The Count of Monte Cristo (Penguin Classics eBook)

  ‘Is he happy with you?’

  ‘For the time being, I seem to fit the bill.’

  ‘And who found this father for you?’

  ‘The Count of Monte Cristo.’

  ‘This count you’ve just left?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In that case, try to find me a post with him as a grandparent, since he’s making a business of it.’

  ‘I’ll mention you to him. Meanwhile, what will you do?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘You’re a good lad, to worry about that,’ said Caderousse.

  ‘Since you’re taking such an interest in me, I can at least find out something about you myself.’

  ‘Very well. I’m going to rent a room in a respectable house, buy myself a decent coat, get a shave every day and go and read the newspaper in a café. In the evenings, I shall go to the theatre with the man who organizes the claque. I’ll be taken for a retired baker. That’s my dream…’

  ‘Excellent! If you follow that plan sensibly, everything will be fine.’

  ‘Listen to Monsieur Bossuet2… And what are you going to become: a peer of the realm?’

  ‘Uh, uh!’ Andrea said. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Perhaps Major Cavalcanti is one. What a shame the hereditary peerage has been abolished.’

  ‘Keep off politics, Caderousse! Now you have what you wanted and we have arrived home, jump down and disappear.’

  ‘Not so, my good friend.’

  ‘What do you mean: not so?’

  ‘Just think, little one: here I am with a red kerchief on my head, virtually no shoes, no documents at all and ten gold napoleons in my pocket, quite apart from what was there already, which adds up to a round two hundred francs! They would most certainly arrest me at the gate, and I should be forced, in my own defence, to tell them that you gave me these ten napoleons. Then there’d have to be a statement and an enquiry. They would find that I left Toulon without asking for leave and send me back from one police force to the next down to the shores of the Mediterranean. I should quite simply become, once more, Number one hundred and six3 – and goodbye to my dreams of playing the part of a retired baker! No, no, son, I’d rather stay honestly in the capital.’

  Andrea raised an eyebrow. As he had boasted himself, this supposed son of Major Cavalcanti was something of a hothead. He paused, cast a rapid glance around him and, as his eyes completed this circular investigation, innocently let his hand go down to his trouser pocket where it began to fondle the stock of a small pistol. However, during this same time, Caderousse, while not taking his eyes off the other man, put his hands behind his back and gently opened a long Spanish knife which he kept there for any eventuality.

  These two friends, as one may see, were well suited to understand one another, and did so. Andrea’s hand came empty out of his pocket, went up to his moustache, and stroked it a few times. ‘Very well, Caderousse,’ he said. ‘Will you be content?’

  ‘I shall do my best,’ replied the innkeeper from the Pont du Gard, slipping his knife back into its sheath.

  ‘Come on then, back to Paris. But how will you get through the gates without arousing suspicion? Dressed as you are, I think you’re even more likely to do so than if you were on foot.’

  ‘Wait. I’ll show you.’ And Caderousse took Andrea’s hat and the broad-collared greatcoat that the groom had left behind on his seat when he was sent away from the tilbury; he put them on and adopted the sullen air of a servant in a good household whose master is driving himself.

  ‘So,’ said Andrea, ‘am I to go bare-headed?’

  ‘Pah! In this wind, your hat could easily have blown off.’

  ‘Come on then, let’s get it over.’

  ‘What’s stopping you?’ said Caderousse. ‘Not me, I hope.’

  ‘Hush!’ said Cavalcanti. They had no trouble getting past the gate. At the first side-road Andrea stopped the carriage, and Caderousse jumped down.

  ‘Well, then?’ said Andrea. ‘What about my servant’s coat and my hat?’

  ‘Surely you wouldn’t want me to catch cold?’ said Caderousse.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You’re young and I’m starting to grow old. Au revoir, Benedetto!’ And he disappeared down the narrow street.

  ‘Alas, alas!’ Andrea said, with a sigh. ‘One can never be completely happy in this world.’

