The Count of Monte Cristo (Penguin Classics eBook)

  Baptistin bowed and took three or four steps towards the door.

  ‘By the way,’ the count continued, ‘I forgot to tell you that, every year, I invest a certain sum for each of my people. Those whom I dismiss inevitably lose this money, which reverts to those who remain and who will be able to collect it after my death. You have been a year with me, your fortune has begun to grow: let it continue.’

  This homily, delivered in front of Ali who remained impassive, since he did not understand a word of French, produced an effect on M. Baptistin which will be understood by anyone who has studied the psychology of the French domestic servant.

  ‘I shall try to conform in every respect to Your Excellency’s wishes,’ he said. ‘Indeed, I shall model myself on Monsieur Ali.’

  ‘Oh! Do no such thing!’ Monte Cristo said, as cold as marble. ‘Ali has many faults, as well as qualities. Don’t follow his example, because Ali is an exception. He receives no wages, he is not a servant, he is my slave, he is my dog. If he were to fail in his duty, I should not dismiss him. I should kill him.’

  Baptistin’s eyes bulged.

  ‘Do you doubt it?’ And the count repeated the same words to Ali that he had spoken in French to Baptistin. Ali listened, smiled, went over to his master, knelt on one knee and respectfully kissed his hand. This little epitome of the lesson left Baptistin utterly dumbfounded.

  The count motioned to Baptistin to leave them, and Ali to come with him. He led the way into his cabinet and they spent a long time talking there.

  At five o’clock the count knocked three times on the gong. One strike was for Ali, two for Baptistin and three for Bertuccio. The steward entered.

  ‘My horses!’ Monte Cristo demanded.

  ‘They are ready, with the carriage, Excellency,’ Bertuccio replied. ‘Shall I be accompanying Monsieur le Comte?’

  ‘No, just the coachman, Baptistin and Ali.’

  The count came downstairs and saw, harnessed to his carriage, the horses that he had admired that morning in Danglars’ barouche. He glanced at them as he went past.

  ‘They are very fine, indeed,’ he said. ‘You did well to buy them, even though you were a little late.’

  ‘Excellency,’ said Bertuccio, ‘it took a great deal of trouble to get them and they were very expensive.’

  ‘Are they any the less attractive for that?’ the count asked, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘If Your Excellency is content,’ Bertuccio said, ‘then all is well. Where is Your Excellency going?’

  ‘To the rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, to Baron Danglars’.’

  This conversation took place at the top of the front steps. Bertuccio made as if to go down the first step.

  ‘One moment, Monsieur,’ Monte Cristo said, holding him back. ‘I need an estate near the seaside, in Normandy for example, between Le Havre and Boulogne. As you see, I am giving you room to manoeuvre. The property must have a little harbour – a small creek or bay, where my corvette can enter and moor. It has a draught of only fifteen feet. It will always be kept ready to put to sea, at any hour of the day or night when I choose to give the signal. You will enquire of all the notaries about a property of this kind and, when you have found one, you will visit it and, if you are satisfied, buy it in your name. The corvette must be sailing towards Fécamp, I suppose?’

  ‘I saw it put to sea on the very evening when we left Marseille.’

  ‘And the yacht?’

  ‘The yacht was ordered to remain at Les Martigues.’

  ‘Very well. From time to time you must keep in touch with their two captains, so that they do not fall asleep at their posts.’

  ‘What about the steamship?’

  ‘Which is in Chalon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The same orders as for the two sailing ships.’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘As soon as the property has been acquired, I shall have relays of horses ready every ten leagues on the roads to the north and to the south.’

  ‘Your Excellency can count on me.’

  Monte Cristo gave a nod of satisfaction, went down the steps and leapt into his carriage, which was borne forward at a trot by the superb team of horses and did not stop until it reached the banker’s mansion.

