Once I knew a girl named Bell.
I felt like she only had one job...
To make my life a living hell.
She told me I worthless,
That I would never be loved.
She said I had no propose.
She turned the world against me,
Trapping me in a raging wildfire,
Not being able to be free.
I was all alone,
No one wanted to be my friend.
It was like Bell already mad my tombstone.
I turned into a coward,
I did things and I'm not proud.
I cut my arms and gave up all my power.
I did that for a year,
I hated myself,
I wanted to disappear.
But one day something changed,
My blade cut a little too deep.
And I remember being drained.
The doctor said I was lucky to survive.
That day completely changed me.
I realized that i didn't want to die.
The truth never lies
In Defense (GASP!) of Drug Dealers. A guest blog piece by @MarkOlmsted
Twice in my life, in separate decades, I lived off the proceeds of dispensing the elements of temporary physical euphoria. Consenting adults came to me and I gave them a drug for which they handed me money. When I was a bartender, the drug was in legal, liquid form. I paid taxes on what I earned and could tell my mother was I did for a living. Even though most of my regulars were alcoholics, I earned none of society’s contempt for getting them drunk, many on a daily basis.
When my own addictive choice changed from alcohol to crystal meth, I went from bar tending to drug dealing. It started with getting a little extra for my using buddies, to responding to the requests of their friends. At first my only payoff was in my own drugs being free, then I was suddenly turning a profit. It was its own addictive rush.
I was fairly atypical as far as most drug dealers go. I answered the phone on the first ring, I was friendly and my apartment was clean. Word of mouth was all the marketing I needed. I never in a million years would have wanted or needed to “recruit” any new customers, and the ones I had were mostly weekend warriors. I was about as far as you could imagine from the stereotype of the unshaven sleazebag who lounges near grammar school playgrounds, trying to “turn” kids into addicts, yet what I did qualified me for membership in one of the most vilified minorities in America.
Let me be clear. This is not an apologia. Meth is a nasty and addictive drug. I do not advocate its use, have not touched it in 10 years, and the most important thing I do is help others stay clean off of it. But just as meth is a symptom of the disease of drug addiction, so are its purveyors. Every dealer I knew was an addict. And if any of you have ever obtained some mushrooms for Burning Man, done a few bumps of coke at a party, or procured Oxycontin from your maid, you have had a direct or indirect relationship of some kind with a drug dealer. There are even many of you who at some point of your life considered one a friend—probably in direct proportion to his generosity.
As for the harm done by drugs, some interesting statistics. There are an estimated 443,000 deaths a year in this country due to lung cancer, and at least 100,000 alcohol-related deaths. But according to the CDC, there are less than 50,000 drug-overdose deaths 2014, around a tenth than can be attributed to the thoroughly legal drug of cigarettes. And yet the man at the gas station who hands over the 2 packs of Marlboro Lights is never called the scum of the earth, and the manager at Trader Joe’s can recommend Grey Goose or a nice bottle of Chardonnay without being compared to a child molester. The makers of Oxycontin, Valium, and Vicodin---the biggest drug dealers in the word—spend no time in prison cells.
It’s pretty well accepted that the drug war has been a dismal failure, although with the new Trump regime I’m not optimistic we’re going to see much change in this realm. Which doesn’t mean, as a population, we can’t take it on ourselves to do something simple, if not easy: Stop Dehumanizing Drug Dealers.
In Afghanistan and Iraq, a civilian in the wrong place at the wrong time can go from “bystander” to “insurgent” with the pointing of a bayonet. Once so labeled, the presumption is always of guilt, and the altered perception of human beings as “terrorists,” i.e, “not quite human” is directly linked to a willingness to torture them.
By the same token, once someone is labeled a “drug dealer,” they fall somewhere in between the homeless and terrorists in the continuum that constitutes “the other.” The orange jumpsuit distances us further—when we see the prisoner taken in handcuffs from the courtroom, we don’t want to think his experience behind those closed doors is like ours would be. We tell ourselves they must be guilty, they’re used to it, whatever we need to not empathize, to not imagine how grim and frightening and grey it is back there. We pass the exits to “State Correctional Facility” on the highway and if we think of it at all, it’s mostly to shudder in thanks that we’re not there.
I remember how many of my fellow inmates never even received one piece of mail. The sense that you’ve been forgotten is a soul-killing despair. This willingness to throw away and forget men behind walls is the end of a long process of dehumanization that starts with a series of labels. The adjectives may be perfectly accurate, but they also diminish our capacity to remember there’s a human being involved, not just a “gang member,” a “defendant,” a “drug dealer.”