  LXV

  A DOMESTIC SCENE

  The three young men had separated at the Place Louis XV, Morrel going via the boulevards, Château-Renaud crossing the Pont de la Révolution and Debray following the path by the river. It seemed likely that Morrel and Château-Renaud would be returning to the bosom of their families – as they still call it in the House, in well-turned speeches, and at the theatre in the Rue de Richelieu, in well-written plays; but the same was not true of Debray. When he got to the grille at the Louvre, he took a left turn, crossing the Carrousel at the double, slipped down the Rue Saint-Roch, came out at the Rue de la Michodière and arrived finally at M. Danglars’ door, just as M. de Villefort’s landau, having deposited him and his wife in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, was pulling up to let the baroness return home.

  Debray, as someone who knew the house, was the first to go into the courtyard and he tossed the reins to a footman, then went back to the door of the carriage to help Mme Danglars, offering her his arm so that she could get down and go indoors. As soon as the gate was closed and the baroness and Debray were in the courtyard, he asked: ‘What is wrong, Hermine? Why were you ill when the count told that story – or, rather, that fairy tale?’

  ‘Because I was in terrible form this evening, my friend,’ the baroness replied.

  ‘No, Hermine,’ Debray protested. ‘You won’t convince me of that. On the contrary, you were in an excellent mood when you got to the count’s. I admit, Monsieur Danglars was a trifle gloomy, but I know what importance you attach to his bad tempers. Someone did something to you. Tell me about it. You know that I should never allow anyone to insult you in any way.’

  ‘You are wrong, Lucien, I assure you,’ Mme Danglars said. ‘It is just as I said, together with the bad temper that you noticed and which I did not think was worth mentioning to you.’

  It was clear that Mme Danglars was suffering from one of those nervous irritations which women are often unable to explain even to themselves, or else, as Debray had guessed, that she had experienced some hidden disturbance which she did not want to discuss with anyone. So, as a man who was used to treating ‘the vapours’ as a part of a woman’s life, he did not press the matter, but waited for a suitable opportunity to arise, either for further questioning, or else for a confession proprio motu.

  At the door of her room, the baroness met Mlle Cornélie. Mlle Cornélie was her chambermaid and confidante.

  ‘What is my daughter doing?’ asked Mme Danglars.

  ‘She spent the whole evening studying,’ Mlle Cornélie answered. ‘Then she went to bed.’

  ‘But isn’t that a piano I can hear?’

  ‘It’s Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly playing, while mademoiselle is in bed.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Mme Danglars. ‘Come and undress me.’

  They went into her bedroom. Debray slouched on to a large sofa and Mme Danglars went through to her dressing-room with Mlle Cornélie.

  ‘My dear Monsieur Lucien,’ Mme Danglars said through the door, ‘are you still complaining that Eugénie doesn’t deign to speak to you?’

  Lucien was playing with the baroness’s lapdog which, acknowledging him as a friend of the house, was responding affectionately to his attentions. ‘Madame,’ he replied, ‘I’m not the only one who has complained about it to you. I think I heard Morcerf telling you only the other day that he could not get a word out of his fiancée.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Mme Danglars, ‘but I think that all this will change one of these fine mornings, and you’ll see Eugénie coming to your chambers.’

  ‘To my own
chambers?’

  ‘I mean, the ministerial ones.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To ask you to persuade them to take her on at the Opera. I must tell you, I’ve never seen such an infatuation with music. It’s ridiculous in someone of her position.’

  Debray smiled. ‘If she comes with your consent and that of the baron,’ he said, ‘we’ll have her engaged and try to make the part suitable for her, though we are not really rich enough to pay for a talent such as hers.’

  ‘You may go, Cornélie,’ Mme Danglars said. ‘I don’t need you any more.’

  Cornélie vanished, and a moment later Mme Danglars emerged from her dressing-room in a charming négligée and sat down beside Lucien. Then, distractedly, she began to stroke the spaniel. Lucien looked at her for a moment in silence.

  ‘Come now, Hermine,’ he said eventually. ‘Something is troubling you, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, nothing,’ said the baroness. And yet, feeling stifled, she got up, tried to recover her breath and went to look at herself in a mirror.

