Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

  “Well, that won’t prevent us from sitting down to table,” replied Beauchamp. “Château-Renaud can tell us the story while we are at breakfast.”

  “Messieurs,” said Albert, “it is not yet a quarter-past ten, and you know I am expecting another guest.”

  “Well, then, as we cannot yet go in to breakfast,” said Debray, “pour yourself out a glass of sherry as we have done, and tell us what took place.”

  “You all know that I had a fancy for a trip to Africa,” began Château-Renaud. “Being unwilling to let such talents as mine lie dormant, I decided to try upon the Arabs some new pistols that had been given me. I therefore embarked for Oran, whence I reached Constantine, arriving in time to witness the raising of the siege. I retreated with the others, and withstood the rain during the day and the snow at night fairly well for forty-eight hours. On the morning of the third day, my horse died of the cold, poor beast! My horse now being dead, I was compelled to make my retreat on foot. Six Arabs rushed upon me at a gallop to cut off my head. I dropped two of them with two shots of my gun and two more with my pistol; but there were still two more, and I was disarmed. One of the Arabs caught hold of me by the hair—that is why I now wear it short, for one never knows what may happen—the other one put his yataghanbe to my throat, and I already felt the cold point of the steel when this gentleman, whom you see here, charged down upon them, killed with a shot of his pistol the one who held me by the hair, and with his sword severed the head of the other who was making ready to cut my throat. He had set himself the task of saving a man on that particular day, and chance chose me to be that man. When I am rich, I shall have a statue of Chance made by Klagmann or Marochetti.”

  “It was the fifth of September,” said Morrel smiling, “the anniversary of the day on which my father was miraculously saved. Every year I celebrate the day as far as possible by some action—”

  “The story Monsieur Morrel is alluding to is a most interesting one,” continued Château-Renaud, “and he will tell it you when he knows you better. To-day let us fill our stomachs and not our memories. What time are you having breakfast, Albert?”

  “At half-past ten.”

  “To the minute?” asked Debray, taking out his watch.

  “You must give me five minutes’ grace,” said Morcerf, “for I am expecting a saviour too.”

  “Whose saviour?”

  “Mine, to be sure,” replied Morcerf. “Do you think I can not be saved, too, and that it is only Arabs who cut off heads? Our breakfast is a philanthropic one, and we shall have at table two benefactors of humanity, at least I hope so.”

  “Do you think he is likely to be punctual?” asked Debray.

  “Everything is possible with him.”

  “Well, with the five minutes’ grace, we have only ten left.”

  “I will profit by them to tell you something about my guest. I was at Rome last Carnival.”

  “We know that,” said Beauchamp.

  “Yes, but what you don’t know is that I was carried off by bandits.”

  “There are no bandits!” exclaimed Debray.

  “Indeed there are, and ugly fellows too, or rather I should say fine ones, for I found them frightfully handsome. To continue, the brigands carried me off to a very gloomy spot called the Catacombs of Saint Sebastian. I was told I was their prisoner subject to a ransom, a mere trifle of four thousand Roman crowns. Unfortunately I had no more than one thousand five hundred. I was at the end of my journey and my credit was exhausted, so I wrote to Franz. Oh, yes, Franz was there too, and you can ask him whether I am telling you the absolute truth or not. Well, I wrote to Franz that if he did not come with the four thousand crowns by six o’clock, I should have gone to join the blessed saints and glorious martyrs by ten minutes past. And I can assure you that Monsieur Luigi Vampa (that is the name of the chief of the bandits) would have kept most scrupulously to his word.”

  “But Franz did arrive with the four thousand crowns?” said Château-Renaud. “A man bearing the name of Franz d’Épinay or Albert de Morcerf is certainly not at a loss for a sum of that amount!”

  “No, he simply came accompanied by the guest whom I hope to introduce to you in a few minutes. He said two words in the chief’s ear, and I was free!”

  “I suppose they even apologized for having kidnapped you?” said Beauchamp.

  “Just so,” was the reply.