So change your thinking. Take a moment to question the meanings you attach to certain words, how you allow them to create a sense that what makes us different in the eyes of the law is somehow more important than what makes us similar as human beings. And when you pass one of those buses going down to County Jail full of handcuffed men, wave. The man who sees you may need to be reminded that he is still seen.
Mark Olmsted has been a writer and a poet since he graduated from NYU School of the Arts in 1980. After over a decade in Manhattan, he moved to California to pursue screenwriting and take care of his brother, who died of AIDS in 1991. Gay and HIV+ himself, Mark self-medicated through the worst of the plague years with crystal meth, which led to a conviction for drug-dealing in 2004 and nine months in prison.
Olmsted emerged into a life of recovery and activism, penning hundreds of essays for the Huffington Post and his personal blog, The Trash Whisperer, based on his hobby of keeping his Hollywood neighborhood free of litter. In 2011 he entered the Graduate Humanities programs in Mount St. Mary’s University, obtaining a Master’s Degree with a specialization in Creative Writing in 2013. He returned to screenwriting with The Exiled Heart, informed by his mother’s experiences growing up in Nazi-occupied France.
2015 arrived and so he began to shape the letters and short stories he wrote in prison into a book documenting his incarceration. The result: Ink from the Pen: A Memoir of Prison available now in Prose Bookstore. He lives with his partner of 20 years in Los Angeles, and works as an editor of film subtitles when he is not writing. Please follow him and interact with him here where he is @MarkOlmsted.
Go see the blog article with pictures and links here: http://blog.theprose.com/2016/12/defense-gasp-drug-dealers/
The Cat’s Meow .....
the cat meowed
content and proud
sitting in his lap
calico, mottled aglow
thigh-high boots
rustic roots
chalcedony cat's-eye
night owl prowl
scowl
taunt and tease
frisky whiskey
wispy whiskers
the cat meowed
the cat allowed
herself to be stripped
no collar
no rule of thumb
alacrity avidity
the cat meowed
she licks her chops
hunger
desire
to lacerate his attire
attracted, attached
puppy love
bond
bind
willingly unwind
(K.M.M.)
Thanksgiving Without Peggy
Sara clung to my arm as we walked through the door. The same photos were on the wall, but Mom didn’t usher us in, pulling off our coats and pinching cheeks. It hit me, all those ways she was gone.
We were late, so I shoveled turkey and stuffing onto my plate, while giving out one-handed hugs. I squished in next to Dad, on his second overflowing plate already. Sara sat in the only other open seat next to Aunt Mona, who would be after those gums with a toothpick mid-meal flicking bits of food onto everyone in the vicinity. When I introduced Sara, her smile too bright, her auburn hair shining in the mid-afternoon light, Dad dropped his fork, splashing gravy on his sweater and gaped.
We were used to some level of eccentricity out of him, especially since mom passed, but his slack jaw was weird enough that all conversation died and my cousin Tara giggled in the silence. I elbowed him under the table and he mumbled a nicety. Sara blushed and took tiny bites of sweet potatoes while feigning interest at Aunt Mona’s hatred of the Yankees lineup. Her large eyes darted sideways, finding mine. It killed me that he hadn’t saved us seats together. Mom would’ve remembered.
“Dad,” I whispered. “What’s with you?”
He didn’t answer. Just continued to squirrel mountains of mashed potatoes into his cheeks. Every few seconds his eyes would find Sara and stare for a moment, before pretending to look out the window behind her and then down at his food. It was nuts.
“Dad! You’re making her uncomfortable!”
“She looks…” he started to explain, then stopped. The words spun out over our plates for a minute.
“Dad?”
“Peggy, she…” he started again.
“Sara looks nothing like Mom, Dad.” I said, annoyed. Where was he going with this?
“No, no, not her...” He answered, then stopped again. I thought for a second that he was going to push back from the table, unzip his khakis and retire to the living room, but instead he blurted this out.
I started recording after the first few minutes when I realized he was unburdening himself of some old cancerous memory. I decided to post it because, well, I feel like other people should know what happened, but I’m not ready to talk to the family. I just can’t face it. Not yet anyway.
---------------------------------------------------------
… too fast, I slid my new ride off the cobblestone drive, mowing over a row of tulips, almost clipping Maggie’s hip. I gave Maggie’s older sister Tempe a quick kiss as Phoebe, my best friend, moved silently into the back. Window down in the cool autumn air, I slapped the door with my palm, too cool by half.
