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

  The Baroness no doubt thought that this unexpected visit signified a desire to repair the sharp words he had uttered during the day. Assuming a dignified air, she turned to Lucien and, without answering her husband, said: “Read something to me, Monsieur Debray.”

  “Excuse me,” said the Baron. “You will tire yourself if you stay up so late, Baroness; it is eleven o’clock and Monsieur has far to go.”

  Debray was dumbfounded, for, though Danglars’ tone was perfectly calm and polite, he seemed to detect in it a certain determination to do his own will that evening and not his wife’s. The Baroness was equally surprised and showed it by a look which would no doubt have given her husband food for thought if he had not been busy reading the closing prices of shares in the paper. The haughty look was entirely lost on him.

  “Monsieur Lucien,” said the Baroness, “I assure you I have not the least inclination for sleep. I have much to tell you this evening, and you shall listen to me though you go to sleep standing.”

  “At your service, madame,” replied Lucien phlegmatically.

  “My dear Monsieur Debray, don’t ruin a good night’s rest by staying here and listening to Madame Danglars’ follies to-night,” said M. Danglars; “you can hear them just as well to morrow. Besides, I claim to-night for myself, and, with your permission, I propose to talk over some important business matters with my wife.”

  This time the blow was struck with such directness that Lucien and the Baroness were staggered. They exchanged looks as though each was asking the other for help in the face of such intrusion, but the irresistible power of the master of the house prevailed and he gained the ascendancy.

  “Don’t think I am turning you out, my dear Debray,” continued Danglars. “Not in the least! Unforeseen circumstances oblige me to demand this interview of madame to-night; it is such an unusual occurrence that I am sure you will bear me no ill will.”

  Debray stammered out a few words, bowed and left the room.

  “Do you know, monsieur,” said the Baroness when Lucien had gone, “you are really making progress? As a rule you are merely churlish, to-night you are brutal.”

  “That is because I am in a worse temper to-night than usual,” replied Danglars.

  “What is your bad temper to me?” replied the Baroness, irritated at her husband’s impassiveness. “What have I to do with it?”

  “I have just lost seven hundred thousand francs in the Spanish loan.”

  “And do you wish to make me responsible for your losses?” asked the Baroness with a sneer. “Is it my fault that you have lost seven hundred thousand francs?”

  “In any case it is not mine.”

  “Once and for all, monsieur, I will not have you talk money with me,” returned the Baroness sharply. “It is a language I learnt neither with my parents nor in my first husband’s house. The jingling of crowns being counted and recounted is odious to me; and there is nothing but the sound of your voice that I dislike more.”

  “That is really strange!” replied Danglars. “I always thought you took the greatest interest in my affairs!”

  “I should like you to show me on what occasion.”

  “Oh! that’s easily done. Last February you were the first to tell me of the Hayti bonds. You dreamt that a ship had entered the harbour at Havre, bringing the news that a payment which had been looked on as lost was about to be effected. I know how clear-sighted your dreams are. On the quiet I bought up all the bonds of the Hayti debt I could lay my hands on, and made four hundred thousand francs, of which I conscientiously paid you one hundred thousand. You spent it as you wished, but that was your affair.

  “In March there was talk of a railway concession. Three companies presented themselves, each offering equal securities. You told me that your instinct—and though you pretend to know nothing about speculation I consider, on the contrary, that you have a very clear comprehension of certain affairs—well, you said your instinct told you that the privilege would be given to a so-called Southern Company. I instantly subscribed two-thirds of the company’s shares and made a million out of the deal. I gave you two hundred and fifty thousand francs for pin-money. What have you done with it?”

  “But what are you driving at, monsieur?” cried the Baroness, trembling with anger and impatience.

  “Have patience, madame, I am coming to it. In April you dined with the Minister. The conversation turned upon Spain, and you heard some secret information. There was talk of the expulsion of Don Carlos. I bought some Spanish bonds. Your information was correct, and I made six hundred thousand francs the day Charles the Fifth crossed the Bidassoa.bu Of these six hundred thousand francs you had fifty thousand crowns. They were yours, and you disposed of them according to your fancy. I do not ask you to account for the money, but it is none the less true that you have received five hundred thousand francs this year.

  “Then three days ago you talked politics with Monsieur Debray, and you gathered from his words that Don Carlos had returned to Spain. I sold out, the news was spread, and a panic ensued. I did not sell the bonds, I gave them away. The next day it transpired that the news was false, but it cost me seven hundred thousand francs.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, since I give you a quarter of my profits, it is only right you should give me a quarter of what I lose. The quarter of seven hundred thousand francs is one hundred and seventy-five thousand francs!”

  “That is ridiculous, and really I do not see why you should bring Debray’s name into this affair.”

  “Simply because if you don’t happen to have the hundred and seventy-five thousand francs I claim, you have lent it to your friends, and Monsieur Debray is one of them!”

  “For shame!”

  “No gesticulations, screams, or modern drama, if you please, madame, otherwise I shall be compelled to tell you that I can see Monsieur Debray having the laugh of you over the five hundred thousand francs you have handed to him this year, and priding himself on the fact that he has finally found that which the most skilful gamblers have never discovered, that is a game in which he wins without risking a stake and is no loser when he loses.”

