Here, as wherever Monte Cristo stopped, even if only for two days, the temperature of life was raised to a high degree of comfort, which meant that life immediately became easy. Albert found two guns and every other piece of equipment necessary for hunting in a small room beside his bedroom. A more lofty room on the ground floor was given over to all those ingenious devices that the English – who are great fishermen, because they have both patience and leisure – have so far not managed to persuade the more workaday fishermen of France to adopt.
All their time was spent in these different pursuits, at which Monte Cristo excelled: they killed a dozen pheasants in the park, caught the same number of trout in the streams, dined in a pergola overlooking the sea and took tea in the library.
Around the evening of the third day, Albert, worn to a thread by the exertions of this life, which seemed to be a game for Monte Cristo, was sleeping at a window while the count and his architect ran over the plan of a conservatory that he wanted to build in his house, when the sound of a horse’s hoofs crushing the gravel on the path made the young man sit up. He looked out of the window and was extremely and unpleasantly surprised to see his valet in the courtyard, having left the man behind to save embarrassment to Monte Cristo.
‘Florentin!’ he exclaimed, leaping up from his chair. ‘Can my mother be ill?’ He ran to the door of the room.
Monte Cristo looked after him and saw him in conversation with the valet who, still out of breath, took a small sealed packet from his pocket. The packet contained a newspaper and a letter.
‘Who is this letter from?’ Albert asked urgently.
‘From Monsieur Beauchamp,’ Florentin replied.
‘So did Monsieur Beauchamp send you?’
‘Yes, Monsieur. He called me to his house, gave me the money for my journey, summoned a post-horse for me and made me promise not to stop until I reached Monsieur. I covered the distance in fifteen hours.’
Albert opened the letter, trembling. At the first lines, he gave a cry and grasped the newspaper, a visible shudder running through his frame. Suddenly his eyes clouded, his knees seemed to buckle and, as he was on the point of falling, he leant against Florentin, who reached out to support him.
‘Poor young man!’ Monte Cristo muttered, so low that even he could not hear these words of compassion as he spoke them. ‘It is written that the sins of the fathers shall be visited on the sons, even to the third and fourth generation.’
Meanwhile Albert’s strength had returned and he went on reading, while shaking the hair on a head drenched in sweat. Then, crumpling both the paper and the letter, he said: ‘Florentin, is your horse in any condition to return to Paris?’
‘It’s a lame old post-horse.’
‘Oh, good Lord! And how was the house when you left?’
‘Quite calm. But when I returned from Monsieur Beauchamp’s, I found madame in tears. She called me to ask when you would return, so I told her that I was going to fetch you, at Monsieur Beauchamp’s request. Her first impulse was to reach out as if to restrain me, but after thinking for a moment, she said: “Yes, go, Florentin. Let him come back.” ’
‘Yes, mother, yes,’ said Albert. ‘Have no fear, I am coming – and a curse on the vile slanderer! But, first of all, I must get started.’ And he set off towards the room where he had left Monte Cristo.
He was no longer the same man. Five minutes had been enough to accomplish a pitiful change in Albert. He had left, his usual self; and now he returned, his voice strangled, his face blotched with feverish flushes, his eyes glistening beneath blue-veined lids and his walk unsteady like that of a drunken man.
‘Count,’ he said, ‘thank you for your excellent hospitality, which I should like to have enjoyed longer, but I have to go back to Paris.’
‘What has happened?’
‘A great misfortune; but please let me leave: this is something more important than life itself to me. No questions, Count, I beg you; just a horse!’
‘My stables are at your disposal, Viscount,’ Monte Cristo said. ‘But you will drop dead of exhaustion if you go by post-horse. Take a brougham, a coupé, some sort of carriage…’
‘No, that would take too long, and in any case I need the fatigue that you fear for me: it will do me good.’
Albert took a few steps, reeling like a man with a bullet wound, and slumped into a chair near the door. Monte Cristo did not see this second moment of dizziness; he was already at the window, shouting: ‘Ali, a horse for Monsieur de Morcerf! Hurry, he has no time to lose!’
These words brought Albert back to his senses. He ran out of the room, followed by the count. ‘Thank you,’ he muttered, bounding into the saddle. ‘Come back as soon as you can, Florentin. Is there any password I need to get horses?’
‘None. Simply hand over the one you are riding and another will instantly be saddled up for you.’
Albert was about to gallop off, but paused.
‘You may find my departure odd, even senseless,’ he said. ‘You may not realize how a few lines in a newspaper can drive a man to despair. Well,’ the young man added, throwing the paper to the count, ‘read this, but only after I have left, so that you do not see my shame.’
While the count was picking up the paper, he dug the spurs that had just been attached to his boots into the horse’s flanks and the animal, astonished at coming across any rider who thought he needed such encouragement, went off like a shot from a sling.
