Chapter Text
Danglars was dead, to start with. Let all doubts of that be immediately purged. The register of his death was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. It was signed by Villefort. And even outside of his work Villefort’s signature meant whatever was signed was surely the unquestionable law.
Danglars was as dead as dead could be. Not that I know how dead dead can be or how anything could be more dead than another. It’s easy to assume all things that have died are equal in death as they are all simply dead. But, still, no one could deny that Danglars was as dead as could be.
Villefort, naturally, was beyond aware of that fact. He is—was—Danglars’s partner, after all. Now, you might ask how much the affairs of banking and law could truly overlap. You would be shocked at the extensive answers and explanations either could provide if asked, as if the both of them had frequently rehearsed answers for that exact question countless times since they had decided a partnership was more convenient than two separate offices opposite each other on the same street. Regardless, it always meant the moment some poor soul failed to pay back a debt to Danglars he always had a loyal dog at his feet to promptly set upon them, and such was Villefort’s limited role in the monetary affairs until Danglars died and left them under his control as well. The two upheld their partnership in such a way for I don’t know how many years. Villefort was his sole executor, sole partner, sole friend, and sole mourner. Even then, Villefort presented very little grief to the public eye, he had all the legal affairs quickly wrapped up with an expert hand, and was back to business as usual the very same day the funeral took place.
And with the discussion of the funeral we return to the core of the matter which is that Danglars is, without doubt, utterly dead. It is essential that is both understood and remembered. For the living walking the Earth is quite common place and the dead far less so.
Though, Villefort never did paint over his name on the sign. Years had passed since his death, and there it stood. Villefort and Danglars. So it was eternally known. On occasion newcomers called Villefort Villefort and on other occasions he was Danglars. It was all the same, he answered to both without a word of correction.
And let us not forget Villefort, who as of yet still roams with the living, and yet is surely no less ghastly. A man purely carved from the cold stone of uncaring sin. It cannot be denied solitude was one of very few things that truly fit him and it was just to keep it as such.
Yes, no man would rush to greet Villefort when he roamed the streets. No stranger wished to meet his eye. Children playing in the streets were quick to scatter away from where he walked and stray cats and dogs did much the same for even they knew Villefort was a man who was an expert at judging harshly and every living creature instinctively wished to be spared as much of his uncaring justice as possible.
What did it matter to Villefort! He preferred living his life in solitude by a vast amount, preferred it more than most anything. A loving man’s curse was quite easily that cold man’s blessing.
Truly, he was a man whose frozen heart within his chest spread its frigidness throughout his entire body and out into the world around him. No cold could chill Villefort with such a heart of ice and, thusly, he kept the office iced over during the dog days and no warmer when Christmas marched forth.
It is such on the Christmas Eve that begins our tale. All of France had frozen over, icy streets consumed by both frost and fog, the frozen day creating all the more contrast to the warmth of joy the next day would surely usher in. And, in fact, that joy had already begun to light up the faces and warm the cheeks of the people who passed about on the streets before Villefort’s window. A joy he found utterly foolish and had no intention of indulging in. Perhaps that is why it was rumored his office was even colder than the frozen streets.
No complaints were uttered by Villefort in his own office, but, through a door kept eternally open for monitoring the far smaller side room, a great many complaints were surely stifled by the man’s clerk. While Villefort spared himself no great fire it could’ve been a raging bonfire compared to what the clerk was allowed, small enough to be more candle than fire. But he could not change that fact, for Villefort kept the coal box within his office and would sharply send the clerk right back to work the moment he stepped out of his room and, naturally, he stood no chance of ever making it to the box. His one respite was his coat, visibly frequently tailored often with differing mismatched scraps of spare fabric to make it as warm as possible. It is enough to silence any complaints, for Villefort would surely be quick to relieve him of his job at any inconvenience and save himself the pocket change allotted for his salary.
“It is a merry Christmas, Gérard, God save you!” A bright voice calls, loudly announcing his presence as if he were the sun come to give a futile effort to melt away the eternal ice of the office. Albert entered quickly, for so much time as Villefort’s son-in-law had taught him to do so if he wanted any hope of not being immediately thrown out, and this call is Villefort’s first warning of his presence. Of course, Albert had already made his way inside at that point and it was too late for Villefort to stop it.
He sets his papers down with some force, natural scowl only deepening further. “It is Monsieur de Villefort to you. And humbug to it all!”
