Respawned as The Count of Glow-Up-Chapter 260: Tragic Fall: I

Despite how packed the courthouse was, the crowd parted for Villefort. There’s something about genuine suffering that makes people step back, even in the worst of times. Even criminals facing trial rarely get mocked, tragedy commands a certain respect. So Villefort walked through the sea of onlookers and court officials, escaping into the streets. His confession of guilt should have destroyed him, but his overwhelming grief acted like a shield. Some emotions are so raw, so universal, that everyone just knows, no explanation needed. The most powerful poetry isn’t carefully crafted verses, it’s the gut-wrenching scream of real pain.

Villefort left the courthouse in a complete daze. His pulse hammered frantically. Every nerve felt like an exposed wire. His entire body seemed to hurt in a thousand different places at once, each pain distinct and agonizing. He moved through the corridors on autopilot, muscle memory guiding him. He tore off his judge’s robe, not out of respect for protocol, but because it felt like it was burning his skin, suffocating him with its weight.

When he stumbled onto the street, he spotted his carriage. He jolted his sleeping driver awake by yanking the door open himself, collapsed onto the cushions, and jabbed his finger toward the wealthy district across the city. The carriage lurched forward.

The full weight of his ruined life crashed down on him all at once. He couldn’t think about tomorrow, couldn’t imagine the consequences. Unlike hardened criminals who’d made peace with their fates, he was drowning in uncertainty.

But even now, God lingered in his heart. "God," he whispered, barely aware of what he was saying. "God... God..." Behind everything that had destroyed him today, he could sense a divine hand at work.

The carriage raced onward. As Villefort shifted restlessly on the seat, something pressed against his side. He reached down to move it, a fan. His wife’s fan, left behind in the carriage. The sight of it struck him like lightning.

His wife.

"Oh!" The word tore from his throat like someone had stabbed him through the heart.

For the past hour, he’d been consumed by his own crimes. Now another horror invaded his mind. His wife! Just this morning, he’d played the role of merciless judge with her. He’d condemned her to death. And she, crushed by guilt, paralyzed by terror, overwhelmed by the shame his righteous fury had inspired, she was alone. Helpless. A fragile woman with no defense against his absolute authority. Right now, at this very moment, she might be preparing to die. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

An hour had passed since he’d pronounced her sentence. She was probably reliving all her terrible deeds, begging God for forgiveness. Maybe even writing a letter to her virtuous husband, pleading for mercy she planned to earn through her own death.

Villefort groaned, drowning in anguish and despair.

"God," he gasped, "she only became a criminal because of me! I infected her with my darkness. She caught it like a disease, like typhoid or cholera. And I punished her for it. I dared to tell her to repent and die!" His breathing came in ragged bursts. "But no, she can’t die. She has to live. We’ll run away together, leave Paris, go to the ends of the earth. I told her about the scaffold, but I forgot, it’s waiting for me too! How could I have said that? Yes, we’ll escape. I’ll confess everything to her. Every day I’ll remind her that I’m a criminal too. The tiger and the serpent, we deserve each other. She has to live so my infamy makes hers look smaller."

He shoved open the carriage window.

"Faster!" he screamed, his voice so frantic it sent a jolt of fear through the driver.

The horses bolted toward home, driven by the coachman’s terror.

"Yes, yes," Villefort muttered as his house came into view. "That woman has to live. She’ll repent. She’ll raise my son, the only survivor left from the wreckage of our family, besides that indestructible old man. She loves the boy. Everything she did, she did for him. You can always reach a mother through her child. She’ll repent, and no one will ever know her guilt. The scandals consuming my household right now will eventually fade from public memory. And if some enemies insist on remembering... well, I’ll just add their accusations to my list of crimes. What’s a few more? My wife and child will escape this hell with money to survive. She’ll live. She might even be happy, because she’ll have her son, the one person who holds all her love."

For the first time in days, Villefort drew a full breath.

The carriage jerked to a stop in front of his house. He leaped out. His servants looked surprised to see him home so early, but that was all, just surprise, nothing else. No one spoke. They simply stepped aside to let him pass, same as always.

As he walked by his father’s room, he noticed two figures through the half-open door. He didn’t care who was visiting the old man. Anxiety propelled him forward, up the stairs.

"Good," he muttered, climbing toward his wife’s bedroom. "Nothing’s changed here." He shut the landing door behind him. "No one can interrupt us. I need to speak freely, confess everything, tell her-"

He reached for the bedroom door. The crystal handle turned easily.

"Unlocked. Good."

He stepped into the small adjoining room where his son Edward slept. Even though the boy attended school during the day, his mother refused to let him sleep anywhere else at night. Villefort’s eyes swept the room in one glance.

"Not here. She must be in the bedroom."

He rushed to the bedroom door. Locked from the inside. He froze, suddenly cold all over.

"Héloïse!" he called out.

He thought he heard furniture scraping across the floor.

"Héloïse!"

"Who’s there?" came her voice, fainter than usual.

"Open the door! It’s me!"

But despite his plea, despite the raw desperation in his voice, the door stayed shut. Villefort threw his shoulder against it, bursting through with a violent crash.

In the doorway leading to her private sitting room stood Madame de Villefort. Rigid. Deathly pale. Her face twisted, eyes wild with horror.

"Héloïse! What’s wrong? Talk to me!"

She extended her stiff, white hands toward him.

"It’s done," she rasped, the words seeming to shred her throat. "What more do you want?"

She collapsed, hitting the floor hard.

Villefort ran to her, grabbing her hand. Her fingers were clenched around a crystal bottle with a gold cap.

Madame de Villefort was dead.

Horror-stricken, Villefort staggered backward to the doorway, unable to look away from her corpse.

"My son!" he suddenly screamed. "Where’s my son? Edward! Edward!"

He bolted from the room, still shouting his son’s name. The servants came running at the anguish in his voice.

"Where’s my son? Get him out of the house, he can’t see this-"

"Master Edward isn’t downstairs, sir," the valet said.

"Then he’s in the garden. Go check."

"No, sir. Madame called for him half an hour ago. He went into her room and hasn’t come down since."

Cold sweat broke out across Villefort’s forehead. His legs trembled. His thoughts spun out of control like broken clockwork.

"In Madame de Villefort’s room?" he whispered.

Slowly, he turned back, one hand wiping his face, the other bracing against the wall for support. To enter that room again meant seeing his wife’s body. To call for Edward meant breaking the tomb-like silence. His tongue felt paralyzed.

"Edward," he managed to stammer. "Edward..."

No answer.

Where could the boy be? The servant said he’d entered his mother’s room and never left.