  ‘I’m a real fright this evening,’ she said.

  Debray was just getting up with a smile to go over and reassure the baroness that this was not the case, when suddenly the door opened and M. Danglars appeared. Debray sat down again.

  Mme Danglars had turned around at the sound of the door and was looking at her husband with an astonishment that she did not even attempt to conceal.

  ‘Good evening, Madame,’ the banker said. ‘Good evening, Monsieur Debray.’

  No doubt the baroness thought that this unexpected visit signified something, for example a desire to make up for the bitter words which the baron had uttered during the day, so she took on a haughty air and turned towards Lucien, without answering her husband. ‘Read something to me, Monsieur Debray,’ she said.

  Debray had been slightly uneasy at this visit to begin with, but, seeing the baroness’s imperturbability, he recovered his calm and stretched out his hand towards a book, marked in the centre with a mother-of-pearl paperknife inlaid with gold.

  ‘Excuse me, Baroness,’ said the baron, ‘but you will tire yourself if you stay up so late. It is eleven o’clock and Monsieur Debray lives a long way from here.’

  Debray was astonished, though Danglars’ voice was perfectly steady and polite; but behind the calm good manners he detected a certain unaccustomed impulse to do something, apart from bowing to the wishes of his wife. The baroness was equally surprised and showed her astonishment with a look that would no doubt have given her husband pause for reflection, if he had not been attentively searching the closing prices in a newspaper. The result was that her arrogant look failed to reach its target and so was completely wasted.

  ‘Monsieur Lucien,’ the baroness said, ‘I must declare, I have not the slightest desire to sleep and there are a dozen things I want to talk about, so you will stay and listen to me all night, even if you fall asleep on your feet.’

  ‘As you wish, Madame,’ Lucien said phlegmatically.

  ‘My dear Monsieur Debray,’ the baron said, ‘you really must not exhaust yourself, I beg you, in listening to Mme Danglars’ nonsense tonight, because you can just as well hear it tomorrow. This evening is mine, and I am reserving it for myself, if you would be so good as to allow me, because I have some grave matters to discuss with my wife.’

  This time the assault was so direct and well aimed that Lucien and the baroness were stunned by it. They exchanged a look as if each was trying to find assistance against this attack. But the irresistible power of the master of the house triumphed and the husband was left victorious.

  ‘Don’t, please, think that I am driving you away, my dear Debray,’ Danglars went on. ‘No, not in the slightest. But an unexpected eventuality has made me wish to have a conversation with the baroness this very evening. This is such a rare occurrence that no one could hold it against me.’

  Debray stammered a few words, bowed and left the room, knocking against the corners, like Nathan in Athalie.1 ‘It’s extraordinary,’ he said, when the door had closed behind him, ‘how easily these husbands, whom we consider so ridiculous, are none the less able to regain the advantage over us!’

  When Lucien had gone, Danglars sat down in his place on the sofa, closed the book and, adopting a thoroughly pretentious pose, continued to stroke the dog. However, the animal did not have the same sympathy for him as for Debray and tried to bite him, so he grasped it by the nape of the neck and tossed it across the room on to a chaise-longue. The spaniel yelped on finding itself in mid-air, but on reaching its destination buried itself in a cushion and, stupefied by this unaccustomed treatment, remained silent and motionless.

  ‘Do you know, Monsieur,’ said the baroness, without raising an eyebrow, ‘you really are excelling yourself. Normally you are merely coarse, but tonight you are behaving like a brute.’

  ‘That’s because I am in a worse mood than usual tonight,’ said Danglars.

  Hermine considered the banker with utter contempt. Normally Danglars, a proud man, would be infuriated by these looks, but on this occasion he hardly seemed to notice.

  ‘What do I care about your bad moods?’ the baroness exclaimed, exasperated by her husband’s impassivity. ‘Are they anything to do with me? Shut them up in your part of the house or confine them to your offices. Since you have paid clerks, take your foul tempers out on them!’