“We gotta run by Buck’s right quick.” I said, catching Phoebe’s emerald eyes in the rearview. Phoebe froze. She was anorexically thin now. Her thick red waves were matted too. Her skin was normally milky, but in that moment translucent. Blue veins shown at either temple. I felt her shrinking, melting into the leather. I had a sense of impermanence, of foreboding. That was my first missed opportunity to save her.
Buck lived by himself in a patchwork one-story behind the school. He wouldn’t talk about it, but everyone on the team had seen the scars. I figured whatever had happened was likely why he was so damn good on the field. He feared no-one and hit like a guy three times his size. I wasn’t friends with him exactly, but I tried. Because of Phoebe.
He was sitting on his broken porch swing in a T-shirt as if it wasn’t thirty degrees out, shading his eyes against the glare. He was searching for Phoebe so I purposely stood in his line of sight to box him out. Still, I took the bag when he asked and gave him the Ram handshake on my way out.
We pulled up to the field as the treasure hunt was kicking off. The first clue was written in sloping letters on a sandwich board hanging from the mascot’s horns. He looks warm at least, I thought.
It read, “Pipes through which no water flows.” I pulled the girls into a huddle. “Alright, Red team,” I began. Maggie was picking at her fingernails, slumped onto her back foot.
“This one’s obvious, but I don’t want to lead the other teams in. Tempe and I will cut through the woods.” Tempe flicked her eyelashes at me, sexy smile peeking from one corner of her mouth. “You two loop around the front and meet us at Jason Park.”
We chased each other across the field. She was damn fast. Two juniors stood just inside the treeline rolling a joint. Once we were safely past, I stopped and took out the hunting knife Buck had given me, turning it over and over in my hands, making a spark dance on Tempe’s chin from the autumn sunlight that filtered through the maples. She gave me doe eyes and kissed me hard, grinding on my jeans and giggling self-consciously. Then, with her warm breath still caught in my ear, she took off, swerving between the trees and faux screaming. I followed at a jog, adjusting my jeans and cursing her under my breath.
Maggie and Phoebe were cresting the top of the half pipe as we arrived. Orange team came in at a jog from the bottom of the pipe. Both teams leaned in, our shadows darkening the curve, making the chalk inscription easier to read.
“An unwritten message of great importance,” it said. Maggie sighed and walked in a little circle, shoving the white rubber tip of her sneaker against the rising concrete.
“This blows,” she said, shivering.
Tempe shot back quickly, “God, Maggie! You’re always so bitchy! Your bullshit is pissing me off lately.” Phoebe frowned at Tempe and gently rubbed Maggie’s back.
Maggie wrinkled her forehead, but held her tongue. “Fine,” she whispered, “It’s the highway sign at the onramp to fift...” Before she could finish, Tempe shoved Maggie’s chest, too hard to be playful. Maggie stumbled back a step and looked down at her sneakers, pissed.
“Of course!” Tempe exclaimed. “The chick with her baby in one hand and the chemistry book in the other right? Don’t have sex, sex equals babies, duh!” Tempe smiled up at me and learned in for a kiss. I bent down to catch it, but she bit my bottom lip instead and laughed. Man, I wanted to hit her sometimes.
The onramp was empty when we got there. Phoebe picked up a rock that had been painted Ram orange, wiping dirt from the folded paper that had been hidden underneath. I snatched it away from her.
“Hey, what the hell C!” she complained.
“I read faster,” I said and laughed, holding the slip above her head. When she jumped for it, I saw the bruising under her chin. Her scarf had rubbed away the makeup she’d so carefully applied that morning. Blue fingerprints were visible on both sides of her thin throat. I wanted to say something, wanted to touch her face, make her look at me. But Tempe was hugging me from the side, her arms wrapped protectively around my waist. That was my second missed chance.
“What’s found but not lost.” I read.
Phoebe frowned a minute, tapping the top of her thigh lightly with her long white fingers and then answered. “It’s the lost and found at school I bet,” she said softly. It says FOUND on the outside of the bin, but that’s it.” She smiled crookedly. It made her look younger than seventeen. Her freckles burst across both cheeks and her green eyes sparkled in the sun. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. But the aura, that swirl of dark was still there just under the surface. I felt sick with it. I held her gaze for as long as I dared.
“I’m out,” Maggie said, ruining the moment. She looked tired and nervous. Phoebe slung her arm across Maggie’s shoulders.
“I’ll walk you,” she said softly. That’s when everything went wrong. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming because I was closest to Tempe.
