‘Ah, Madame, such scruples would naturally arise in a soul as honest as yours, but might soon be eradicated by reasoning. The worse side of human thought will always be summed up in that paradox of Jean-Jacques Rousseau7 – you know the one: “The mandarin whom one can kill from a distance of five hundred leagues just by raising a finger”. Man’s life is spent doing such things and his intelligence is exhausted in dreaming about them. You will find very few people who would go, brutally, and stick a knife in the heart of their fellow man or who, to make him disappear off the face of the earth, would administer the amount of arsenic that we mentioned a short time ago. That is really either eccentricity or stupidity. One can only reach that point if the blood is heated up to thirty-six degrees, the pulse is racing at ninety beats a minute and the mind is driven outside its ordinary limits. But if, as though advancing like a philologist from a word to its near synonym, you make a mere “elimination”… Instead of committing a base murder, you purely and simply remove from your path the person who bothers you, without any clash, or violence, or all that paraphernalia of suffering which, becoming a torment, makes the victim into a martyr and the person responsible into a butcher, in the full force of the word… If there is no blood, no cries, no contortions and, above all, none of that horrible and compromising instantaneousness of the event, then you will evade the weight of the human law that tells you: “Don’t upset the social order!” This is what Orientals do and that is how they succeed: serious and phlegmatic people, they are little troubled by matters of time when something of any importance is to be resolved.’
‘There is still conscience,’ said Mme de Villefort in a strained voice, stifling a sigh.
‘Yes,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Yes, fortunately there is still conscience, because without it we should be in a fine mess. After any slightly energetic action, conscience saves us, because it supplies us with a thousand good excuses, which we alone are left to judge: these excuses, effective as they may be in ensuring our sleep, might perhaps be rather less so before a court where they had to protect our lives. So Richard III, for example, was wonderfully well served by his conscience after the elimination of Edward IV’s two children. He could say to himself: “These two children, sons of a cruel tyrant, had inherited the vices of their father, though I alone was able to detect this in their juvenile dispositions. These two children stood in the way of my efforts to bring happiness to the English people, to whom they would certainly have brought misfortune.” In the same way, Lady Macbeth was served by her conscience: her desire, whatever Shakespeare says, was to give a throne to her son, not to her husband. Oh, maternal love is such a great virtue and powerful impulse that it can excuse many things. Hence, without her conscience, Lady Macbeth would have been a very unhappy woman after the death of Duncan.’
These frightful axioms and horrid paradoxes were delivered by the count with his own peculiar brand of ingenuous irony. Mme de Villefort received them avidly.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Do you know, Count,’ she said, ‘that you are a terrible reasoner and that you see the world in a somewhat lurid light! Is it because you have viewed mankind through alembics and retorts that you see it in this way? For you are right, you are a great chemist, and the elixir which you gave my son, which so quickly brought him back to life…’
‘Oh, don’t trust it, Madame,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘A drop of that elixir sufficed to bring the child back to life when he was dying, but three drops would have driven the blood into his lungs in such a way as to give him palpitations of the heart. Six would have interrupted his breathing and caused him a much more serious fit than the one he was already suffering. Ten would have killed him. You recall, Madame, how I hastened to pull him away from those phials which he had been rash enough to touch?’
‘Was that some frightful poison?’
‘Good heavens, no! Firstly, let’s forget this word “poison”, because doctors use the most deadly poisons which, according to the way in which they are administered, become very effective medicines.’
‘So what was it?’
‘A subtle preparation made by my friend, Abbé Adelmonte, which he showed me how to use.’
‘Oh, it must be an excellent antispasmodic.’
‘A sovereign remedy, Madame, as you saw,’ the count replied. ‘I often use it – with all due caution, of course,’ he added with a smile.