  Danglars was chairing a commission, which had been appointed for a railway company, when they came in to announce the Count of Monte Cristo. In any case, the meeting was almost finished. At the mention of the count’s name, he got up.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, addressing his colleagues, several of whom were honourable members of one House or the other, ‘I apologize for leaving you in this way, but I must ask you to believe that the firm of Thomson and French, in Rome, has sent me a certain Count of Monte Cristo and opened a limitless credit for him with me. This is the most ludicrous joke any of my correspondents abroad has yet played on me. As you may well imagine, I was – and still am – consumed by curiosity. This morning, I went to visit the so-called count; if he was a real one, you will agree, he would not be so rich. Monsieur was not at home to me. What do you think? It seems our Monte Cristo has the manners of a princeling or a prima donna, doesn’t it? Aside from that, the house on the Champs-Elysées, which he owns, I enquired about that, appeared respectable enough. But – unlimited credit!’ Danglars repeated, smiling one of his odious smiles. ‘That’s something that makes the banker with whom such a credit is opened rather fussy about his man. So I was keen to see him. I think they are trying to lead me up the garden path, but he who laughs last…’

  M. le Baron ended, stressing the last words with an expressive flourish that made his nostrils flare, then left his guests and went into a reception room, done up in white and gold, that had made the tongues wag on the Chaussée d’Antin. He had asked the visitor to be brought here, to impress him right from the start.

  The count was standing, inspecting some copies of Albano and Fattore1 which had been passed off on the banker as originals and which, copies though they were, clashed with the beading in every shade of gold decorating the ceiling. On hearing Danglars come in, the count turned around.

  Danglars nodded in greeting and gestured to the count to sit down on an armchair of gilded wood upholstered in white satin and embroidered in gold thread. The count did so.

  ‘I have the honour of speaking to Monsieur de Monte Cristo?’

  ‘And I,’ the count replied, ‘to Monsieur le Baron Danglars, Knight of the Legion of Honour and member of the Chamber of Deputies?’

  The count was repeating all the titles to be found on the baron’s visiting card. The baron took the hint and bit his lip.

  ‘Forgive me, Monsieur,’ he said, ‘for not addressing you at the start by the title under which you were introduced to me. But, as you know, we live under a government of the people and I am a representative of the interests of the people.’

  ‘With the result,’ Monte Cristo replied, ‘that, while retaining the custom of having yourself called “Baron”, you have abandoned that of calling other men “Count”.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not even bothered about it for myself, Monsieur,’ Danglars replied casually. ‘They granted me the title and made me a Knight of the Legion of Honour for some services rendered, but…’

  ‘But you abdicated your titles, as formerly Monsieur de Mont-morency and Monsieur de Lafayette did? You offer a fine example to your fellow men, Monsieur.’

  ‘Well, not altogether,’ Danglars replied, with some embarrassment. ‘You understand, for the servants…’

  ‘Ah, so you call yourself “monseigneur” for your staff, “monsieur” for journalists and “citizen” for your agents. These nuances are quite appropriate in a constitutional regime; I understand perfectly.’

  Danglars clenched his teeth. He could see that on this ground he was no rival for Monte Cristo, so he tried to return to terrain that was more familiar to him.

  ‘Monsieur le Comte,’ he said, bowing, ‘I have received a letter from the firm of Thomson and French.’
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  ‘I am delighted, Monsieur le Baron. Oh! Permit me to address you as your servants do: it’s a bad habit I picked up in countries where they still have barons, precisely because they are not making them any more. As I say, I’m charmed. I have no need to present myself, which is always embarrassing. So, you have received a letter?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Danglars, ‘but I have to admit that I did not entirely take its meaning.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I even had the honour to visit you to ask for an explanation.’

  ‘Very well, Monsieur, I am here, ready and listening.’

  ‘I have the letter,’ Danglars said, ‘… on my person, I believe.’ He rummaged around in his pocket. ‘Yes, here we are. This letter opens an unlimited credit on my bank on behalf of the Count of Monte Cristo.’

  ‘So, Monsieur le Baron, what needs explaining in that?’

  ‘Nothing, Monsieur. Only, the word “unlimited”…’

  ‘It is a French word, is it not? You must understand, the letter comes from an Anglo-German firm…’

  ‘Oh, yes, Monsieur, indeed. There is no problem in respect of the syntax, but the same is not true of the arithmetic.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me,’ Monte Cristo asked, with the most innocent air that he could manage, ‘that the firm of Thomson and French is not absolutely reliable, in your opinion, Monsieur le Baron? I should be most sorry to hear it, for I have some money invested with them.’