In an instant, Tempe’s hand snaked into my backpack and she came up with the knife, thrusting the air in front of her. “You’re not going fucking anywhere!” she yelled, only half kidding.
“Woah,” I yelled, trying to grab Tempe’s arm. She whirled away from me and closed in on them. Phoebe froze, but Maggie had the sense to pick up the orange rock and chuck it at Tempe. She ducked in time and rushed Maggie, grabbing her ponytail and holding the knife point up to her cheek just under her eye. I still don’t know why she choose Maggie. Maybe because she was a little afraid of Phoebe, just like I was a little afraid of Buck.
“Listen kiddos,” she said, her voice chipped and cracking. Her blue eyes were glassy as if tears were starting, but she was laughing. “I just want to get this done and win the prize!” Her eyes cut to the still deserted onramp. “No other team is even close! Just SHUT UP and LET’S DO THIS!” she screamed and pumped the air with her free hand as if leading a cheer. Tears were rolling down Maggie’s face and Phoebe’s lips were squeezed in a bloodless line.
“Alright, alright Tempe,” I said, keeping my voice low and soft. “Gimmie the knife and we are all…” I looked quickly to Maggie and Phoebs for support and they nodded slowly “we’re ALL gonna get this done.” She sighed dramatically and then tossed the knife in the dirt in front of my feet. When I stooped down to pick it up, Maggie turned into Phoebe’s arms for a hug, sobbing. Tempe swatted my ass and giggled. I picked her up and threw her over one shoulder, smacking her ass hard enough to leave a bruise. She gasped and then giggled again. I wanted to hit her harder. Hit her hard enough to get through to her. But I didn’t.
When we crossed back over Old T Bridge, Buck was sitting on the top trestle facing the river. Tempe saw him first and rolled her eyes at me. “Wackadoo is after Phoebes again, C.” she said. “Maybe you should talk to him?” It chafed that Tempe used Phoebe’s nickname for me. And she was trying so hard to be sweet that it was cloying, false as if she hadn’t been holding a knife on her little sister twenty minutes ago.
I sighed. “Yeah, I guess. Go back and apologize to Maggie and Phoebes too. I’ll try to do this quick so we don’t blow our lead.”
Tempe grinned her perfect teeth smile and kissed me on the cheek before trotting back to the girls. I watched her go, thinking suddenly that I hated her. She was really an empty wasteland.
I hopped the fence, swinging both legs over to straddle the trestle next to Buck. I saw the half-empty bottle of J.D. in his right hand. He held it low and swung it back and forth, matching the rhythm of his legs.
“Little early for the sauce yeah?” I said to the side of Buck’s face. He still hadn’t acknowledged I was there. When he finally turned, it was crazy what I saw. I’d seen Buck an hour earlier, but this Buck wore a totally different face. This Buck had two black eyes, a shattered nose (it lay against his left cheek) and his bottom lip was ripped open and hanging in two pieces. It must have hurt like hell to swig from the bottle.
“Who?” I asked. Buck didn’t answer, but of course I knew. I reached into my backpack and returned the knife. I wasn’t sure how Buck knew that his dad was coming for a visit, but he had. It wasn’t the first time he’d asked me to take the knife and each time he looked tuned up when I gave it back to him. I wondered whether he didn’t trust himself or was it that he thought his dad might kill him with it? I glanced over my shoulder and saw the girls were close.
Phoebe separated from the other girls once she got a good look at Buck. She took a couple of steps, hesitant at first and then ran hard for him, scrambling up over the fence and grabbing Buck from behind. I got one good look at her before she and he traded places on the trestle. That was my third chance to save her. I didn’t.
The last thing I saw before I turned back to Tempe was Phoebe place her hands gently on either side of Buck’s face, slowly letting her head fall forward until their foreheads were touching. I saw her lips moving as she whispered something lovely to Buck. It was an intimate moment, so I turned away, gritting my teeth.
Turning back, I missed what Tempe said, but I knew by the self-satisfied look on her face that it had been shitty. Maggie’s face cracked wide open. As I watched, her gloom dissolved and fury bloomed in its place. Maggie whipped her hair back as if summoning courage from the autumn wind and shoved Tempe hard. Tempe stumbled, falling to the pavement and Maggie climbed on top of her. She got one slap in, but Tempe was stronger. She rolled Maggie over one hip and pinned her underneath expertly, grinding her skull into the pavement and throwing handfuls of pebbles into her face and open mouth, drawing outraged tears and painful coughing from Maggie.