  “Why, this man is a second Ariosto!”bf

  “No, he is nothing more nor less than the Count of Monte Cristo!”

  “There is no Count of Monte Cristo!” said Debray.

  “I do not think there is,” added Château-Renaud with the air of a man who has got the whole of European nobility at his fingertips. “Does anyone know of a Count of Monte Cristo anywhere?”

  “Perhaps he comes from the Holy Land,” said Beauchamp. “One of his ancestors most likely owned Calvary just as the Mortemart owned the Dead Sea.”

  “Pardon me, messieurs, but I think I can help you out of the dilemma,” said Maximilian. “Monte Cristo is a small island I have often heard mentioned by my father’s old sailors. It is a grain of sand in the middle of the Mediterranean, an atom in the infinite.”

  “You are quite right,” said Albert, “and the man I speak of is lord and master of this grain of sand, this atom. He has doubtless purchased his title of Count somewhere in Tuscany.”

  “There is no Count of Monte Cristo,” exclaimed Debray. “There is half-past ten striking!”

  “Confess that you have had a nightmare, and let’s go in to breakfast.”

  The sound of the clock had hardly died away, however, when the door opened and the valet announced:

  “His Excellency the Count of Monte Cristo!”

  All those present started involuntarily, thus showing the impression Albert’s recital had made on them. Albert himself was seized with a sudden emotion. They had not heard the carriage in the street nor any steps in the antechamber; even the door had been opened noiselessly.

  The Count appeared on the threshold dressed with the utmost simplicity, yet the most exacting dandy could not have found fault with his attire. He advanced smiling into the centre of the room and went straight up to Albert who shook his hand warmly.

  “Punctuality is the politeness of kings,” said Monte Cristo, “at any rate according to one of our sovereigns, but in spite of their good will, travellers cannot always achieve it. I trust, however, that you will accept my good will, Count, and pardon me the two or three seconds by which I have failed in keeping our appointment. Five hundred leagues are not made without some trouble, especially in France where it is apparently forbidden to beat the postilions.”

  “I was just announcing your visit to some of my friends whom I have invited to do honour to the promise you were good enough to make me, and whom I now have the pleasure of introducing to you. They are the Count of Château-Renaud, who traces his nobility back to the twelve peers and whose ancestors had a seat at the Round Table; Monsieur Lucien Debray, private secretary to the Minister of the Interior; Monsieur Beauchamp, a formidable journalist and the terror of the French Government; and Monsieur Maximilian Morrel, Captain of Spahis.”

  On hearing this latter name the Count, who had till now bowed courteously, but almost with the proverbial coldness and formality of the English, involuntarily took a step forward, and a slight tinge of red spread over his pale cheek.

  “You wear the uniform of the new conquerors, monsieur,” he said. “It is a handsome uniform.”

  One could not have said what caused the Count’s voice to vibrate so deeply or why his eye, usually so calm and limpid, now shone as though against his will.

  “Have you never seen our Africans, Count?” Albert asked.

  “Never!” replied the Count, who had gained complete possession over himself once more.

  “Beneath this uniform beats one of the bravest and noblest hearts of the army.”

  “Oh, Monsieur de Morcerf!” interrupted Morrel.

>   “Let me speak, Captain. We have just heard tell of such an heroic action on his part,” continued Albert, “that though I see him to-day for the first time, I ask his permission to introduce him to you as my friend.”

  At these words there was again discernible in Monte Cristo that strange fixed stare, that furtive flush, and that slight trembling of the eyelids which in him denoted emotion.

  “You have a noble heart!” said he.

  “Messieurs,” said Albert, “breakfast is ready. Count, permit me to show you the way.”

  They passed into the dining-room in silence.

  The Count was, it soon became apparent, a most moderate eater and drinker. Albert remarked this and expressed his fear that at the outset Parisian life might be distasteful to the traveller in the most material, but at the same time the most essential, point.