Albert has ten times the warmth of any average man to match the fact Villefort has a hundred times the coldness. It shines through especially with how he has briskly walked through the cold to the office. He carries his boyish glee especially clearly then in his flushed cheeks and shining eyes, an appearance that didn’t falter even at Villefort’s immediately dismissal.
“Has the merriment not warmed your soul at all?”
“You’re interrupting my work for such foolish nonsense? What right have you to be merry, what reason, in your depths of poverty?”
“What right have you to be miserable, what reason, in your highs of wealth?”
Villefort has no immediate response to that. He presses his lips in a thin line, clears his throat, then scowls in the manner he had picked up from Danglars and mutters, “Bah! Humbug.”
“I don’t come to frustrate you.”
“What else could you have come to do? The crown fool in this world full of them. ‘Merry Christmas.’ A joy for fools in a season when you ought to concern yourself with bills you have not the money to pay and your rising age not coming with a lowering of obliviousness. Were it within my control, to speak such a phrase would be a capital offense and I would report to the courts with great joy each day to sentence your ilk to the darkest pits of the coldest prisons. A merry Christmas you would have then, indeed!”
“Gérard!”
“Morcerf.” Villefort still refuses to call him by any other title, regardless of his marriage to his son. “You celebrate in your manner and I will mine.”
Albert scoffs softly. “You do not celebrate at all, Villefort.”
“Then let me have a normal day’s peace. Much good your celebrations have ever done you!”
“Yes, much they have!” Albert steps closer, utterly stubborn in his joy. “Perhaps not in your world where a man can only gain or lose money and status, but in my world a man has a great deal of joy to gain or lose. I have gained much, then, from the merriment of the one season that, to all but you, is no longer about wealth or status, but about all being people together united in joy. Much good it would do you too if you would allow it to.”
The clerk in the tank applauded involuntarily at the utter joy the young man could inject in his words. It takes one’s withering glare from Villefort for him to scramble to look busy, poking the little fire and extinguishing the last ember forever with a soft mutter of despair.
“Another sound from you and you can celebrate your Christmas with your firing. And you.” Villefort turns back toward Albert. “It is a wonder you don’t go into politics with how you can speak such passionate, simple-minded nonsense.”
“Oh, don’t be angry, Gérard. Come and dine with Benedetto and me tomorrow. You know we would welcome you.”
“You will be far more likely to dine with me in Hell. Yes, in fact, I will see you there, Morcerf.”
“But why, Villefort, why?”
“Why did you get married?”
“Because I love your son.”
“Love!” Villefort growled. Then, he barked out a singular laugh, a cruel and ugly thing, for in his eyes that was the one thing more foolish than a Merry Christmas. He returns his gaze to his files. “Good afternoon!”
“I know you hardly saw Benedetto before our marriage, so I will not be your excuse. Why won’t you come?”
“Good afternoon.”
“Have you ever stopped to think he might want you there? Neither of us ever ask or want anything from you, is this too much? Why can we not be friends?”
“Good. Afternoon.”
“I am sorry I cannot sway you. We have never fought, have no reasons for hatred between us. But I suppose I will try again next year, I won’t give up my mission nor my good humor in the spirit of the season. A merry Christmas, Gérard!”
“Good afternoon!”
“And a happy New Year!”
“Good! Afternoon!”
Albert leaves without an angry word. He stops in the doorway and looks into the tank. “A merry Christmas to you, Edmond.”
Although the clerk is chilled outwardly by his work, his soul remains warmed, as evidenced by the smile he gives in return. “A merry Christmas to you, too, Albert. God bless you.”
Albert leaves with the same smile he enters with.
“Now there’s a sight,” Villefort mutters, overhearing the interaction. “My clerk, working half the jobs in town to support his family on a poor man’s pittance and he speaks of a merry Christmas. Danglars has surely left a lunatic in my employment.”
And it had, indeed, been Danglars who hired the clerk before his aforementioned death. Though less so for his assistance and more so to have a verbal punching bag eternally within immediate reach. Edmond took it well enough, for he never left. Villefort had toed the line with letting him go, but had not yet found the man inconvenient enough to take on the droll activities of banking himself.
This supposed lunatic, in letting out Albert, let in two new gentlemen, clearly pleasant and bright, which was certainly the opposite of endearing to Villefort.
“This is Villefort and Danglars’s, yes? Do we have the pleasure of speaking to M. Villefort or M. Danglars?”
“M. Danglars died seven years ago to the date. But, yes, I am Villefort.”