I was bending down to pull them apart when I heard Phoebe scream. I froze. Later I thought I had been absorbed in the spectacle in front of me. But that wasn’t true. Really, I had been waiting for this to happen. That’s why I didn’t move. I had known. Had in fact handed Buck the knife.
When I finally turned around, it was too late. The ruined face that stared out at me was void, dead already. He forced Phoebe to stand on the trestle, leaning into the vertical strut. Tears ran down her face and she was whimpering. Her large eyes were locked on mine. There was the girl I’d seen in the rearview. She’d been begging me silently all day, this Phoebe, to save her. And I’d done nothing. Nothing but hand him the knife.
It was only five steps from the Maggie-Tempe tangle to the railing where Buck and Phoebe stood. As I watched, he held her face out, making sure I had a good clear view. Then he brought out the still glinting knife and stabbed her in wide sweeping arcs once, twice, three times. Blood poured from her stomach, her chest, her neck. I was two steps out, my hands just touching the rail when Buck pushed off. She howled as she fell, screaming my name. The echoing cry found me, ringing up from under the bridge, hitting me over and over again.
I was still looking over the side, still scanning the water for any sign of her when I felt Tempe behind me. She ran her arms through mine, coiling into me like a snake.
“Oh, I’m so sorry…” she whispered, cooing into my ear. Then she giggled. It was the giggle that killed her. Not me.
Maggie was there for me after. She helped me tell my story, our story, to the police. She saved me, she loved me. She had always hated the nickname Tempe gave her. So she used Peggy instead.
---------------------------------------------------------
The Examination
No sooner had Villefort left the salon, than he assumed the grave air of a man who holds the balance of life and death in his hands. Now, in spite of the nobility of his countenance, the command of which, like a finished actor, he had carefully studied before the glass, it was by no means easy for him to assume an air of judicial severity. Except the recollection of the line of politics his father had adopted, and which might interfere, unless he acted with the greatest prudence, with his own career, Gérard de Villefort was as happy as a man could be. Already rich, he held a high official situation, though only twenty-seven. He was about to marry a young and charming woman, whom he loved, not passionately, but reasonably, as became a deputy attorney of the king; and besides her personal attractions, which were very great, Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran's family possessed considerable political influence, which they would, of course, exert in his favor. The dowry of his wife amounted to fifty thousand crowns, and he had, besides, the prospect of seeing her fortune increased to half a million at her father's death. These considerations naturally gave Villefort a feeling of such complete felicity that his mind was fairly dazzled in its contemplation.
At the door he met the commissary of police, who was waiting for him. The sight of this officer recalled Villefort from the third heaven to earth; he composed his face, as we have before described, and said, "I have read the letter, sir, and you have acted rightly in arresting this man; now inform me what you have discovered concerning him and the conspiracy."
"We know nothing as yet of the conspiracy, monsieur; all the papers found have been sealed up and placed on your desk. The prisoner himself is named Edmond Dantès, mate on board the three-master the Pharaon, trading in cotton with Alexandria and Smyrna, and belonging to Morrel & Son, of Marseilles."
"Before he entered the merchant service, had he ever served in the marines?"
"Oh, no, monsieur, he is very young."
"How old?"
"Nineteen or twenty at the most."
At this moment, and as Villefort had arrived at the corner of the Rue des Conseils, a man, who seemed to have been waiting for him, approached; it was M. Morrel.
"Ah, M. de Villefort," cried he, "I am delighted to see you. Some of your people have committed the strangest mistake—they have just arrested Edmond Dantès, mate of my vessel."
"I know it, monsieur," replied Villefort, "and I am now going to examine him."
"Oh," said Morrel, carried away by his friendship, "you do not know him, and I do. He is the most estimable, the most trustworthy creature in the world, and I will venture to say, there is not a better seaman in all the merchant service. Oh, M. de Villefort, I beseech your indulgence for him."
Villefort, as we have seen, belonged to the aristocratic party at Marseilles, Morrel to the plebeian; the first was a royalist, the other suspected of Bonapartism. Villefort looked disdainfully at Morrel, and replied,—
"You are aware, monsieur, that a man may be estimable and trustworthy in private life, and the best seaman in the merchant service, and yet be, politically speaking, a great criminal. Is it not true?"
The magistrate laid emphasis on these words, as if he wished to apply them to the owner himself, while his eyes seemed to plunge into the heart of one who, interceding for another, had himself need of indulgence. Morrel reddened, for his own conscience was not quite clear on politics; besides, what Dantès had told him of his interview with the grand-marshal, and what the emperor had said to him, embarrassed him. He replied, however,—
"I entreat you, M. de Villefort, be, as you always are, kind and equitable, and give him back to us soon." This give us sounded revolutionary in the deputy's ears.
