Chapter 189: Chapter 189

The document went on to describe the growing tension in the secret meeting, how the club members had grown angry at General d’Epinay’s refusal to join them.

"’You must either swear to keep our secret, or you must die,’" Franz read, his voice cracking. "Oh God... they threatened to kill him."

Valentine’s hand flew to her mouth. Villefort paced behind them like a caged animal. Noirtier sat perfectly still, his commanding presence filling the room.

Franz read on, describing how his father had initially refused to take the oath, how he’d been surrounded by armed conspirators, how he’d finally relented when reminded he had a son to think about.

"’I swear by my honor not to reveal what I have seen and heard on February 5th, 1815, between nine and ten o’clock in the evening. I accept death as punishment should I ever violate this oath,’" Franz read his father’s forced promise.

The document continued, explaining how General d’Epinay had been blindfolded again and led back to a carriage with three club members, including the president and the driver.

"’Where do you wish to be taken?’ the president asked. ’Anywhere away from you,’ my father replied." Franz’s voice hardened with bitter pride at his father’s defiance.

But then the tone shifted darker. Franz read how his father had insulted the men in the carriage, how the president had stopped the coach at the river’s edge, how he’d challenged General d’Epinay to a duel.

"A duel?" Franz whispered, his eyes wide with horror.

He read on, describing the freezing February night, the icy steps leading down to the black river, the two men facing each other with drawn swords while witnesses held a lantern.

"’The president’s sword was five inches shorter than the General’s and had no guard,’" Franz read, his voice trembling. "’But when my father suggested they draw lots for weapons, the president refused, saying he would fight with his own blade.’"

The account described the duel in brutal detail, how General d’Epinay, despite being an expert swordsman, had fallen twice, how he’d accused his opponent of being a professional duelist, how the president had shown three wounds he’d already received but hadn’t even acknowledged.

Franz’s voice broke completely as he reached the final lines: "’General d’Epinay died five minutes later. The president climbed the steps, leaving a trail of blood on the snow. He heard a heavy splash, the General’s body being thrown into the frozen river. The General fell in a fair duel, not in ambush as might have been reported. We sign this document to establish the truth, lest anyone accuse the participants of murder or of violating the laws of honor. Signed: Beaurepaire, Duchampy, and Lecharpal.’"

Silence filled the room like a physical presence. Valentine’s face was pale, tears streaming down her cheeks. Villefort had retreated to a corner, trembling. Noirtier remained motionless, his expression one of terrible dignity.

"Sir," Franz said, turning to face Noirtier directly, his voice raw with grief and rage, "since you clearly know all these details, since these honorable signatures confirm the truth, since you seem to have some interest in my welfare, even though you’ve only shown it by causing me pain, please grant me one final answer. Tell me the name of the club president. Tell me who killed my father."

Villefort’s hand instinctively reached for the door handle. Valentine, who understood her grandfather’s communication better than anyone, and who had often noticed the two scars on his right arm, took several steps backward, her face ashen.

"Miss Valentine," Franz said, turning to her desperately, "help me. Help me discover the name of the man who made me an orphan at two years old."

Valentine couldn’t speak. She stood frozen, her eyes wide with dawning horror.

"Stop this," Villefort said sharply. "Don’t prolong this nightmare. The names were deliberately concealed. Even my father doesn’t know who the president was. And even if he did, he couldn’t tell you, proper names aren’t in the dictionary."

"No!" Franz cried out. "The only hope that kept me reading through that horror was learning the name of my father’s killer! Sir," he turned back to Noirtier, desperation breaking his voice, "please, make me understand somehow!"

Yes, Noirtier’s eyes promised.

"Miss Valentine!" Franz grabbed her arm. "Your grandfather says he can show me! Please, help me understand!"

Noirtier’s gaze moved to the dictionary.

Franz snatched it up with shaking hands and began reciting the alphabet. When he reached the letter M, Noirtier’s eyes signaled yes.

"M," Franz repeated, his finger running down the page. At each word, Noirtier indicated no. Valentine buried her face in her hands, unable to watch.

Finally, Franz’s finger landed on a word. His face went completely white.

"MYSELF," he whispered.

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"You?" Franz’s voice cracked into a scream. "You, Mr. Noirtier? You killed my father?"

The single affirmation hit like a physical blow, echoing through the room with the weight of judgment. Noirtier held Franz’s gaze with a look of terrible, majestic pride, the expression of a man who had faced his past, measured his choices, and found no reason to repent. His still body seemed carved from stone, but his eyes blazed with the power of unspoken conviction.

Franz collapsed into a chair, his world shattering around him like glass. He could scarcely breathe; every word, every glance, now carried the unbearable knowledge of betrayal and fate intertwined. Villefort, pale and shaken, threw open the door and fled, unable to endure another instant in the presence of his father, this terrible, unyielding old man whose buried secrets continued to destroy everything they touched, no matter how tightly they were hidden.

The truth lingered in the air like smoke that refused to dissipate. Valentine’s beloved grandfather was, inescapably, the man who had slain her fiancé’s father in a duel decades before. The revelation stretched between them, vast and merciless. The marriage, once blessed and bright with promise, was now impossible. Everything was ruined, love, loyalty, even hope itself. And Noirtier, paralyzed and ancient, had orchestrated this reckoning with deliberate precision, wielding truth as his final weapon, a sword he could no longer lift but one that still struck with perfect, devastating aim.