“‘Anywhere, so long as it is out of your presence,’ responded d’Épinay.
“‘Have a care, monsieur,’ responded the President, ‘you are no longer in the midst of an assembly, you have now only individuals before you. Do not insult them, or you may be held responsible for such insults.’
“Instead of taking this warning to heart, Monsieur d’Épinay said: ‘You are as brave in your carriage as in your club, monsieur, and with good reason, for four men are always stronger than one.’
“The President stopped the carriage. They had just reached the entrance to the Quai des Ormes, where steps lead down to the river.
“‘Why do you stop here?’ Monsieur d’Épinay asked.
“‘Because you have insulted a man, monsieur,’ said the President, ‘and that man refuses to go a step farther without honourable reparation.’
“‘A different form of assassination,’ said the General, shrugging his shoulders.
“‘No fuss, if you please, monsieur,’ replied the President, ‘unless you wish me to regard you as one of those you designated just now as cowards, using their weakness as a shield. You are alone, and one only shall answer you. You have a sword at your side, and I have one in my cane. You have no second, but one of these gentlemen is at your service. If these arrangements meet with your approval, you may now remove the bandage.’
“The General instantly tore the kerchief from his eyes, saying: ‘At last I shall know with whom I have to deal!’
“The carriage door was opened and the four men alighted.”
Franz stopped once more and wiped away the cold sweat that stood out on his brow. There was something awe-inspiring in hearing the pale and trembling son read aloud the hitherto unknown details of his father’s death.
Valentine clasped her hands as though in prayer; Noirtier looked at Villefort with an almost sublime expression of contempt and pride.
Franz continued:
“It was, as we have said, the fifth of February. For three days there had been five or six degrees of frost and the steps were covered with ice. The General was tall and stout, so the President offered him the side with the railing. The two seconds followed at their heels.
“It was a dark night, and the ground from the steps to the river was slippery with snow and hoar-frost; the river looked black and deep, and was covered with drifting ice. One of the seconds fetched a lantern from a coal barge, and by its light the weapons were examined. The President’s sword, which, as he had said, was simply one he carried in his cane, was shorter than his adversary’s and had no guard. General d’Épinay suggested they should draw lots for the swords, but the President replied that he was the one who had challenged and in so doing had presumed that each one should use his own weapon. The seconds attempted to insist, but the President ordered them to silence.
“The lanterns were placed on the ground; the two adversaries stood opposite one another; the duel started. In the weird light the two swords had the appearance of flashes of lightning, while the men were scarcely visible in the darkness.
“The General had the reputation of being one of the best swordsmen in the army, but he was pressed so closely from the outset that before long he fell from sheer exhaustion. The seconds thought he was dead, but his adversary, who knew he had not hit him, offered him his arm to assist him to rise. Instead of calming the General, this circumstance only irritated him and he again rushed upon his opponent. The latter, however, did not budge an inch and received him on his sword. Finding himself too closely pressed, the General recoiled three times only to renew the attack, and the third time he fell once more. At first they thought he had slipped as before, but when the seconds saw that he did not move they went to him and tried to raise him: in so doing the one that put his arm round his body felt something warm and damp. It was blood.
“The General, who had almost fainted, revived a little and said: ‘Ah, they have sent some ruffian, some fencing-master, to fight me.’
“Without replying the President went up to the second who had the lantern and, drawing back his sleeve, showed where his arm had twice been pierced with the sword; then, opening his coat, he unbuttoned his waistcoat, and there in his side was a third wound where his adversary’s sword had pierced him. Yet he had not even uttered a sigh.
“General d’Épinay died five minutes later.”
Franz read these last words in such a choked voice that they could scarcely be heard, then he stopped and passed his hand across his eyes as if to disperse a cloud. After a moment’s silence, he continued:
“After replacing his sword in his cane, the President went up the steps, leaving traces of blood in the snow. He had not reached the top step when he heard a heavy splash in the water. After ascertaining that the General was dead, the seconds had thrown his body into the river.
“Thus the General fell in an honourable duel and not in ambush, as will probably be reported.
“In witness whereof we hereby sign this document to establish the truth of the facts, lest the time should arrive when one of the actors of this terrible scene should be accused of premeditated murder, or of violation of the laws of honour.
“Signed: BEAUREPAIRE, DUCHAMPY, and LECHARPAL”
When Franz had finished reading this report, truly a terrible ordeal for a son—when Valentine, pale with emotion, had wiped away her tears, and Villefort, trembling in a corner, had attempted to calm the storm by sending appealing looks at the implacable old man, he turned to Noirtier with the following words:
“Since you know this terrible story in all its details, monsieur, and have had it witnessed by honourable signatures; since you seem to take some interest in me, although, until now, that interest has brought me nothing but grief, do not refuse me the satisfaction of making known to me the name of the President of the club, so that I may at least learn who killed my poor father.”
Dazed and bewildered, Villefort reached for the door handle. Valentine knew what her grandfather’s answer must be, for she had often seen the scars of two sword wounds on his arm, and she drew back a few steps.
“For heaven’s sake, mademoiselle,” said Franz, turning to his betrothed, “unite your efforts with mine, so that I may know the name of the man who made me an orphan at two years of age.”