  “If you knew me better,” said the Count smiling, “you would not worry about such an almost humiliating matter in regard to a traveller like myself, who has lived successively on macaroni at Naples, polenta at Madrid, olla podrida at Valencia, pilau at Constantinople, karrick in India, and swallows’ nests in China. Cooking does not enter into the calculations of a cosmopolitan like myself. I eat whatever is set before me, only I eat very little. To-day, however, when you reproach me with moderation, I have a good appetite, for I have not eaten since yesterday morning.”

  “Not since yesterday morning?” the guests exclaimed. “You have not eaten for twenty-four hours?”

  “No, I was compelled to deviate from my route to get some information at Nimes, which made me a little late, so I would not wait for anything.”

  “So you ate in your carriage?” said Morcerf.

  “No, I slept as I always do when I am bored and have not the courage to amuse myself, or when I am hungry and have not the desire to eat.”

  “Can you then command sleep at will?” asked Morrel.

  “More or less. I have an infallible recipe.”

  “That would be an excellent thing for us Africans, who have not always enough to eat and rarely enough to drink,” said Morrel.

  “That may be,” said Monte Cristo. “Unfortunately, however, my recipe, which is excellent for a man like myself who leads an exceptional life, would be very dangerous when administered to an army, which might not wake when it was needed.”

  “But do you always carry this drug about with you?” asked Beauchamp, who, being a journalist, was very incredulous.

  “Always,” replied Monte Cristo.

  “Would you mind if I asked to see one of these precious pills?” continued Beauchamp, hoping to take him at a disadvantage.

  “Not at all,” replied the Count, and he took from his pocket a wonderful bonbonnière scooped out of a single emerald and closed by means of a gold screw, which, being turned, gave passage to a small round object of a greenish colour and about the size of a pea. The pill had an acrid and penetrating odour. There were four or five of them in the emerald, which was large enough to contain a dozen.

  The bonbonnière passed from one guest to another, but it was to examine the wonderful emerald rather than to see the pills.

  “It is a magnificent emerald, and the largest I have ever seen, though my mother has some remarkable family jewels,” said Château-Renaud.

  “I had three like that one,” returned Monte Cristo. “I gave one of them to the Grand Seigneur, who has had it mounted on his sword, and the second to His Holiness the Pope, who has had it set in his tiara opposite one that is very similar, but not quite so magnificent, which was given to his predecessor, Pius the Seventh, by the Emperor Napoleon. I have kept the third one for myself and have had it hollowed out. This has certainly reduced its value by one-half, but has made it more adapted to the use I wished to make of it.”

  Everyone looked at Monte Cristo in astonishment. He spoke so simply that it was evident he either was telling the truth or was mad.

  “What did the two sovereigns give you in exchange for your magnificent gift?” asked Debray.

  “The Grand Seigneur gave me a woman’s freedom; His Holiness the life of a man.”

  “Was it not Peppino you saved?” exclaimed Morcerf. “Was it not in his favour that you made use of your right to a pardon?”

  “Perhaps,” said Monte Cristo smiling.

  “You have no idea, Count, what pleasure it gives me to hear you talk thus,” said Morcerf. “I had spoken of you to my friends as a fabulous man, a magician out of the Arabian Nights, a sorcerer of the Middle Ages, but Parisians are so subtle in paradoxes that they think the most incontestable truths are but flights of the imagination when such truths do not enter into their daily routine. For instance, they contest the existence of the bandits of the Roman Campagna or the Pontine Marshes. Pray tell them yourself, Count, that I was kidnapped by these bandits and that in all probability, without your generous intervention, I should to-day be awaiting the eternal resurrection in the Catacombs of Saint Sebastian instead of inviting them to breakfast in my humble little house in the Rue du Helder.”

  “Tut, tut! You promised me never to speak of that trifle,” said Monte Cristo.

  “If I relate all that I know,” said Morcerf, “will you promise to tell what I do not know?”

  “That is only fair,” replied Monte Cristo.