‘I imagine so,’ Mme de Villefort replied, in the same tone. ‘I myself, nervous as I am and subject to fainting fits, I need a Doctor Adelmonte to discover a remedy that will help me to breathe easily and overcome my fear of one day suffocating to death. Meanwhile, as such things are hard to find in France and your abbé would probably not be willing to come to Paris for me, I made do with Monsieur Planche’s antispasmodics, and I frequently use the mint and drops from Hoffmann. Look, here are some pastilles that I had made up for me. They contain a double dose.’
Monte Cristo opened the tortoiseshell pill-box that she handed to him and sniffed the pastilles with the air of a specialist able to appreciate the preparation.
‘They are exquisite,’ he said, ‘but unfortunately they need to be swallowed, which is often not possible for an unconscious person. I prefer my specific.’
‘Of course, I agree, having seen it at work. But no doubt it is a secret and I shall not be indiscreet enough to ask for it.’
‘But I, Madame,’ Monte Cristo said, getting up, ‘am gallant enough to offer it to you.’
‘Oh, Monsieur!’
‘Just remember one thing: in small doses this is a cure, in large ones, a poison. One drop may restore life, as you have seen; five or six would certainly kill, and all the more frightfully because, if dissolved into a glass of wine, they would not alter the taste in the slightest. But I must stop, Madame, or I shall seem to be giving you advice.’
The clock had just struck half-past six and the maid announced a friend of Mme de Villefort’s who was to dine with her.
‘If I had the honour to be meeting you for the third or fourth time, instead of the second, Monsieur le Comte,’ said Mme de Villefort, ‘if I had the honour to be your friend, instead of having merely the pleasure of being indebted to you, I should insist that you stay to dinner and I should not accept your first refusal.’
‘Thank you a thousand times, Madame,’ Monte Cristo replied, ‘but I do myself have an engagement from which I cannot escape. I have promised to take a Greek princess, a friend of mine, to the theatre. She has not yet seen grand opera and is counting on me to introduce her to it.’
‘Go, then, Monsieur, but do not forget my recipe.’
‘What, Madame! Were I to do so, I should also have to forget the hour I have just spent in conversation with you – and that would be quite impossible.’
Monte Cristo bowed and went out, leaving Mme de Villefort absorbed in her thoughts. ‘That is a strange man,’ she said to herself. ‘And one who, I would guess, was baptized Adelmonte.’
As for Monte Cristo, the visit had succeeded beyond his expectations. ‘Well, indeed,’ he thought, as he went out, ‘this is fertile soil, and I am certain that the seed that falls in it will not remain barren.’
The next day, as he had promised, he sent the recipe she had asked for.
LIII
ROBERT LE DIABLE
The excuse of the opera had been all the more appropriate since there was that evening a formal soirée at the Royal Academy of Music. Levasseur had long been indisposed but was returning in the role of Bertram and, as ever, the work of the fashionable maestro had attracted the cream of Parisian society.
Morcerf, like most rich people, had his own orchestra stall, plus ten people whom he knew, in whose boxes he could request a seat, without counting his place in the lions’ box. Château-Renaud’s stall seat was next to Morcerf’s. Beauchamp, being a journalist, was king of the theatre and could sit where he wished.
That evening, Lucien Debray had the minister’s box at his disposal and had off
ered it to the Comte de Morcerf who, on Mercédès’ refusal, had sent it to Danglars with a message that he would probably go and visit the baroness and her daughter in the course of the evening, if those ladies would like to accept the box that he offered them. Those ladies were sure not to refuse. No one likes a free box as much as a millionaire.
As for Danglars, he had declared that his political principles and his position as a député for the opposition would not permit him to go into the minister’s box. As a result, the baroness wrote to Lucien to take her, since she could not go to the opera alone with Eugénie.
True, if the two women had gone alone, people would surely have considered this very bad behaviour; while no one could object to Mlle Danglars going to the opera with her mother and her mother’s lover. One must take the world as it is.