  The Baroness was boiling with rage.

  “You wretch!” said she. “You are worse than despicable!”

  “But I note with pleasure, madame, that you are not far behind me in that respect.”

  “You would insult me now?”

  “You are right: let us look facts in the face, and reason coolly. I have never interfered in your affairs, except for your good; treat me in the same way. You suggest that my cash-box is no concern of yours. Be it so. Do as you like with your own, but do not fill or empty mine. Besides, how do I know that this is not a political trick, that the Minister, enraged at seeing me in the Opposition and jealous of the popular sympathy I enjoy, is not conspiring with Monsieur Debray to ruin me?”

  “As though that were likely!”

  “Why not? Whoever has heard before of such an almost impossible thing as false telegraphic news? Yet in the last two telegrams, some signs were interpreted quite differently. It was done on purpose for me, I am sure of it. Monsieur Debray has made me lose seven hundred thousand francs; let him bear his share of the loss and we will continue business together; otherwise, let him declare himself bankrupt for the hundred and seventy-five thousand francs and then do what all bankrupts do—disappear. He is quite a charming man, I know, when his news is correct, but when it is not, there are fifty others in the world better than he.”

  Mme Danglars was simply overwhelmed, but she made a supreme effort to reply to this last attack. She sank into a chair, thinking of the strange chain of misfortunes that had befallen them one after another. Danglars did not even look at her, though she did her best to faint. Without saying another word, he opened the door and went into his room; when Mme Danglars recovered from her semi-faint she thought she must have had a bad dream.

  Chapter XLIV

  MATRIMONIAL PLANS

  The day following this
scene, M. Debray’s carriage did not make its appearance at the customary hour to pay a little visit to Mme Danglars on his way to the office. She, therefore, ordered her carriage to be brought round and went out. This was only what Danglars expected. He gave instructions that he should be informed directly Madame returned, but when two o’clock struck and she was not yet back, he went to the Chamber and put his name down to speak against the Budget.

  From midday until two o’clock Danglars stayed in his office deciphering telegrams and heaping figure upon figure till he became increasingly depressed. Among other visits he received one from Major Cavalcanti, who, as stiff and exact as ever, presented himself precisely at the hour named the previous evening to transact his business with the banker. On leaving the Chamber, where he had shown marked signs of agitation during the sitting and had been more bitter than usual against the Ministry, Danglars once more entered his carriage and told the coachman to drive him to No. 30 Avenue des Champs Élysées.

  Monte Cristo was at home, but he was engaged with someone and asked Danglars to wait a moment in the salon. While the banker was waiting, the door opened, and a man in priest’s garb entered. He was evidently more familiar with the house than the Baron for, instead of waiting, he merely bowed and passing into the other room disappeared. A minute later the door through which the priest had entered reopened, and Monte Cristo made his appearance.

  “Pray, excuse me, Baron,” said he, “but one of my good friends, Abbé Busoni, whom you may have seen pass by, has just arrived in Paris. It is a long time since we saw each other, and I could not make up my mind to leave him at once. I trust you will find the motive good enough to forgive my keeping you waiting. But what ails you, Baron? You look quite careworn; really, you alarm me. A careworn capitalist is like a comet, he presages some great misfortune to the world.”

  “Ill-luck has been dogging my steps for the last few days,” said Danglars, “and I receive nothing but bad news.”

  “Did you really lose by that affair in Spain?”

  “Assuredly. Seven hundred thousand francs out of my pocket, that is all!”

  “How could an old hand like you make such a mistake?”

  “Oh, it was all my wife’s fault. She dreamed Don Carlos had returned to Spain, and she believes in dreams. She says it is magnetism and assures me that what she dreams is bound to come true. But do you mean to say you have not heard of this affair? It created such a stir.”

  “I certainly heard something about it, but I was ignorant of the details. I know so little about the Exchange.”

  “You do not speculate then?”

  “How could I? It gives me quite enough to do to regulate my income, and if I were to speculate I should be compelled to employ an agent and cashier in addition to my steward. But in regard to this Spanish affair, I believe it was not only the Baroness who dreamed of Don Carlos’s return. Did not the newspapers say something about it?”

  “Do you believe all the newspapers say?”

  “Oh, dear, no. But I thought that the Messager was an exceptionally reliable paper, and that the news it published was telegraphic and therefore true.”

  “That is just what is so inexplicable.”

  “So you have lost about seventeen hundred thousand francs this month?”

  “About that.”

  “Have you ever reflected on the fact that seven times seventeen hundred thousand francs makes about twelve millions? Be careful, my dear Monsieur Danglars! Be on your guard!”

  “What a bad calculator you are,” exclaimed Danglars, calling to his assistance all his philosophy and art of dissimulation. “Money has flowed into my coffers from other successful speculations. I have lost a battle here and there, but my Indian navy will have taken some galleons, my Mexican pioneers will have discovered some mine.”

  “Very good, very good! The wound is still there, however, and will reopen at the first loss.”