The count looked after him with a feeling of infinite compassion. Only when he had altogether disappeared did he turn back to the newspaper, where he read as follows:
The French officer in the service of Ali, Pasha of Janina, who was mentioned three weeks ago in the newspaper L’Impartial, and who not only betrayed the castles of Janina, but also sold his benefactor to the Turks, was indeed at that time named Fernand, as stated by our honourable colleagues in that newspaper. Since then, as well as his Christian name, he has acquired a title of nobility and the name of a landed estate.
Today, he calls himself Monsieur le Comte de Morcerf and is a member of the chamber of peers.
So the dreadful secret which Beauchamp had so generously buried had reappeared like an armed phantom; and, on the day after Albert’s departure for Normandy, another newspaper had been maliciously informed and had published these few lines that drove the unfortunate young man to the brink of insanity.
LXXXVI
JUDGEMENT IS PASSED
At eight o’clock in the morning, Albert stormed into Beauchamp’s like a thunderbolt. The valet had been forewarned and showed Morcerf into his master’s room, where Beauchamp had just got into his bath.
‘Well?’ Albert asked.
‘Well, my poor friend,’ Beauchamp replied, ‘I was expecting you.’
‘Here I am. I don’t need to say, Beauchamp, that I consider you too good and loyal a friend to have spoken of this to anyone; no, my dear fellow. In any case, the message you sent me is proof of your affection. So let’s lose no time in preliminaries: do you have any idea where this blow comes from?’
‘I’ll say something about that later.’
‘Yes, and first, my friend, you must tell me that story of this abominable treachery in all its details.’
Beauchamp told the young man, who was crushed with shame and anguish, the following simple facts.
Two days earlier, in the morning, the article appeared in a newspaper other than L’Impartial and (something which made the matter even more serious) in a paper well known for supporting the government. Beauchamp was having lunch when the passage leapt out at him. He immediately ordered a cab and, without finishing his meal, hurried round to the paper. Although his professed political opinions were diametrically opposed to those of the managing editor of the paper making the accusation, Beauchamp and he were close friends, something that happens occasionally – or even, we might say, quite often.
When he arrived, the editor was holding a copy of his own paper and apparently admiring a le
ader on sugar beet, probably of his own composition.
‘Good!’ said Beauchamp. ‘As I see you have a copy of your paper, my dear chap, I don’t need to tell you what brings me.’
‘Are you by any chance an advocate of cane sugar?’ asked the editor of the government paper.
‘No,’ Beauchamp replied. ‘In fact I have absolutely no ideas on the matter. I’m here for another reason.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘About the Morcerf article.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Odd, isn’t it?’
‘So odd that you are in danger of a libel case, I would think, and a very risky trial.’
‘Not at all. With the note, we received all the supporting evidence, and we are quite convinced that Monsieur de Morcerf will keep quiet. Anyway, it’s a service to the country to denounce these wretches who don’t deserve the honours they have received.’
Beauchamp was astonished. ‘But who gave you all this information?’ he asked. ‘My paper, which first raised the matter, had to hush it up for lack of proof, even though we have more interest than you do in unmasking Monsieur de Morcerf, since he’s a peer of the realm and we belong to the Opposition.’
‘Heavens, it’s very simple. We didn’t go looking for scandal, it came and found us. A man came yesterday from Janina, bringing the incriminating dossier and, since we were still slightly unwilling to make the accusation, he told us that if we refused, the article would appear in another paper. Come on now, Beauchamp: you know what important news is; we didn’t want to let this slip through our fingers. Now it’s out, there’ll be terrible repercussions to the ends of Europe.’
Beauchamp realized that there was nothing more to be done, so he left in despair and dispatched a message to Morcerf.
What he had not been able to tell Albert, because it took place after his letter had left, was that the same day there had been a great commotion in the Upper House which had broken out and spread among the ordinarily tranquil groups that made up the assembly. Everyone had arrived almost before time and was discussing the grim news that was to preoccupy public opinion and turn every eye on one of the most prominent members of that illustrious body.
The article was read in a whisper, followed by an exchange of comments and recollections which gave more details about the facts. The Comte de Morcerf was not liked by his colleagues. Like all those who have risen in the world, he had been obliged to behave with a degree of hauteur, in order to maintain his rank. Great aristocrats laughed at him, talented men rejected him and those whose reputations were justly pure instinctively despised him. The count was in the unhappy situation of a scapegoat: once he had been designated by the Lord’s finger to be the sacrificial victim, everyone was prepared to cry him down.
The Comte de Morcerf alone knew nothing of this. He did not receive the newspaper in which the defamatory article had appeared, and he had spent the morning writing letters and trying out a horse.
He arrived at his usual hour, his head held high, with a proud look and insolent manner, got down from his carriage, and strode along the corridors and into the chamber, not noticing the sidelong glances of the ushers or the grudging nods of his colleagues. When he came into the chamber, it had already been in session for more than half an hour.
Though the count, as we have said, ignorant of what had happened, made no change in his look or manner, this look and this manner seemed to everyone even more arrogant than usual, and his presence on this occasion appeared such an act of aggression in this assembly that was jealous of its honour, that everyone considered it a breach of etiquette, while several thought it an act of bravado, and a few took it as an insult. Clearly, the whole chamber was burning with eagerness to begin the debate.
