grew more wicked until I turned to crime. One day, when I cursed fate for making me so evil, my adoptive father said to me, ’Don’t blaspheme, unhappy child. The crime is your father’s, not yours, your father, who condemned you to hell if you died and to misery if you somehow survived.’ After that, I stopped blaming God and started cursing my father instead. That’s why I’ve spoken the words you condemn me for. That’s why I’ve horrified this entire assembly. If I’ve committed an additional crime by telling this story, then punish me. But if you’ll acknowledge that my fate has been sad, bitter, and tragic from the day I was born, then have pity on me."

"But your mother?" the judge asked. "What about her?"

"My mother thought I was dead. She’s not guilty. I never wanted to know her name, and I still don’t."

Just then, a piercing cry, ending in a sob, burst from the center of the crowd. The same lady who had fainted earlier now fell into violent hysterics. She was carried out of the hall. As she was removed, the thick veil covering her face fell away.

It was Madame Danglars.

Despite his shattered nerves and the chaos in his mind, Villefort rose to his feet when he saw her.

"The proof!" the judge demanded. "Remember, these horrible accusations must be supported by the clearest evidence!"

"The proof?" Benedetto laughed. "You want proof?"

"Yes!" 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖

"Very well. Look at Monsieur de Villefort, and then ask me for proof."

Everyone turned toward the prosecutor. Unable to bear the weight of so many eyes fixed on him alone, Villefort staggered forward into the center of the court. His hair was disheveled, his face marked by his own fingernails where he’d clawed at it in anguish.

The entire assembly let out a long murmur of astonishment.

"Father," Benedetto said, "they’re asking me for proof. Do you want me to provide it?"

"No, no, it’s useless," Villefort stammered in a hoarse voice. "Useless."

"How is it useless?" the judge cried. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I cannot fight against this crushing weight that’s destroying me. Gentlemen, I know I’m in the hands of an avenging God! We don’t need proof. Everything this young man has said is true."

A dull, heavy silence, like the one that precedes a natural disaster, filled the courtroom. Everyone sat in dismay.

"What, Monsieur de Villefort?" the judge exclaimed. "Are you suffering from some hallucination? Have you lost your senses? This strange, unexpected, terrible accusation has disordered your mind. Please, collect yourself!"

The prosecutor hung his head. His teeth chattered as if he had a violent fever, yet his face was deathly pale.

"I’m perfectly sane, sir," he said. "My body may be suffering, as you can see, but my mind is clear. I admit my guilt in everything this young man has accused me of. From this moment, I place myself under the authority of whoever will succeed me as prosecutor."

As he spoke these words in a hoarse, choking voice, he staggered toward the door, which a bailiff mechanically opened for him.

The entire assembly sat in stunned silence. The revelation and confession had produced a catastrophe completely different from what Paris had been expecting.

"Well," Beauchamp finally said, "let them tell me now that drama is unrealistic!"

"Good God!" Château-Renaud muttered. "I’d rather end my career like Monsieur de Morcerf did. A pistol shot seems downright pleasant compared to this disaster."

"And at least it actually kills you," Beauchamp added darkly.

"To think," Debray said in a hollow voice, "I almost married his daughter."

"She was fortunate to die, poor girl."

"The session is adjourned, gentlemen," the judge announced. "Further investigation will be conducted, and the case will be tried in the next session by a different magistrate."

As for Andrea, who remained calm and more interesting than ever, he left the hall escorted by guards who couldn’t help but treat him with a certain involuntary respect.

"Well," Debray asked the sergeant, slipping a gold coin into his hand, "what do you think of all this?"

The sergeant pocketed the money and shrugged. "There will be extenuating circumstances," he replied.