  ‘No, Madame, not at all,’ Danglars replied. ‘Your advice is quite misguided and I have no intention of taking it. My offices are my “golden goose”, as I believe Monsieur Desmoutiers calls them, and I should not want to upset the bird or ruffle its feathers. My clerks are honest fellows who earn a fortune for me and are paid at a rate considerably below what they are worth, if that is judged according to the profits they bring; so I am not going to lose my temper with them. The people who do put me in a rage are those who eat my dinners, wind my horses and plunder my wealth.’

  ‘And what people are those, who plunder your wealth? Please explain, Monsieur.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I may be talking in riddles, but I won’t keep you guessing for long. The people who plunder my wealth are the ones who take five hundred thousand francs away from me in an hour.’

  ‘I don’t follow you, Monsieur,’ said the baroness, trying to disguise the emotion in her voice and the blush on her cheeks.

  ‘On the contrary, you follow me very well,’ said Danglars. ‘But if you persist in pretending otherwise, I must tell you that I have just lost seven hundred thousand francs on the Spanish loan.’

  ‘Oh, well, I never!’ sniggered the baroness. ‘Are you trying to blame me for your loss?’

  ‘Shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Is it my fault if you lost seven hundred thousand francs?’

  ‘In any case, it’s not mine.’

  ‘Once and for all, Monsieur,’ the baroness said, sharply, ‘I have told you never to talk money to me. It’s a language I was not taught either by my parents or in the house of my first husband.’

  ‘I can certainly believe that,’ said Danglars. ‘Neither of them had a penny to rub together.’

  ‘All the more reason for me not to have learnt your banker’s argot, which assails my ears here from morning to night. I am repelled by that sound of coins being counted and recounted; I don’t know if it is not more odious to me than the sound of your voice.’

  ‘How strange, indeed!’ said Danglars. ‘And I always thought you took a close interest in my business.’

  ‘I! What can have made you think such a thing?’

  ‘You yourself did.’

  ‘How ridiculous!’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘I should be pleased to know on what occasion.’

  ‘Oh, that’s very easy. Last February, you were the first to mention the Haitian funds to me. You dreamt that a ship was entering the port at Le Havre, with news that a payment, which everyone had thought postponed indefinitely, was about to be made. I know how clear-headed you are when asleep,
so I had them buy up all the bonds that they could on the Haitian debt and I made four hundred thousand francs, a hundred thousand of which was duly handed over to you. What you did with it is no business of mine.

  ‘In March, there was a tender on the railways. Three firms bid for it, each offering equally firm guarantees. You told me that your instinct informed you that the contract would be given to a company from the south. Now, even though you pretend to be ignorant, I do believe that sometimes you have a very acute instinct in such matters.

  ‘I immediately bought two-thirds of the stock in that firm. It did indeed win the contract and, as you predicted, the shares tripled in value. I made a million, of which two hundred and fifty thousand francs went to you as pin-money. What did you do with it?’

  ‘But where is all this leading, Monsieur?’ the baroness exclaimed, trembling with scorn and impatience.

  ‘Patience, Madame, we are coming to the point.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that!’

  ‘In April, you went to dinner with the minister. There was talk of Spain and you overheard a private conversation about the expulsion of Don Carlos.2 I bought Spanish stock. The expulsion took place and I earned six hundred thousand francs on the day when Charles V crossed the Bidassoa. Out of that, you had fifty thousand écus. They were yours, and you could do as you wished with them; I’m not asking you to account for it. But the fact remains that this year you have had five hundred thousand livres.’

  ‘So, Monsieur?’

  ‘Ah, yes, so! Well, it was just after that that everything turned sour.’

  ‘You really do have a way of putting it…’

  ‘It expresses how I feel, which is all I need… “After that” was three days ago. Three days ago you had a discussion on politics with Monsieur Debray and you thought he said that Don Carlos had returned to Spain. As a result, I sold my stock. The news spread, there was a panic and I wasn’t able to sell any more, I was giving it away. The next day, the news turned out to have been false, and this false news had cost me seven hundred thousand francs!’

  ‘So, what of it?’