Valentine remained silent and motionless.
“I pray you, do not prolong this horrible scene,” said Villefort. “The names have been concealed intentionally. My father does not know the President, and, even if he did, he would not know how to communicate his name to you; proper names are not to be found in the dictionary.”
“Woe is me!” cried Franz, “the only hope that sustained me throughout this report, and gave me the strength to finish reading it, was that I should at least learn the name of him who killed my father.” Then turning to Noirtier: “Oh! I entreat you, in the name of all that is holy, do what you can to indicate to me, to make me understand.”
“Yes,” was Noirtier’s reply.
“Oh! mademoiselle, mademoiselle,” cried Franz, “your grandfather has made a sign that he can indicate to me the name of this man. Help me . . . you understand him . . . give me your aid.”
Noirtier looked at the dictionary. Franz took it, trembling nervously, and repeated the letters of the alphabet till he came to M, when the old man made a sign for him to stop.
The young man’s finger glided over the words, but at each one Noirtier made a sign in the negative.
Finally he came to the word ‘Myself.’
“Yes,” motioned the old man.
“You?” cried Franz, his hair standing on end. “You, Monsieur Noirtier? It was you who killed my father?”
“Yes,” replied Noirtier, with a majestic look at the young man.
Franz sank lifeless into a chair.
Villefort opened the door and fled, for he was seized with the impulse to choke out of the old man the little life that remained to him.
Chapter XLIX
THE PROGRESS OF CAVALCANTI
JUNIOR
A short time after the events just recorded, Monte Cristo called one evening on M. Danglars. The banker was out, but Mme Danglars would be pleased to receive him.
When the Count entered the boudoir, the Baroness was glancing at some drawings which her daughter had passed to her, after she and M. Cavalcanti Junior had looked at them together. His presence produced its usual effect, and the Baroness received him with a smile though she had been somewhat discomforted when his name was announced.
Monte Cristo took in the whole scene at a glance. The Baroness was reclining on a settee, and seated beside her was Eugénie, while Cavalcanti stood in front of them. The latter, clad in black, like one of Goethe’s heroes, with patent-leather shoes and white silk open-work stockings, passed his white and manicured hand through his fair hair, thus displaying a sparkling diamond which the vain young man could not resist wearing on his finger. This gesture was accompanied by killing glances at Mlle Danglars and sighs meant for that same lady.
Mlle Danglars was still the same—cold, scornful, and beautiful. Not one of Andrea’s looks or sighs escaped her. She greeted the Count coldly, and took advantage of the first opportunity to escape to her studio. Soon two laughing, noisy voices were mingled with a piano, which told Monte Cristo that Mlle Danglars preferred the society of her singing-mistress, Mlle Louise d’Armilly to either his or M. Cavalcanti’s.
While conversing with Mme Danglars, and appearing absorbed by the charm of the conversation, the Count watched M. Andrea’s solicitude; how he listened to the music at the door he dared not pass, and how he manifested his admiration.
The Baron soon came in. His first glance was for Monte Cristo, it is true, but the second was for Andrea.
“Have the young ladies not invited you to join them at the piano?” Danglars asked Andrea.
“I am sorry to say they have not,” replied Andrea with a deeper sigh than ever.
Danglars went to the communicating door and opened it. “Well! Are we all to be excluded?” he asked his daughter.
Then he took the young man into the room, and, whether by chance or dexterity, the door was closed behind Andrea in such a way that from where they were sitting, the Baroness and Monte Cristo could not see into the room, but, as the banker had followed Andrea, Mme Danglars did not appear to notice this circumstance.
Shortly afterward, the Count heard Andrea’s voice singing a Corsican song to the accompaniment of the piano.
In the meantime, Mme Danglars began boasting to Monte Cristo of the strength of character of her husband, who, that very morning, had lost three or four hundred thousand francs by a business failure in Milan. The praise was certainly well merited, for, if the Count had not known of this fresh piece of ill-luck from the Baroness, or perhaps by one of the means he had of learning everything, the Baron’s face would have told him nothing.
“Ha!” thought he, “he is already beginning to hide his losses: a month ago he boasted of them.” Then aloud he said:
“But Monsieur Danglars has so much experience on the Exchange, that what he has lost in one way, he will soon make up in another.”
“I see you are under a misapprehension, along with everyone else. Monsieur Danglars never speculates.”
“Oh, yes, that’s true. I remember now, Monsieur Debray told me . . . By the way, what has become of Monsieur Debray? I have not seen him for three or four days.”
“Neither have I,” said Madame Danglars, with miraculous self-possession. “But you commenced a sentence you did not finish.”
“Oh, yes. I was saying Monsieur Debray told me it was you who had made sacrifices to the demon of speculation.”
“I will own that I was fond of speculating at one time,” replied Mme Danglars, “but I do not care for it any more. But we have talked enough about the Exchange, let us change the conversation to the Villeforts. Have you heard how fate is pursuing them? After losing Monsieur de Saint-Méran within three or four days of his departure for Paris, the Marquise died a few days after her arrival. But that is not all. You know their daughter was going to marry Monsieur Franz d’Épinay?”