“Ah. May he rest in peace.” One of the gentlemen holds out his credentials. “I am certain his generosity lives on in his partner.”
Villefort scowls at the mere mention of generosity, though their comment was not incorrect. Villefort and Danglars had grown to be kindred spirits in that regard. He is quick to hand the credentials back. “Quite.”
“In such a giving time of year it is always encouraged for the fortunate to spare some joy and charity to the poor, who need it more than ever. There are thousands without necessities and hundreds of thousands without comforts, Monsieur.”
“Are there no prisons?”
“There are plenty.”
“And union workhouses?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Good. From the way you were speaking I feared the opposite. Excellent to hear they are continuing their useful work.”
“Monsieur, with all due respect, my work has often had me see the conditions of such places first hand. There is no merriment to be found or life to be lived there. A few of us wish to raise a fund to buy food, drink, and warmth for those of us who need it most in the season of kindness and giving itself. What shall I put down for you?”
“Nothing!”
“You wish to be left anonymous?”
Villefort scoffs. “I wish to be left alone. I don’t concern myself with merriment and I don’t care to do so for the idle. I must pay for those establishments, must pay a great deal, and that is more than enough, surely.”
“Many cannot go there, Monsieur, or would rather die.”
“Well, if they wish to die so badly, let them. They ought not stall when they could do us all a favor and solve the world’s overpopulation issue. It doesn’t affect me in the slightest.”
“It could, Monsieur.”
“Hardly. It is none of my business. A man’s own business is more than enough for him to carry and mine occupies me constantly. You ask if I share M. Danglars’s generosity and I hold just as little as he did, to not be weighed down by useless concerns. Good afternoon, gentlemen!”
The men see Villefort is set in his stubbornness and leave. Villefort gives it no care, returning promptly to his work. In fact, he is a tad good-tempered and pleased with himself.
Meanwhile, the darkness, cold, and fog continue outside of the office, growing and further consuming the streets. Many quickened their pace toward carriages or to the working men’s bonfire, or the church just next door. Despite the chill, the few who could be seen through the fog were laughing and chattering as they ran about, both friend and stranger alike. The streets were lined with bright shops full of only the most enticing objects and foods for those passing by to witness with a unique delight from the reminder of the next day’s events.
Truly, no one roaming the streets was not wrapped up in winter’s frigid hands. One such wanderer, young nose red with the chill and body gnawed by hunger, the eternal predator of man, yet face alight in joy, stopped at Villefort’s door to spread that joy. And yet, at the first sound of:
“God bless you, merry gentlemen! May nothing you dismay!”
Villefort seized his cane with such a sudden, threatening movement that the singer fled in terror, leaving the doorstep once again unoccupied.
Finally, the time comes to close. Villefort admits the fact to his clerk, who wastes no time in standing to leave.
“You’ll want all day tomorrow?” asks Villefort.
“If convenient, Monsieur.”
“Do not placate me, you are well-aware it is quite the opposite. And yet if I were to withhold funds, you would think me cruel.”
The clerk smiled faintly.
“You do not think yourself cruel, making me pay for no work to be done.”
“It is only once a year, Monsieur.”
“Were you to break into my home and steal your fill each and every twenty-fifth of December would you still think yourself so tragically mistreated to be subject to my ire?” Villefort huffs as he fastens his cloak. “But you must have the whole day. I expect you here early the next morning in return.”
“Of course, Monsieur, I promise it.”
Villefort leaves with a growl. The clerk wastes no time in closing up in a flash and running home, keeping his patchwork coat wrapped tightly around him. It is likely thanks to the fog all about that, as he leaves, he does not notice one of his own children lingering about near the office to follow along behind Villefort at some distance until he has followed the man right up to the gates of his home.
It is then, pushed by the threat his opportunity will vanish entirely, that the young man speaks. “Monsieur de Villefort. I—Might I have a moment of your time?”
Villefort could not wish to have another conversation that day any less than he did, yet it was such a rare occurrence for him to be stopped in such a way that he turns to face the man.
“I am Maximilien Morrel, Monsieur. The eldest son of your clerk, Edmond Dantès?”
“Oh.” Villefort’s expression couldn’t have soured faster. “Is that so? And why are you bothering me?”
The young man draws in a shaky breath, clutching his fists to steady himself. “Monsieur, your daughter and I are in love. We wish for your blessing toward our relationship.”
Villefort takes a singular step back then two swift steps forward, grimace deepening. “Love? You’re in love, you say?”