"Ah, ah," murmured he, "is Dantès then a member of some Carbonari society, that his protector thus employs the collective form? He was, if I recollect, arrested in a tavern, in company with a great many others." Then he added, "Monsieur, you may rest assured I shall perform my duty impartially, and that if he be innocent you shall not have appealed to me in vain; should he, however, be guilty, in this present epoch, impunity would furnish a dangerous example, and I must do my duty."
As he had now arrived at the door of his own house, which adjoined the Palais de Justice, he entered, after having, coldly saluted the shipowner, who stood, as if petrified, on the spot where Villefort had left him. The antechamber was full of police agents and gendarmes, in the midst of whom, carefully watched, but calm and smiling, stood the prisoner. Villefort traversed the antechamber, cast a side glance at Dantès, and taking a packet which a gendarme offered him, disappeared, saying, "Bring in the prisoner."
Rapid as had been Villefort's glance, it had served to give him an idea of the man he was about to interrogate. He had recognized intelligence in the high forehead, courage in the dark eye and bent brow, and frankness in the thick lips that showed a set of pearly teeth. Villefort's first impression was favorable; but he had been so often warned to mistrust first impulses, that he applied the maxim to the impression, forgetting the difference between the two words. He stifled, therefore, the feelings of compassion that were rising, composed his features, and sat down, grim and sombre, at his desk. An instant after Dantès entered. He was pale, but calm and collected, and saluting his judge with easy politeness, looked round for a seat, as if he had been in M. Morrel's salon. It was then that he encountered for the first time Villefort's look,—that look peculiar to the magistrate, who, while seeming to read the thoughts of others, betrays nothing of his own.
"Who and what are you?" demanded Villefort, turning over a pile of papers, containing information relative to the prisoner, that a police agent had given to him on his entry, and that, already, in an hour's time, had swelled to voluminous proportions, thanks to the corrupt espionage of which "the accused" is always made the victim.
"My name is Edmond Dantès," replied the young man calmly; "I am mate of the Pharaon, belonging to Messrs. Morrel & Son."
"Your age?" continued Villefort.
"Nineteen," returned Dantès.
"What were you doing at the moment you were arrested?"
"I was at the festival of my marriage, monsieur," said the young man, his voice slightly tremulous, so great was the contrast between that happy moment and the painful ceremony he was now undergoing; so great was the contrast between the sombre aspect of M. de Villefort and the radiant face of Mercédès.
"You were at the festival of your marriage?" said the deputy, shuddering in spite of himself.
"Yes, monsieur; I am on the point of marrying a young girl I have been attached to for three years." Villefort, impassive as he was, was struck with this coincidence; and the tremulous voice of Dantès, surprised in the midst of his happiness, struck a sympathetic chord in his own bosom—he also was on the point of being married, and he was summoned from his own happiness to destroy that of another. "This philosophic reflection," thought he, "will make a great sensation at M. de Saint-Méran's;" and he arranged mentally, while Dantès awaited further questions, the antithesis by which orators often create a reputation for eloquence. When this speech was arranged, Villefort turned to Dantès.
"Go on, sir," said he.
"What would you have me say?"
"Give all the information in your power."
"Tell me on which point you desire information, and I will tell all I know; only," added he, with a smile, "I warn you I know very little."
"Have you served under the usurper?"
"I was about to be mustered into the Royal Marines when he fell."
"It is reported your political opinions are extreme," said Villefort, who had never heard anything of the kind, but was not sorry to make this inquiry, as if it were an accusation.
"My political opinions!" replied Dantès. "Alas, sir, I never had any opinions. I am hardly nineteen; I know nothing; I have no part to play. If I obtain the situation I desire, I shall owe it to M. Morrel. Thus all my opinions—I will not say public, but private—are confined to these three sentiments,—I love my father, I respect M. Morrel, and I adore Mercédès. This, sir, is all I can tell you, and you see how uninteresting it is." As Dantès spoke, Villefort gazed at his ingenuous and open countenance, and recollected the words of Renée, who, without knowing who the culprit was, had besought his indulgence for him. With the deputy's knowledge of crime and criminals, every word the young man uttered convinced him more and more of his innocence. This lad, for he was scarcely a man,—simple, natural, eloquent with that eloquence of the heart never found when sought for; full of affection for everybody, because he was happy, and because happiness renders even the wicked good—extended his affection even to his judge, spite of Villefort's severe look and stern accent. Dantès seemed full of kindness.