  ‘Oh, perfectly reliable,’ Danglars replied, with a smile almost of mockery. ‘But the meaning of the word “unlimited”, in financial terms, is so vague…’

  ‘As to be unlimited, perhaps?’ said Monte Cristo.

  ‘Just so, Monsieur, that is precisely what I meant. Now, where something is vague, there is doubt and, as the wise man says, when in doubt – don’t!’

  ‘In other words,’ Monte Cristo remarked, ‘you mean that while the firm of Thomson and French may be inclined to folly, that of Danglars is unwilling to follow its example.’

  ‘How do you mean, Monsieur le Comte?’

  ‘Just this: Messrs Thomson and French engage in unlimited business, but Monsieur Danglars does put a limit on his. As he was saying only a moment ago, he is a wise man.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ the banker replied haughtily, ‘no one has yet found my funds to be wanting.’

  ‘So, it seems that I shall be the first,’ Monte Cristo replied coldly.

  ‘Who says that you will?’

  ‘All these explanations you require of me, Monsieur, which seem to me very much like cold feet…’

  Danglars bit his lip: this was the second time that the man had worsted him, and this time on his own ground. His condescending politeness was only an affectation and he was getting close to an extremity very similar to condescension, which is impertinence.

  Monte Cristo, on the other hand, was smiling with the best grace in the world. When he wished, he could adopt an air of innocence that was extremely favourable to him.

  ‘To come to the point, Monsieur,’ said Danglars, after a moment’s silence. ‘I shall try to make myself plain by asking you yourself to state the amount that you intend to draw on us.’

  ‘But, my good sir,’ said Monte Cristo, determined not to lose an inch of ground in the debate, ‘if I asked for unlimited credit from you, that was precisely because I did not know what amount I should require.’

  The banker felt that the moment had at last come to regain the upper hand. He sat back in his chair and, with a broad and supercilious smile, said: ‘Oh, Monsieur! Do not be afraid to ask. You will then be able to satisfy yourself that the funds of Danglars and company, limited though they may be, can meet the largest requirements. Even if you were to ask for a million…’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Monte Cristo.

  ‘I said, a million,’ Danglars repeated, with idiotic self-satisfaction.

  ‘What use would a million be to me?’ said the count. ‘Good heavens, Monsieur! If all I wanted was a million, I should not have bothered to open a credit for such a paltry sum. A million? But I always carry a million in my portfolio or my wallet.’ And, opening a little box where he kept his visiting cards, he took out two bonds for five hundred thousand francs each, drawn on the Treasury and payable to bearer.

  A man like Danglars needed to be bludgeoned, rather than pricked. The blow had the desired effect: the banker reeled and felt faint. He looked at Monte Cristo with amazement, the pupils of his dazed eyes terrifyingly dilated.

  ‘Come now,’ said Monte Cristo, ‘admit it! You have no faith in the firm of Thomson and French. Well, that’s no problem. I anticipated it and, though I know little about business, I took the necessary precautions. Here are two other letters like the one addressed to you. The first comes from the firm of Arnstein and Eskeles, in Vienna, drawn on the Baron de Rothschild, the other from the house of Baring in London, drawn on Monsieur Laffitte. Just say the word, Monsieur, and I shall relieve you of any anxiety by going to one or other of those two firms.’

  That was it: Danglars was defeated. With hands visibly trembling, he opened the letter from Vienna and the other from London, which the count was holding out to him, verified the signatures with a degree of attention that would have been insulting to Monte Cristo if he had not made allowance for the banker’s bewilderment.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur, here are three signatures that are worth many millions,’ Danglars said, rising to his feet, as though to salute the power of gold personified in the man seated before him. ‘Three unlimited credits on our three firms! Excuse me, Monsieur le Comte, but, while I am no longer suspicious, I may at least be allowed to feel astonishment.’