The young man, unlike many might in his shoes, does not run. He stays before Villefort, even if he fears him. “Yes, Monsieur. I love your daughter with all my heart.”
Some may, perhaps, find the gesture and declaration heart-warming, would be pleased. Villefort is not one for such sentimentality in the slightest. Surely nothing could be more insulting than Dantès's son asking for his daughter’s hand for love. The fact Benedetto had run off with Albert with nothing but his mother’s blessing was bad enough, but this would not be allowed to stand.
“You will embrace God in death long before you would ever be allowed to embrace my daughter in marriage. For only one of those is achievable for a man such as you, boy. Yes, ask God to grant you love for I certainly will not.”
“Monsieur,” the young man protests, but Villefort doesn’t let him finish the word.
“You think you will get far chasing love in this world? You can waste your time with love when you can afford it and that certainly will not be taken from my pocket. You can inform your father that he is no longer needed at my office and I had best not see him the day after tomorrow there at all.”
The young man baulks. “Wait, Monsieur, please!”
Villefort walks through the gate to his house. “Until the day you die, you will never be allowed by Valentine’s side. I will not be insulted.”
The young man makes a noise akin to a mortally wounded animal as Villefort slams the gate shut behind him and locks it.
Villefort lived in Danglars’s old lodgings. It is uncertain when exactly he first moved in, but he had certainly lived there at least as long as Danglars had been dead and, in reality, likely quite a bit longer than that. It was a drab place. One room went to Villefort, one to his daughter, and the rest were let out as offices. This effect was only enhanced by the particularly dark night to the point where even Villefort had to grope about the yard until he made it to the door.
This brings us to the door knocker. One might ask why such a mundane object deserves such focus. And nothing in particular is that unique about it, save that it is particularly large. Alongside that, Villefort had seen it that morning. He had seen it every day and night since he first entered the house. And alongside that, Villefort had spared no thought to his dead partner since the conversation with the gentlemen earlier. I dare you, then, to give me any rational explanation as to how it is that Villefort, with his key already within the lock, saw within the knocker, without any clear changes, not the knocker but Danglars’s face.
Danglars’s face. It is the one thing in the yard not completely submerged in darkness. Instead, it glows with a pale, sickly light. It’s not angry, nor violent in expression, no, most hauntingly, it is just how he always looked at him in life. His hair shifted, as if subject to its own wind, and its eyes were wide open and motionless. Combining those details with its livid colors made a rather horrifying picture, though that is likely in spite of the face and out of its control rather than intentional.
Then, Villefort looks at it closely, and it is simply a door knocker again.
It cannot be said that he is not startled, nor that his blood is not chilled by a feeling it was a stranger to from infancy. And yet, he turns the key, enters his home, and lights his candle as usual.
He did hesitate before shutting the door and looked warily behind it, as if expecting to be frightened by the sight of Danglars’s pigtail sticking out through the other side, yet there was nothing odd to be seen. He grumbles under his breath and closes it forcefully.
The sound resounded throughout the house, off each corner and wall, as if each room had an echo of its own. Still, Villefort fancies himself far too reasonable to be frightened by echoes, so he carries on walking, trimming his candle as he went.
It is a grand, wide staircase, and Villefort, as he ascends, is half certain he sees a funeral procession before him. Still, Villefort keeps his house quite dark and that explanation for odd sights is enough to pacify his mind.
The sight of the face was still fresh enough in his mind for him to search through the rooms of his house for anything out of the ordinary. But everything is as it ought to be. His daughter is sleeping—He does consider waking her, considers discussing the young man, but chooses not to. No matter where he searches, there is no one to be seen hiding. Nothing is missing or out of place.
Finally, satisfied, he double locks the door to his and his daughter’s chambers, not his custom. Convinced he is shielded from further surprise, he settles in front of the fire, a small thing he must practically be on top of to gain any warmth from it.
Within that small fire, if he looks closely, he once again sees Danglars’s face amidst the small flickering flames, not burning, yet the flames claw at him and paint the room with ominous shadows. Villefort growls and turns away, walking about the room.
He paces the room for a good few laps before returning to his seat, leaning back against the chair and letting his gaze wander from the fire. It is that which draws his eyes to the long-unused bell hung in the corner of the room. With great shock and even greater fear, he watched as it began to swing. It was slow at first, but it quickly rose to a violent pace, each bell in the house joining in an utterly cacophonous noise.
