Respawned as The Count of Glow-Up-Chapter 257: The Day of Trial: I

The Benedetto affair had set all of Paris buzzing with gossip and speculation. Everyone wanted to witness the trial of the man who’d fooled them all, the fake Italian prince who turned out to be nothing more than an escaped convict and murderer.

Andrea Cavalcanti, as he’d called himself during his brief time in high society, had made quite an impression. He’d frequented the finest cafés, strolled along the most fashionable boulevards, and charmed his way into the best circles. The newspapers had eaten it up, printing every scandalous detail of his double life, the glamorous socialite by day, the escaped criminal by night.

Now, everyone who’d shaken his hand or shared a drink with him wanted a front-row seat to his downfall. Some came out of morbid curiosity. Others genuinely believed he might be innocent, a victim of some conspiracy. After all, wasn’t he too charming, too generous, too likeable to be a cold-blooded killer? Surely someone with that much wealth had simply attracted envious enemies.

By seven in the morning, a massive crowd had already gathered at the courthouse gates. An hour before the trial was scheduled to begin, the courtroom was packed with every privileged person who could claim a seat. The atmosphere felt more like a high-society party than a murder trial. People who recognized each other waved and called out greetings. Those separated by rows of lawyers communicated through exaggerated hand gestures and meaningful glances.

Outside, the autumn weather had turned spectacular. The gloomy clouds from sunrise had vanished as if by magic, leaving behind one of those perfect September days that made everyone forget about the disappointingly short summer.

Beauchamp, one of the most influential journalists in Paris, surveyed the crowd through his monocle with the air of someone who believed he owned whatever room he entered. His sharp eyes picked out two familiar faces near the front, Château-Renaud and Debray, who’d somehow sweet-talked a sergeant into letting them stand in a premium spot.

The sergeant had his reasons for being so accommodating. He’d recognized Debray as the minister’s personal secretary and Château-Renaud as a wealthy aristocrat. Keeping powerful people happy was good business. He even promised to hold their spots while they went to chat with Beauchamp.

"Well," Beauchamp said as they approached, "looks like we’re finally going to see our so-called friend in action."

"Indeed!" Debray replied with a sardonic smile. "Our dear prince. Damn these fake Italian nobles!"

"A man who claimed Dante himself in his family tree," Château-Renaud added dryly. "Said he could trace his lineage back to the Divine Comedy."

"More like nobility of the noose," Château-Renaud said with a shrug.

"He’s going to be convicted, right?" Debray asked, looking at Beauchamp.

"My dear friend, shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re the one with connections to the minister. Didn’t you see the judge at last night’s dinner party?"

"I did, actually."

"And? What did he say?"

"Something that’ll surprise you."

"Oh, please tell me. It’s been ages since anything actually surprised me."

"Well," Debray leaned in conspiratorially, "he said that Benedetto, who everyone thinks is this criminal mastermind, is actually just a common, garden-variety idiot. Not even worth studying his skull after they execute him."

Beauchamp laughed. "He certainly played the prince convincingly enough."

"Sure, for someone like you who loves finding fault with aristocrats," Debray shot back. "But not for me. I can spot a true gentleman by instinct. I can smell noble blood like a bloodhound."

"So you never believed he was really a prince?"

"I believed in the title, just not in the man who wore it."

"Not bad," Beauchamp admitted with a grin. "Though I have to say, he fooled plenty of people. I saw him at multiple ministers’ houses."

"Ah yes," Château-Renaud said dismissively. "As if ministers know anything about recognizing real nobility!"

Beauchamp couldn’t help but laugh at that.

"But wait," Debray said, turning back to Beauchamp, "if I spoke to the judge, you must have spoken to the prosecutor."

"Impossible. For the past week, Monsieur de Villefort has completely isolated himself. Which is understandable, really. That bizarre string of family tragedies, followed by the equally strange death of his daughter-"

"Strange?" Debray interrupted. "What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, come on. You’re telling me nobody at the minister’s office has noticed?"

"My dear sir," Château-Renaud interjected, "you really need to let Debray teach you how to properly use that monocle. You’re terrible at it."

"Wait," Beauchamp said suddenly, his monocle nearly falling from his eye. "I’m not seeing things, am I?"

"What is it?"

"It’s her!"

"Who?"

"They said she’d left town!"

"Mademoiselle Eugénie?" Château-Renaud asked. "She’s back?"

"No, not her. Her mother."

"Madame Danglars?" Château-Renaud’s eyes widened. "That’s impossible! Only ten days after her daughter ran away, and three days after her husband’s bankruptcy?"

Debray’s face colored slightly as he followed Beauchamp’s gaze. "Relax," he said quickly. "It’s just some veiled woman. Probably a foreign princess. Maybe even Cavalcanti’s mother. But you were saying something interesting before, Beauchamp."

"Was I?"

"Yes, about Valentine’s mysterious death."

"Ah, right. But speaking of mysteries, why isn’t Madame de Villefort here?"

"Poor woman," Debray said with mock sympathy. "She’s probably busy in her little laboratory, mixing up medicines for hospitals or beauty creams for herself and her friends. Did you know she spends thousands on that hobby every year? I’m actually disappointed she’s not here. I rather like her."

"And I hate her," Château-Renaud declared flatly.

"Why?"

"No idea. Why do we love anyone? Why do we hate? I just detest her. Call it instinct."

"Or antipathy."

"Same thing. But go on, Beauchamp. Finish your story."

"Well, do you want to know why so many people keep dying in the Villefort household?"

"’So many people,’" Château-Renaud repeated with amusement. "Nice phrasing."

"It’s a quote from a famous writer. But seriously, the situation at the Villefort house is even worse. Let’s get back to it."

"Speaking of which," Debray said, "the minister’s wife was asking me about that house. You know, the one that’s been draped in mourning black for three months now."

"Which minister’s wife?" Château-Renaud asked.

"The minister’s wife! Good God!"

"Oh, pardon me. I don’t visit ministers’ houses. I leave that to the fake princes."

"You were funny before, but now you’re just showing off. Have mercy on us mere mortals, or you’ll burn us up with your wit."

"Fine, I’ll shut up," Château-Renaud said with exaggerated offense. "Please stop dissecting every word I say."

"Right, let’s get to the point," Debray said. "I told you the minister’s wife asked me about this. So enlighten me, Beauchamp, and I’ll pass the information along to her."

"Alright, gentlemen. The reason people keep dying at the Villefort residence is simple, there’s an assassin in the house."

Both young men shuddered. The same dark thought had crossed their minds before.

"And who," they asked together, "is the assassin?"

"Young Edward!"

Laughter erupted from several nearby listeners, but Beauchamp continued unfazed. "Yes, gentlemen. Edward, the child prodigy, who’s become quite skilled at the art of murder."

"You’re joking."

"Not at all. Yesterday I hired a servant who just left the Villefort household. I’m firing him tomorrow, though, he eats like he’s making up for lost time. Apparently, he was too terrified to eat properly while working there. But listen to this."

"We’re listening."