  ‘Oh, a firm like yours would not be astonished by such a thing,’ said Monte Cristo, with all the condescension he could muster. ‘So, you can send me some money, I assume?’

  ‘Name the sum, Monsieur le Comte. I am at your orders.’

  ‘Very well, then,’ Monte Cristo continued. ‘Now that we are agreed… we are agreed, aren’t we?’

  Danglars nodded.

  ‘And you are no longer at all suspicious?’

  ‘Monsieur le Comte, please!’ the banker exclaimed. ‘I was never suspicious!’

  ‘No, you simply wanted some proof, nothing more. Very well, now that we are agreed and you no longer have any suspicion, let us settle on a broad amount for the first year; say, six million?’

  ‘Six million! Very well then,’ said Danglars, choking.

  ‘If I should need more,’ Monte Cristo continued, ‘we can increase the amount; but I am only expecting to stay a year in France, and during that year I do not think I shall exceed that amount… Well, we shall see… So, for a start, please have five hundred thousand francs sent round to me tomorrow. I shall be at home until midday and, in any case, if I were to go out, I should leave a receipt with my steward.’

  ‘The money will be with you tomorrow at ten in the morning, Monsieur le Comte,’ Danglars replied. ‘Would you like gold, banknotes or coin?’

  ‘Half gold and half notes, if you please.’

  He got up to leave.

  ‘One thing I must confess, Monsieur le Comte,’ Danglars said. ‘I thought that I was rather well acquainted with all the great fortunes in Europe; but I have to admit that yours, though it seems to be considerable, had entirely escaped my notice. Is it recent?’

  ‘No, Monsieur,’ Monte Cristo replied. ‘On the contrary, it dates back a long way. It is a sort of family treasure which was not allowed to be touched; the accumulated interest tripled the capital sum. The period allotted under the will only elapsed a few years ago, so I have only been drawing on the money for a short time and your ignorance in the matter is entirely natural. In any event, you will shortly be better informed.’

  The count accompanied these last words with one of those faint smiles that so terrified Franz d’Epinay.

  ‘With your taste and your intentions, Monsieur,’ Danglars continued, ‘you will exhibit in Paris a degree of extravagance
before which we shall pale into insignificance, we poor millionaires. However, as you strike me as a connoisseur – I did notice you looking at my pictures when I entered – I beg your permission to show you my collection. All guaranteed old masters. I do not like the modern school.’

  ‘You are quite right, Monsieur. On the whole, they have one great shortcoming, which is that they have not yet had time to become old masters.’

  ‘Could I show you some statues by Thorwaldsen, Bartolini or Canova?2 All foreigners: I don’t favour French artists.’

  ‘You have the right to be unjust towards them, Monsieur, since they are your fellow-countrymen.’

  ‘But all that can come later, when we know one another better. For the time being, with your permission, of course, I shall be content to introduce you to Baroness Danglars. Forgive my eagerness, Count, but a client such as yourself is almost one of the family.’

  Monte Cristo bowed, indicating that he would accept the honour that the financier was offering to accord him.

  Danglars rang and a footman appeared, dressed in brightly shining livery.

  ‘Is the baroness at home?’ Danglars asked.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur le Baron,’ the footman replied.

  ‘Is she alone?’

  ‘No, Madame has company.’

  ‘It would not be indiscreet of me to introduce you when someone else is present, Count? You are not travelling incognito?’

  ‘No, Baron,’ Monte Cristo said, smiling. ‘I do not allow myself that privilege.’

  ‘Who is with madame? Is it Monsieur Debray?’ Danglars asked, with a good humour that made Monte Cristo smile to himself, informed as he already was about the financier’s domestic secrets.

  ‘Yes, Baron, Monsieur Debray,’ the footman replied.

  Danglars nodded, then turned to Monte Cristo.

  ‘Monsieur Lucien Debray,’ he said, ‘is an old friend of the family and the private secretary to the Minister of the Interior. As for my wife, she had to give up a title when she married me, for she belongs to an old family. She is a Mademoiselle de Servières, the widow from her first marriage, to the Marquis de Nargonne.’