The curtain went up, as usual, on an almost empty house. It is fashionable among Parisians to arrive at the theatre when the show has begun, with the result that the first act is spent, by those members of the audience who have arrived, not in watching or listening to the play, but in watching the entry of those spectators who are arriving, so that nothing can be heard except the sound of doors banging and voices in conversation.
‘Look!’ Albert suddenly exclaimed, seeing the door open in a side box in the dress circle. ‘Look! Countess G—.’
‘Who or what is Countess G—?’ Château-Renaud asked.
‘Come, now, Baron! You can’t be forgiven for asking that. Who is Countess G—!’
‘Oh, that’s right,’ said Château-Renaud. ‘Isn’t it that charming Venetian woman?’
‘Exactly.’
At that moment, Countess G—noticed Albert and greeted him with a wave and a smile.
‘Do you know her?’ asked Château-Renaud.
‘Yes. Franz introduced me to her when we were in Rome.’
‘Could you do the same for me in Paris?’
‘Of course.’
‘Hush!’ cried the audience.
The two young men continued their conversation, not appearing to take the slightest notice of the fact that the stalls seemed to want to listen to the music.
‘She was at the races in the Champ-de-Mars,’ said Château-Renaud.
‘Today?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, now. I’d forgotten about the races. Were you in for anything?’
‘A mere trifle. Fifty louis.’
‘Who won?’
‘Nautilus. I was betting on him.’
‘But there were three races?’
‘Yes: the Prix du Jockey-Club, a gold cup… Something quite odd happened.’
‘What was that?’
‘Be quiet!’ shouted the audience.
‘What was that?’ Albert repeated.
‘The winners of that race were an entirely unknown horse and jockey.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, egad! No one took any notice of a horse entered under the name of Vampa and a jockey entered under the name of “Job”, when suddenly a superb chestnut appeared, with a jockey the size of your fist. They had to give him a handicap of twenty pounds of lead in his saddle, and it still didn’t stop him getting to the post three lengths ahead of Ariel and Barbaro, who were running against him.’
‘And no one knew whom the horse and jockey belonged to?’
‘No.’
‘You say the horse was entered in the name of…’
‘Vampa.’
‘In that case,’ Albert said, ‘I’m a step ahead of you, because I do know the owner.’
‘Silence!’ the stalls yelled.
This time the outcry was so great that the two young men finally realized that they were the object of the audience’s appeals. They turned around for a moment, looking for a man in the crowd who would take responsibility for what they regarded as an impertinence, but no one repeated the invitation, so they turned back towards the stage.
At that moment the door to the minister’s box opened and Mme Danglars, her daughter and Lucien Debray took their seats.
‘Ah, ha!’ said Château-Renaud. ‘There are some people you know, Viscount. Why on earth are you staring to the right; someone is trying to catch your eye.’
Albert turned and his eyes did meet those of Baroness Danglars, who gave a little greeting with her fan. As for Mlle Eugénie, her large black eyes would scarcely deign to look down to the stalls.
‘In truth, my dear friend,’ said Château-Renaud, ‘I do not understand, apart from the misalliance – and I don’t suppose that bothers you very much… As I say, I cannot understand, apart from the misalliance, what you can have against Mademoiselle Danglars. She really is a very fine-looking creature.’
‘Very fine, indeed,’ said Albert, ‘but I must confess that, as far as beauty is concerned, I should prefer something softer, smoother and, in short, more feminine.’
‘That’s the younger generation for you,’ said Château-Renaud who, as a man of thirty, took on a paternal air with Morcerf. ‘Never satisfied. What, my dear fellow! They find you a fiancée built like Diana the Huntress, and you are not happy!’
‘Precisely. I should have preferred something like the Venus de Milo or the Venus of Capua. This Diana the Huntress, always surrounded by her nymphs, frightens me a little. I’m afraid she might treat me like Actaeon.’