  “No, it will not, for I tread on sure ground,” continued Danglars in the idle language of the mountebank crying out his wares. “Three governments must fall before I am involved in difficulties.”

  Then turning the conversation into other channels he added: “Tell me what I am to do for Monsieur Cavalcanti.”

  “Give him money, of course, if he has a letter of credit and you think the signature good.”

  “The signature is good enough. He came to me this morning with a bill for forty thousand francs payable at sight, signed by Busoni, and sent by you to me with your endorsement. Naturally I immediately counted him out the forty banknotes.”

  Monte Cristo nodded in token of approval.

  “But that is not all,” continued Danglars. “He has also opened a credit account for his son.”

  “May I ask how much he allows the young man?”

  “Five thousand francs a month.”

  “Sixty thousand francs a year! I thought as much,” said Monte Cristo, shrugging his shoulders. “How niggardly these Cavalcantis are! What does he expect a young man to do with five thousand francs a month?”

  “But of course if the young man needs a few thousand more . . .”

  “Do not advance anything. His father will never pay you. You do not know what misers these ultra-millionaires are! Keep to the terms of the letter.”

  “Do you mistrust this Cavalcanti then?”

  “I? I would give him ten millions on his signature.”

  “Yet how simple he is! I should have taken him for nothing more than a Major. The young man is better, though.”

  “Yes, a little nervous perhaps, but on the whole quite presentable. He has apparently been travelling with a very severe tutor and has never been to Paris before.”

  “All Italians of high standing marry amongst themselves, do they not?” asked Danglars carelessly. “They like to unite their fortunes, I believe.”

  “I believe they do as a rule, but Cavalcanti is an eccentric man who never does as others do. I am convinced he has sent his son to France to choose a wife.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I am sure of it.”

  “The boy is sure to marry a Bavarian or a Peruvian princess; he will want a crown or an Eldorado.”

  “No, the great lords from beyond the Alps frequently marry into plain families. Are you thinking of finding a wife for Andrea, my dear Monsieur Danglars, that you ask so many questions?”

  “It would not be a bad speculation, I fancy, and after all I am a speculator.”

  “You are not thinking of Mademoiselle Danglars, I presume? I thought she was engaged to Albert.”

  “Monsieur Morcerf and I have certainly discussed this marriage, but Madame de Morcerf and Albert . . .”

  “You are not going to tell me it would not be a good match?”

  “Oh, I think Mademoiselle Danglars is as good as Monsieur de Morcerf.”

  “Mademoiselle will have a good dowry, no doubt, especially if the telegraph does not play any more tricks. But then Albert has a good name.”

  “I like mine as well!” said Danglars.

  “Your name is certainly popular, and it gives distinction to the title that was intended to distinguish it. At the same time you have too much intelligence not to realize that according to prejudices, which are too deeply rooted to be exterminated, a patent of nobility which dates back five centuries confers greater lustre than that which only dates back twenty years.”

  “That is precisely the reason why I should prefer Monsieur Cavalcanti to Monsieur Albert de Morcerf,” responded Danglars with a smile he attempted to make sardonic.

  “Still, I should not think the Morcerfs would yield preference to the Cavalcantis,” said Monte Cristo.

  “The Morcerfs . . . See here, Count, you are a gentleman, are you not?”

  “I hope so.”

  “And you understand something about heraldry?”

  “A little.”

  “Well, look at my coat-of-arms; it is worth more than Morcerf’s, for, though I may not be a Baron by birth,
I do at least keep to my own name, whereas Morcerf is not his name at all.”

  “Do you really mean that?”

  “I have been made a Baron, so I actually am one; he has given himself the title of Count, therefore he is not one at all.”

  “Impossible!”

  “Monsieur de Morcerf and I have been friends, or rather acquaintances, for the last thirty years. As you know, I make good use of my coat-of-arms, and I do so for the simple reason that I never forget whence I sprang.”

  “Which shows either great pride or great humility,” said Monte Cristo.

  “When I was a clerk, Morcerf was but a simple fisherman.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Fernand Mondego.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Good gracious, he has sold me enough fish for me to know his name.”

  “Then why are you letting his son marry your daughter?”

  “Because as Fernand and Danglars are both upstarts, have both been given a title of nobility and become rich, there is a great similarity between them except for one thing that has been said about him which has never been said about me.”

  “What is that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I understand! What you have just told me has brought back to my mind that I have heard his name in Greece.”

  “In connexion with the Ali Pasha affair?”

  “Just so.”

  “That is a mystery I would give much to discover,” replied Danglars.

  “It would not be difficult. No doubt you have correspondents in Greece, perhaps at Janina?”

  “I have them everywhere.”

  “Why not write to your correspondent at Janina and ask him what part a certain Frenchman named Fernand played in the Ali Tebelin affair?”

  “You are right!” exclaimed Danglars, rising quickly. “I will write this very day.”

  “And if you receive any scandalous news . . .”

  “I will let you know.”

  “I should be much obliged.”

  Danglars rushed out of the room and leaped into his carriage.

  Chapter XLV