"Pardieu!" said Villefort, "he is a noble fellow. I hope I shall gain Renée's favor easily by obeying the first command she ever imposed on me. I shall have at least a pressure of the hand in public, and a sweet kiss in private." Full of this idea, Villefort's face became so joyous, that when he turned to Dantès, the latter, who had watched the change on his physiognomy, was smiling also.
"Sir," said Villefort, "have you any enemies, at least, that you know."
"I have enemies?" replied Dantès; "my position is not sufficiently elevated for that. As for my disposition, that is, perhaps, somewhat too hasty; but I have striven to repress it. I have had ten or twelve sailors under me, and if you question them, they will tell you that they love and respect me, not as a father, for I am too young, but as an elder brother."
"But you may have excited jealousy. You are about to become captain at nineteen—an elevated post; you are about to marry a pretty girl, who loves you; and these two pieces of good fortune may have excited the envy of someone."
"You are right; you know men better than I do, and what you say may possibly be the case, I confess; but if such persons are among my acquaintances I prefer not to know it, because then I should be forced to hate them."
"You are wrong; you should always strive to see clearly around you. You seem a worthy young man; I will depart from the strict line of my duty to aid you in discovering the author of this accusation. Here is the paper; do you know the writing?" As he spoke, Villefort drew the letter from his pocket, and presented it to Dantès. Dantès read it. A cloud passed over his brow as he said,—
"No, monsieur, I do not know the writing, and yet it is tolerably plain. Whoever did it writes well. I am very fortunate," added he, looking gratefully at Villefort, "to be examined by such a man as you; for this envious person is a real enemy." And by the rapid glance that the young man's eyes shot forth, Villefort saw how much energy lay hid beneath this mildness.
"Now," said the deputy, "answer me frankly, not as a prisoner to a judge, but as one man to another who takes an interest in him, what truth is there in the accusation contained in this anonymous letter?" And Villefort threw disdainfully on his desk the letter Dantès had just given back to him.
"None at all. I will tell you the real facts. I swear by my honor as a sailor, by my love for Mercédès, by the life of my father——"
"Speak, monsieur," said Villefort. Then, internally, "If Renée could see me, I hope she would be satisfied, and would no longer call me a decapitator."
"Well, when we quitted Naples, Captain Leclere was attacked with a brain fever. As we had no doctor on board, and he was so anxious to arrive at Elba, that he would not touch at any other port, his disorder rose to such a height, that at the end of the third day, feeling he was dying, he called me to him. 'My dear Dantès,' said he, 'swear to perform what I am going to tell you, for it is a matter of the deepest importance.'
"'I swear, captain,' replied I.
"'Well, as after my death the command devolves on you as mate, assume the command, and bear up for the Island of Elba, disembark at Porto-Ferrajo, ask for the grand-marshal, give him this letter—perhaps they will give you another letter, and charge you with a commission. You will accomplish what I was to have done, and derive all the honor and profit from it.'
"'I will do it, captain; but perhaps I shall not be admitted to the grand-marshal's presence as easily as you expect?'
"'Here is a ring that will obtain audience of him, and remove every difficulty,' said the captain. At these words he gave me a ring. It was time—two hours after he was delirious; the next day he died."
"And what did you do then?"
"What I ought to have done, and what everyone would have done in my place. Everywhere the last requests of a dying man are sacred; but with a sailor the last requests of his superior are commands. I sailed for the Island of Elba, where I arrived the next day; I ordered everybody to remain on board, and went on shore alone. As I had expected, I found some difficulty in obtaining access to the grand-marshal; but I sent the ring I had received from the captain to him, and was instantly admitted. He questioned me concerning Captain Leclere's death; and, as the latter had told me, gave me a letter to carry on to a person in Paris. I undertook it because it was what my captain had bade me do. I landed here, regulated the affairs of the vessel, and hastened to visit my affianced bride, whom I found more lovely than ever. Thanks to M. Morrel, all the forms were got over; in a word I was, as I told you, at my marriage feast; and I should have been married in an hour, and tomorrow I intended to start for Paris, had I not been arrested on this charge which you as well as I now see to be unjust."
"Ah," said Villefort, "this seems to me the truth. If you have been culpable, it was imprudence, and this imprudence was in obedience to the orders of your captain. Give up this letter you have brought from Elba, and pass your word you will appear should you be required, and go and rejoin your friends.
"I am free, then, sir?" cried Dantès joyfully.