“Do you mean to say their engagement is broken off ?”
“Franz declined the honour yesterday morning.”
“Really! Is the reason known?”
“No.”
“That is strange. How does Monsieur de Villefort take all this misfortune?”
“As always, quite philosophically.”
Just then Danglars re-entered the room alone.
“Well, have you left Monsieur Cavalcanti with your daughter?” asked the Baroness.
“And Mademoiselle d’Armilly,” said the banker. “Is she no one?” Turning to Monte Cristo he said: “Prince Cavalcanti is a charming young man, is he not? Is he really a prince, though?”
“I cannot answer for that,” said Monte Cristo.
“Do you realize what you are risking?” said the Baroness. “If Monsieur de Morcerf should happen to come, he will find Monsieur Cavalcanti in a room where he, Eugénie’s intended, has never had permission to enter.”
“Oh, he will not do us the honour of being jealous of his betrothed. He does not care enough for her. Besides, what do I mind if he is vexed or not.”
“The Viscount of Morcerf,” announced the valet.
The Baroness rose quickly. She was going to tell her daughter when Danglars stopped her.
“Let her be!” he said.
She looked at him in astonishment.
Monte Cristo pretended he had not seen this little comedy.
Albert entered, looking handsome and very cheerful. He greeted the Baroness with ease, Danglars with familiarity, and Monte Cristo with affection; then turning toward the Baroness he said: “May I ask how mademoiselle is?”
“Very well,” replied Danglars hastily; “at the present moment she is at the piano with Monsieur Cavalcanti.”
Albert remained calm and indifferent; perhaps he felt some annoyance, but he knew that Monte Cristo’s eye was on him.
“The fact is, the Prince and my daughter get on very well together. They were the object of general admiration yesterday. How was it we did not see you, Monsieur de Morcerf ?”
“What Prince?” asked Albert.
“Prince Cavalcanti,” replied Danglars, who persisted in giving the young man this title.
“Oh, pardon, I was unaware that he was a Prince. I was unable to accept your invitation, as I was compelled to accompany Madame de Morcerf to a German concert given by the Countess of Château-Renaud.”
After a moment’s silence he asked: “May I be permitted to pay my respects to Mademoiselle Danglars?”
“Just one moment, please,” said the banker, stopping the young man. “Do you hear that delightful cavatina? Ta, ti, ta, ti, ta, ti, ta, ta, it is charming. It will be finished in a second! Splendid! Bravo! Bravo!”
With these words the banker began applauding enthusiastically.
“Yes, indeed, it is charming,” said Albert. “No one could understand the music of his country better than Cavalcanti does. You did say Prince, did you not? In any case, if he is not a Prince now, they will make him one. It is a very easy matter in Italy. But to return to the charming musicians. You should ask them to give us the pleasure of another song, without letting them know there is a stranger here.”
This time it was Danglars who was vexed by the young man’s indifference. He took Monte Cristo aside.
“What do you think of our lover now?”
“He is decidedly very cool. But what can you do? You have given your word.”
“I have certainly given my word to bestow my daughter on a man who loves her, but not on a man who does not love her. Look at this one, as cold as marble, as proud as his father; if he were rich, if he had a fortune like the Cavalcantis, one would overlook it. I have not consulted my daughter, but, do you know, if I thought she cared . . .”
“I do not know whether it is my friendship that blinds me,” said Monte Cristo, “but I assure y
ou, I find Monsieur de Morcerf a charming young man. He should make your daughter happy and sooner or later he will achieve much, for his father has an excellent position.”
“Humph!” was Danglars’ reply.
“Why do you doubt?”
“I am thinking of his past . . . his mysterious past.”
“But the father’s past has nothing to do with the son. You cannot break off the engagement thus. The Morcerfs look upon this marriage as certain.”
“Well, then, let them explain themselves. You might give the father a hint to that effect. Count, you are on such an intimate footing there.”
“Certainly, if you wish it.”
A servant came up to Danglars and said something to him in a low voice.
“I shall be back in a minute,” said the banker to Monte Cristo. “Wait for me, I may have something interesting to tell you.”
Indeed not many minutes had elapsed before Monsieur Danglars returned visibly agitated.
“Well,” said he, “my courier has returned from Greece!”
“And how is King Otto?” asked Albert in a playful tone.
Danglars looked at him slyly without answering; Monte Cristo turned away his head to hide the momentary expression of pity that had found its way to his face.
“Shall we go together?” said Albert to the Count.
“Yes, if you like,” replied the latter.
Albert could not understand the banker’s look and, turning to Monte Cristo, who understood only too well, he said:
“Did you notice how he looked at me?”
“Yes,” replied the Count. “Do you think he meant anything by that look?”
“I am sure of it. What can he have meant by his news from Greece?”
“How can you expect me to know?”
“I thought perhaps you had some correspondents in the country.”
Monte Cristo smiled in the way one always does when trying to avoid giving an answer.
“Here he is coming towards you,” said Albert. “I will go and compliment Mademoiselle Danglars upon her performance, and in the meanwhile you will have an opportunity of speaking to her father.”