This continues for half a minute or perhaps a minute in its entirety, but it felt much more like an hour. Yet, as soon as it started, it was finished just as suddenly. Villefort cannot so much as catch his breath before the next sound begins. A scraping, clanking noise, deep in the lowest chambers of the cellar, as though someone were slowly dragging a heavy chain over the wine casks, step by agonizing step. It is then that Villefort remembers mutterings of ghosts in haunted houses dragging along chains.
The cellar door is thrown open with a violent force, the sound echoing through the house, followed by the scraping chains growing louder as they approached his door.
“Humbug still, this whole affair.” He growls. “I won’t be bothered by some odd lights and noises from the streets.”
His bravado flees him in a moment for a great pallor when the sound, instead of stopping, continues directly through the door. Upon its entrance, the dying flame leaps up as if to cry out “I know him, Danglars’s ghost!” before falling to ashes.
It was the same face, undeniably the same. Danglars in his dark pigtail streaked with white, his usual waistcoat, usual vest, undershirt, tie. His chain is fastened around his middle, long and wrapped around him like a tail. Looking closely, Villefort could see it was made of cash-boxed, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body, though visible, remained transparent enough that if Villefort squinted he could see the wall behind him.
Villefort had often heard Danglars was truly without a heart, but did not believe it until he looked through his empty chest.
He still did not believe it. Despite Danglars standing before him in his haunting pallor, he remains incredulous and is quick to fight his senses. He remains cold, keeps his frigid temperament.
“What do you want with me?”
“Much!” It was undeniably Danglars’s voice.
“Who are you?”
“Ask who I was.”
“Who were you, then?” Villefort corrects, raising his voice at the pedanticness.
“In life I was your partner, Julian Danglars.”
“Can…Can you sit?”
“I can.”
“Then do.”
Villefort has his doubts, what with the ghost’s transparency, yet he sits opposite Villefort with relative ease. As if he were used to it.
“You don’t believe in me,” the ghost speaks.
“No, I do not.”
“What could possibly prove my existence more than my being before you, Gérard?”
Villefort swallows dryly. “I do not know.”
“Why doubt your senses now?”
“Because they are—they’re fickle. Perhaps I have not slept enough, have not had enough to eat. I am falling ill, I am—I have worked too much lately. Anything of the sort.”
In reality, Villefort clings to his rationality for it is the only anchor from the utter terror the ghost makes him feel, his voice chilling him down to the marrow of his bones. He is half convinced that if he allows any silence, he will be unable to resist becoming utterly petrified.
“I could simply walk out to the frost right this moment and, after enough time, I would supposedly be haunted by a great many ghosts, yes! Humbug to it all!”
At this, the spirit shrieks a piercing, horrifying cry and shakes his chain with such a dismal, appalling noise, Villefort must cling to his chair to prevent himself from falling into a swoon. It is a wonder the windows don’t shatter. It is a wonder half of the neighborhood doesn’t wake with their own shrieks of fear.
Villefort falls to his knees before Danglars, clasping his hands before his face. “Mercy! Haunting spectre, why do you come to me?”
“Do you believe in me now, boy?”
“I do, yes, I must! But why do you roam the Earth, why do you come to me?”
“Every spirit must roam, traveling far and wide with his fellow man. If not in life then forcibly in death. Cursed eternally to witness happiness and charity scoffed at in life now inaccessible when finally desirous. Oh, miserable, wretched existence!”
It is at this that the ghost again gives its horrid shriek as he rattles his immense chain once more.
“Who has chained you?” Villefort trembles.
“I have chained myself. Link by link, yard by yard, I forged my chain in life to wear in death. You ask, but it is not so unfamiliar to you, is it, Gérard?”
Villefort’s trembling only grows.
“No, you must be imagining your own.” Danglars stands, slowly stepping toward him, dragging his own chain. “Yours was this heavy and long seven Christmas Eves ago. You have worked hard to lengthen it since, boy.”
Villefort looks frantically to the floor, as if expecting to see some fifty or sixty fathoms of iron cables strewn around him. The fact his own chains are not yet visible is solved as Danglars steps closer, his own chain close enough to envelop Villefort. At the sight, Villefort is quick to throw himself back and away with a start. He is faster still to return to his knees, crawling to the ghost’s feet.
“Julian,” he implores, begs for the first time he can recall. “Oh, Julian, Julian Danglars, tell me more. Speak comfort to me, Julian, your words haunt me!”