A glance at the girl might have gone some way to justify the feelings to which Morcerf had just admitted. Mlle Danglars was beautiful but, as Albert said, her beauty was somewhat strict: her hair was a lustrous black, but there was a certain rebelliousness in its natural wave. Her eyes, as black as her hair, were framed in magnificent eyebrows that had only one defect, which was that from time to time they were quizzically raised, and the eyes were exceptional above all for their determined expression, which it was surprising to find in a woman. Her nose had the precise proportions that a sculptor would have given to Juno; only her mouth was a little too large, but it exhibited fine teeth which highlighted the excessive redness of lips that did not harmonize with the pallor of the complexion. Finally, a beauty-spot at the corner of the mouth, larger than is usual with these freaks of nature, completed the look of resolution in the face that somewhat dismayed Morcerf.
For that matter, the rest of Eugénie’s person was of a piece with the head that we have just attempted to describe. As Château-Renaud said, she was Diana the Huntress, but with something even firmer and more muscular in her beauty.
As for her upbringing, if there was anything to be said against it, it was that, like some traits of her physiognomy, it seemed more appropriate to the other sex. She spoke two or three languages, had an innate talent for drawing, wrote verse and composed music; this last was her great passion, which she studied with one of her school-friends, a young woman with no expectations but (one was assured) with everything needed to become an outstanding singer. It was said that a great composer took an almost paternal interest in this girl and encouraged her to work in the hope of eventually finding a fortune in her voice.
The possibility that Mlle Louise d’Armilly (this was the name of the talented young person) might one day appear on the stage meant that Mlle Danglars, although she received her at home, did not appear with her in public. Despite this, while she did not have the independent position of a friend in the banker’s house, Louise did enjoy a higher status than that of an ordinary governess.
A few seconds after Mme Danglars entered her box, the curtain came down and, because the length of the intervals allowed the opportunity to walk around the foyer or to pay visits for some half an hour, the stalls were more or less emptied.
Morcerf and Château-Renaud were among the first to go out. For a moment Mme Danglars thought that Albert’s haste was owing to his desire to pay her his compliments, and she had leant over to her daughter to warn her of this visit, but the girl was content to shake her head, with a smile. At the same time, as if to prove how well founded Eugénie’s denial was, Morcerf appeared in a side box in the dress circle. This box bel
onged to Countess G—.
‘Ah, traveller! There you are!’ she said, offering him her hand with all the cordiality of an old acquaintanceship. ‘It is most kind of you to have recognized me and, more especially, to have given me preference for your first visit.’
‘Believe me, Madame,’ Albert replied, ‘had I been informed of your arrival in Paris and known your address, I should not have waited so long. But permit me to introduce Monsieur le Baron de Château-Renaud, my friend and one of the few gentlemen left in France, who has just told me that you were at the races on the Champ-de-Mars.’
Château-Renaud bowed.
‘You were at the races then, Monsieur?’ the countess enquired, examining him with interest.
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘Very well,’ she asked. ‘Can you tell me whose was the horse that won the Prix du Jockey-Club?’
‘I regret not, Madame,’ said Château-Renaud. ‘I was just asking Albert the same question.’
‘Do you insist, Countess?’ asked Albert.
‘On what?’
‘On knowing the owner of the horse?’
‘Absolutely. I must tell you… But would you happen to know, Viscount?’
‘Madame, you were about to begin a story. “I must tell you…”, you said.’
‘Well, I must tell you that that charming chestnut horse and the pretty little jockey in his pink cap appealed to me so much from the first moment I saw them that I was making a wish for them both, just as though I had bet half my fortune on them. So, when I saw them pass the post three lengths ahead of the other runners, I was so happy that I started to clap my hands like a madwoman. Imagine my astonishment when, on arriving home, I met the little pink jockey on the staircase! I thought that the winner of the race must chance to live in the same house as I, when, on opening the door of my drawing-room, the first thing I saw was the gold cup, the prize won by the unknown horse and jockey. Inside it was a little scrap of paper with the following words: “To Countess G—, Lord Ruthwen”.’