The accusing newspaper could be seen in everyone’s hands but, as is always the case, no one was keen to take on the responsibility of opening the attack. Finally one honourable peer, a declared enemy of the Comte de Morcerf, mounted the tribune with a solemnity that proclaimed the long-expected moment had come.
There was a fearful silence. Only Morcerf remained unaware of the reason for this awed attention, paid for once to an orator who was seldom accorded such an attentive audience.
The count sat, unruffled, through the preamble in which the speaker announced that he was going to speak of something so serious, so solemn and so vital to the House that it demanded the full attention of his colleagues.
At the first mention of the words ‘Janina’ and ‘Colonel Fernand’, however, Morcerf went so horribly pale that the whole assembly was convulsed by a single shudder and all eyes turned on the count.
Moral wounds have the peculiarity that they are invisible, but do not close: always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain tender and open in the heart.
When the article had been read in the midst of this silence, which was then ruffled by a stir that ceased as soon as the speaker indicated that he was about to continue, the accuser described his misgivings and began to suggest what a hard task he had taken on. It was M. de Morcerf’s honour and that of the whole House that he sought to defend, by initiating a debate that would deal with these still controversial personal questions. Finally, he concluded by asking for an inquiry to be set up, rapidly enough to nip this slander in the bud and avenge M. de Morcerf by restoring him to the position that public opinion had for so long accorded him.
Morcerf was shaking, smitten by this enormous and unexpected calamity to the point where he could barely stammer out a few words, while casting a haggard look at the faces of his colleagues. His diffidence, which could equally well indicate the astonishment of an innocent man as the shame of a guilty one, gained him some sympathy. Truly generous men are always ready to feel compassion when their enemy’s misfortune exceeds the bounds of their hatred.
The chairman asked for a vote on the inquiry, which was held by members rising or remaining seated. The result was that the inquiry would be held. The count was asked how long he would need to prepare his defence.
Morcerf’s strength had returned as soon as he realized he had survived this terrible blow. ‘Gentlemen and fellow peers,’ he said, ‘time is not what one needs to repel an attack such as that which is here being directed against me by unknown enemies, who are no doubt hiding in the shadows of their own obscurity. I must reply instantly, like a thunderbolt, to this flash of lightning that for an instant dazzled me. How I wish that, instead of such self-justification, I could spill my blood to prove to my colleagues that I am worthy to be counted as one of their peers.’
These words made a favourable impression.
‘Consequently,’ he continued, ‘I request that the inquiry should be held as soon as possible and I shall give the House all the documents necessary to facilitate it.’
‘When would you like the inquiry to begin?’ asked the chairman.
‘I am at the disposal of the House immediately,’ the count replied.
The chairman rang his bell. ‘Is the House of the opinion that this inquiry should take place today?’ he asked.
‘Yes!’ came the unanimous reply from the assembly.
A twelve-member commission was chosen to decide what documents Morcerf should be required to provide. The first session of this commission was to convene at eight o’clock in the evening in the offices of the House. If several sessions were needed, they would be held at the same time, in the same place.
Once this had been decided, Morcerf asked permission to retire. He had to collect the documents that he had long been gathering, to brave a storm that his cunning and indomitable character had warned him would eventually descend upon him.
Beauchamp told the young man everything that we have just told the reader, with the difference that his account enjoyed the immediacy of a living thing, as compared to a dead one.
Albert listened, trembling now with hope, now with anger, at times with shame – for, from what Beauchamp had confided to him, he knew that his father was guilty and wondered how, in that c
ase, he could succeed in proving his innocence.
When he got to this point, Beauchamp paused.
‘And then?’ Albert asked.
‘And then…’ Beauchamp repeated.
‘Yes.’
‘My friend, that word imposes a dreadful compulsion upon me. Do you wish to know what happened next?’
‘There is absolutely no alternative; and I should prefer to learn it from your lips, my friend, than from any others.’
‘Very well,’ said Beauchamp. ‘Prepare your courage, Albert, because you will never have had greater need of it.’
Albert drew a hand across his forehead to reassure himself as to his own strength, like a man preparing to defend his life who tests his armour and flexes the blade of his sword. He felt strong, mistaking his fever for energy.
‘Go on!’ he said.
‘The evening came,’ Beauchamp continued. ‘All Paris was on tenterhooks. Many people said that your father had only to show himself for the charges to collapse, while many others said that he would not appear. Some claimed they had seen him leaving for Brussels, and a few went to the police to ask if it was true, as they had heard, that the count had collected his passport.
‘I admit that I did everything I could,’ Beauchamp went on, ‘to get a member of the commission, a young peer who is a friend of mine, to gain admission for me to some kind of gallery in the chamber. At seven o’clock he came to fetch me and, before anyone else had arrived, handed me over to an usher who shut me into a sort of box, like a box in the theatre: I was concealed by a pillar and wrapped in total darkness, so I could reasonably hope to see and hear each of the terrible events that were about to take place. By eight o’clock exactly, everyone had assembled.