“I have no comfort to give, boy. Indeed, I have very little to give at all. I cannot linger, have no time to spare for my own words and thoughts. I cannot rest, cannot stay. I may come, but must swiftly go in return. In life I found very little business outside of this house and that hole of misery which we did our work within. There are a great many weary journeys I must eternally trek. Damned existence that it is.”
“You must be handling it quite slowly, Julian.”
“Slow!” The ghost’s expression of frustration was the same as it had been in life.
“You have had seven years to travel in death.”
“I have traveled the entire seven years. A torturous existence of newfound remorse without a moment’s rest or peace.”
“You travel fast?”
“On the wings of the wind.”
“You ought to have covered quite some ground by now.”
The ghost shrieks once more, chains rattling violently. It is enough for Villefort to momentarily tuck his tail between his legs.
“Oh! Prisoner bound with iron and gold! What a fool I was in life, to so easily squander every chance to break my immense chain! To overlook, countless times each day, every opportunity to do good which now slips between my fingers however I try to clutch!”
“You were always a good man in your business, Julian.” Villefort speaks, mouth dry, unable to not begin applying it all to himself.
“My business!” the ghost cries, pacing about around Villefort, dragging his chain along. “I was good in power, in money, and much good it does me now! My business was mankind! The wellness of the poor; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, those were my business. My work was a pitiful drop in the ocean of my business, yet I forged my entire chain for it!”
He holds up links of his chain in his arms, as if it were the physical manifestation of his sorrows, then throws it back on the ground.
“And this time of year I feel it the most by far, I suffer more than ever. What could blind me so greatly that I never looked down upon my fellow man or up to that star that led the Wise Men to a poor abode. Would it not have a home in need to lead me to? To make my business in money when right before me I had—” The ghost looks down upon Villefort and seems to be weighed down by his chains now more than ever. “How could I be so blind?”
Villefort was beyond dismayed to hear the ghost speaking so and quaked where he knelt.
“Hear me! My time is nearly gone, Gérard.”
“I will, but please, do not be hard upon me, Julian. Pray!”
“I could not tell you why or how you can see me tonight. I have sat invisibly by your side for many days and nights.”
Villefort trembles.
“Such is my penance. But I come here tonight to warn that it is not too late, that you hold one last chance to escape my fate. A chance and hope I have laboriously acquired for you, Gérard.”
“Oh, you were always kind to me, Julian, yes, yes, always looking out for me!”
“You will be haunted by three spirits.”
Villefort’s joy pivots immediately to horror. “That… Is this the chance and hope you spoke of, Julian?” He questions with a faltering voice.
“It is.”
“I—Not that I am not… grateful, but I think I would rather not.”
“You will accept their visits or walk my path, boy.” The ghost’s tone shows no room for argument. “The first will come tomorrow when the clock strikes one.”
“Could I not just take them on all at once and be done with the matter?”
“The second will come on the next night at the same hour. The third the night after that. Look for me no more, but look that, for your own sake, you remember our discussion.”
Villefort watches the floor as his mind reels. By the time he summons the will to look up, Danglars stands opposite him, chain gathered around his arms.
The ghost walks to the window, which raises open slowly so that once he reaches it, it is wide open for his departure.
It is at that moment Villefort realizes this is likely his last chance to ever see Danglars. That pulls him from his knees and he rushes to his side. He is half-tempted to see if he can grasp Danglars’s hand in his own and ask him to stay a moment longer, though he does not act on it. Danglars wants him to, even if he knows he cannot stay.
The ghost, instead, gestures out of the window.
Villefort pauses with startled fear as he becomes aware of the cacophony of misery and regret, shrieks and wails of inexpressible sorrow and self-accusation. The ghost listens for a moment, looking at Villefort, before floating out to join the rest.
Villefort looks out with a desperate curiosity.
The air was filled with ghosts all chained much like Danglars, wandering here and there, moaning in misery as they went. Some were chained together, none were unchained. Many were immensely familiar to Villefort in his or Danglars’s business. And along they went wailing and piteously shrieking, the desire to help finally lit within them now they were entirely unable to do so.
He is not certain whether the spirits faded into the mist or it enshrouded them. Still, they vanished, and their voices went with them. It was once again just as it had been when he walked home.
Villefort slowly closed the window. He checked the door the ghost had entered and found it still locked. He tries to speak “Humbug!” but some newly hollowed pit within him stops him at the first syllable. It is perhaps thanks to his sudden emotion, or the exhaustion brought by the day, or his glimpse at that odd ghostly realm, but he went straight to bed and fell asleep instantly.