  “Well, then, I will relate my story, though my pride must inevitably suffer thereby,” began Albert. “For three days I thought I was the object of the attentions of a masked lady whom I took to be the descendant of Tullia or Poppaea, whereas I was but being lured on by the coquetry of a contadina; you will note I say contadina to avoid using the word peasant. All I know is that, fool that I was, I mistook for this contadina a young bandit of fifteen or sixteen with a beardless chin and slim figure. Just as I was taking the liberty of imprinting a kiss on his chaste shoulder, he put his pistol to my throat and with the aid of seven or eight of his companions, led or rather dragged me to the depths of the Catacombs of Saint Sebastian. Here I was informed that if by six o’clock the next morning I had not produced a ransom of four thousand crowns, I should have ceased to exist by a quarter-past six. The letter is still to be seen and is in Franz’s possession, signed by me and with a postscript by Luigi Vampa. If you doubt my word, I will write to Franz, who will have the signature legalized. That is all I know. What I do not know, Count, is how you contrived to instil such great respect into the Roman bandits, who have respect for so little. I will own that both Franz and I were lost in admiration.”

  “I have known this famous Vampa for more than ten years,” said the Count. “When he was quite young and still a shepherd, I once gave him a gold coin for showing me my way. To be under no obligation to me, he gave me a poniard carved by himself which you must have seen in my collection of arms. Later on, whether it was that he had forgotten this little exchange of presents which should have sealed our friendship, or whether it was that he did not recognize me, I know not, but he tried to kidnap me. I, however, captured him together with twelve of his men. I could have delivered him up to Roman justice, which is somewhat expeditious, but I did not do so. I set him and his men free.”

  “On condition that he should sin no more!” said the journalist laughing. “It delights me to see that they have kept their word so conscientiously.”

  “No, Monsieur Beauchamp, on the simple condition that they should always respect me and mine. And,” continued the Count, “I will appeal to these gentlemen, how could I have left my host in the hands of these terrible bandits, as you are pleased to call them? Besides, you know I had a motive in saving you. I thought you might be useful in introducing me into Parisian society when I visited France. No doubt you thought this but a vague plan on my part, but to-day you see you are faced with the stern reality and must submit to it under pain of breaking your word.”

  “And I shall keep my word,” said Morcerf, “but I fear you will be greatly disillusioned, accustomed as you are to mountains, picturesque surroundings, and fantastic horizons, whereas France is
such a prosaic country and Paris such a civilized city. There is but one service I can render you, my dear Count, and in regard to that, I place myself entirely at your disposal. I can introduce you myself or get my friends to introduce you everywhere. You have really no need of anyone though. With your name, your fortune, and your talented mind”—Monte Cristo bowed with a somewhat ironical smile—“you can present yourself everywhere and will be well received. I can, therefore, only serve you in one way. If my knowledge of Parisian customs, of what is comfortable, and if our shops can be of any use to you, I can assist you in finding a suitable establishment. I will not offer to share my apartments with you, as I shared yours at Rome, for, except for myself, you would not see a shadow here, unless it were the shadow of a woman.”

  “Ah, the reservation of a family man! May I congratulate you on your coming happiness?”

  “It is nothing more than a project, Count.”

  “And he who says project means accomplishment,” retorted Debray.

  “Not at all!” said Morcerf. “My father is anxious it should be so, and I hope soon to introduce to you, if not my wife, at least my future wife, Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars.”

  “Eugénie Danglars!” exclaimed Monte Cristo. “One moment . . . Is not her father Baron Danglars?”

  “Yes, a newly created Baron.”

  “What does that matter so long as he has rendered a service to the State which merits such a distinction?” was Monte Cristo’s reply.

  “He has rendered the State very signal services,” said Beauchamp. “Though a Liberal in opinions, in eighteen-twenty-nine he effected a loan of six millions for King Charles the Tenth, who made him a Baron and Commander of the Legion of Honour. Now he wears the ribbon, not in his waistcoat pocket as one would imagine, but in full view in the buttonhole of his coat.”

  “Oh, Beauchamp, Beauchamp,” said Morcerf, smiling. “Keep that for the Corsaire and the Charivari,bg but spare my future father-in-law in my presence.” Then, turning to Monte Cristo, he said: “You mentioned the Baron’s name just now as though you knew him?”