Chapter 186: Chapter 186

Two days later, a crowd gathered outside the Villefort mansion around ten in the morning. A long line of black funeral cars and private vehicles stretched down the upscale boulevard, an impressive display of wealth and status.

Among them sat one particularly unusual vehicle, a black covered wagon that looked like it had traveled from far away. It had arrived first, and when people asked about it, they discovered something shocking: inside was the body of the Marquis de Saint-Méran, Valentine’s grandfather. What was supposed to be one funeral had suddenly become two.

The crowd swelled. The Marquis had been a powerful man with many connections in high society, and combined with those who felt obligated to attend out of respect for Prosecutor Villefort’s position, the gathering was massive.

After the authorities gave permission for a joint ceremony, a second hearse arrived at the Villefort residence. Both bodies would be buried in the famous Père-Lachaise cemetery, where Villefort had already purchased a family vault. His first wife Renée had been laid to rest there years ago, and now, after a decade of separation, her parents would finally be reunited with their daughter.

The Parisians watching the procession fell silent, captivated by the somber spectacle. Two members of the old aristocracy were being laid to rest, pillars of traditional society who had remained loyal to their principles until the end.

Inside one of the mourning coaches, three young men, Beauchamp, Debray, and Château-Renaud, were discussing the marchioness’s sudden death.

"I saw Madame de Saint-Méran just last year in Marseilles," Château-Renaud said. "She seemed like she’d live to be a hundred. So energetic, so sharp. How old was she actually?"

"Franz told me she was sixty-six," Albert replied. "But she didn’t die of old age. It was grief. Ever since the marquis died, she never fully recovered mentally."

"What was the actual cause of death?" Debray asked.

"They’re saying it was a stroke or brain hemorrhage, basically the same thing, right?"

Beauchamp frowned. "I don’t buy the stroke theory. I met Madame de Saint-Méran once. She was petite, slender, more anxious than robust. That body type doesn’t usually suffer strokes from grief."

"Well, whatever killed her," Albert said casually, "Villefort’s daughter Valentine, or really, our friend Franz, just inherited a fortune. We’re talking about 80,000 livres a year."

"And that’ll double when the old revolutionary Noirtier finally kicks the bucket."

"That grandfather is stubborn as hell," Beauchamp said with a dark laugh. "He’s like one of those ancient warriors, determined to outlive everyone. He reminds me of those old revolutionaries from the 1790s. The man’s made of iron. Only one thing puzzles me, how’s Franz going to handle having a grandfather-in-law he can’t separate from his wife? Speaking of which, where is Franz?"

"In the first car with Villefort. They’re already treating him like family."

Similar conversations filled the other vehicles. These two sudden deaths, coming so close together, shocked everyone. But no one suspected the terrible secret that Dr. d’Avrigny had shared with Villefort during their midnight conversation.

After an hour’s drive, they reached the cemetery. The weather matched the mood, overcast and gray, perfect for a burial.

Among the groups moving toward the family vault, Château-Renaud spotted Morrel, who had arrived alone in a small carriage and was walking silently along a path lined with dark evergreen trees.

"You here?" Château-Renaud said, linking arms with the young captain. "Are you friends with Villefort? I’ve never seen you at his house."

"I’m not acquainted with Mr. Villefort," Morrel answered quietly. "But I knew Madame de Saint-Méran."

Albert and Franz joined them at that moment. Updates are released by ⓝovelFire.net

"Not exactly the best time and place for introductions," Albert said, "but we’re not superstitious. Morrel, meet Franz d’Epinay, my traveling companion from Italy. Franz, this is Maximilian Morrel, an excellent friend I made while you were away. You’ll hear me mention him whenever I talk about loyalty, intelligence, or good company."

Morrel hesitated. It felt hypocritical to greet the man he was secretly opposing, the man engaged to Valentine, the woman he loved. But he remembered his oath and the seriousness of the situation. Swallowing his emotions, he bowed to Franz.

"Miss Villefort must be devastated," Debray said to Franz.

"Absolutely," Franz replied. "She looked so pale this morning I barely recognized her."

Those simple words cut through Morrel like a knife. This man had seen Valentine. Had spoken to her. The young officer needed every ounce of self-control to keep from breaking his promise. He grabbed Château-Renaud’s arm and turned toward the vault, where workers had already positioned both coffins.

"Quite the magnificent residence," Beauchamp commented, gesturing at the mausoleum. "A palace for all seasons. You’ll end up here too eventually, d’Epinay, since you’re joining the family. Me? I’d prefer something simpler, a little cottage under the trees, not all this marble weighing down my corpse. When I die, I’ll echo what one philosopher said: ’I’m heading to the countryside, and that’s the end of it.’ But come on, Franz, cheer up. Your wife is rich."

"God, Beauchamp, you’re insufferable," Franz snapped. "Politics has made you cynical about everything. When you’re around normal people, try finding that compassionate heart you check at the door like an umbrella whenever you go to work."

"But seriously," Beauchamp continued, "what is life if not just a waiting room for death?"

"I’m done with Beauchamp," Albert said, pulling Franz away and leaving the cynical journalist to finish his philosophical rambling with Debray.

The Villefort vault was a square structure of white stone, about twenty feet high. An interior wall separated two family sections, each with its own entrance. Unlike other tombs with their stacked drawers that treated the dead like museum specimens, this vault featured an elegant antechamber visible through bronze gates. The two doors in the middle wall led to separate crypts for the Villefort and Saint-Méran families. Here, grief could be expressed privately, without interruption from curious tourists or young lovers using the cemetery as a meeting spot.