"Yes; but first give me this letter."
"You have it already, for it was taken from me with some others which I see in that packet."
"Stop a moment," said the deputy, as Dantès took his hat and gloves. "To whom is it addressed?"
"To Monsieur Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, Paris." Had a thunderbolt fallen into the room, Villefort could not have been more stupefied. He sank into his seat, and hastily turning over the packet, drew forth the fatal letter, at which he glanced with an expression of terror.
"M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, No. 13," murmured he, growing still paler.
"Yes," said Dantès; "do you know him?"
"No," replied Villefort; "a faithful servant of the king does not know conspirators."
"It is a conspiracy, then?" asked Dantès, who after believing himself free, now began to feel a tenfold alarm. "I have, however, already told you, sir, I was entirely ignorant of the contents of the letter."
"Yes; but you knew the name of the person to whom it was addressed," said Villefort.
"I was forced to read the address to know to whom to give it."
"Have you shown this letter to anyone?" asked Villefort, becoming still more pale.
"To no one, on my honor."
"Everybody is ignorant that you are the bearer of a letter from the Island of Elba, and addressed to M. Noirtier?"
"Everybody, except the person who gave it to me."
"And that was too much, far too much," murmured Villefort. Villefort's brow darkened more and more, his white lips and clenched teeth filled Dantès with apprehension. After reading the letter, Villefort covered his face with his hands.
"Oh," said Dantès timidly, "what is the matter?" Villefort made no answer, but raised his head at the expiration of a few seconds, and again perused the letter.
"And you say that you are ignorant of the contents of this letter?"
"I give you my word of honor, sir," said Dantès; "but what is the matter? You are ill—shall I ring for assistance?—shall I call?"
"No," said Villefort, rising hastily; "stay where you are. It is for me to give orders here, and not you."
"Monsieur," replied Dantès proudly, "it was only to summon assistance for you."
"I want none; it was a temporary indisposition. Attend to yourself; answer me." Dantès waited, expecting a question, but in vain. Villefort fell back on his chair, passed his hand over his brow, moist with perspiration, and, for the third time, read the letter.
"Oh, if he knows the contents of this!" murmured he, "and that Noirtier is the father of Villefort, I am lost!" And he fixed his eyes upon Edmond as if he would have penetrated his thoughts.
"Oh, it is impossible to doubt it," cried he, suddenly.
"In heaven's name!" cried the unhappy young man, "if you doubt me, question me; I will answer you." Villefort made a violent effort, and in a tone he strove to render firm,—
"Sir," said he, "I am no longer able, as I had hoped, to restore you immediately to liberty; before doing so, I must consult the trial justice; what my own feeling is you already know."
"Oh, monsieur," cried Dantès, "you have been rather a friend than a judge."
"Well, I must detain you some time longer, but I will strive to make it as short as possible. The principal charge against you is this letter, and you see——" Villefort approached the fire, cast it in, and waited until it was entirely consumed.
"You see, I destroy it?"
"Oh," exclaimed Dantès, "you are goodness itself."
"Listen," continued Villefort; "you can now have confidence in me after what I have done."
"Oh, command, and I will obey."
"Listen; this is not a command, but advice I give you."
"Speak, and I will follow your advice."
"I shall detain you until this evening in the Palais de Justice. Should anyone else interrogate you, say to him what you have said to me, but do not breathe a word of this letter."
"I promise." It was Villefort who seemed to entreat, and the prisoner who reassured him.
"You see," continued he, glancing toward the grate, where fragments of burnt paper fluttered in the flames, "the letter is destroyed; you and I alone know of its existence; should you, therefore, be questioned, deny all knowledge of it—deny it boldly, and you are saved."
"Be satisfied; I will deny it."
"It was the only letter you had?"
"It was."
"Swear it."
"I swear it."
Villefort rang. A police agent entered. Villefort whispered some words in his ear, to which the officer replied by a motion of his head.
"Follow him," said Villefort to Dantès. Dantès saluted Villefort and retired. Hardly had the door closed when Villefort threw himself half-fainting into a chair.
"Alas, alas," murmured he, "if the procureur himself had been at Marseilles I should have been ruined. This accursed letter would have destroyed all my hopes. Oh, my father, must your past career always interfere with my successes?" Suddenly a light passed over his face, a smile played round his set mouth, and his haggard eyes were fixed in thought.
"This will do," said he, "and from this letter, which might have ruined me, I will make my fortune. Now to the work I have in hand." And after having assured himself that the prisoner was gone, the deputy procureur hastened to the house of his betrothed.