The Count of Monte Cristo (Penguin Classics eBook)

  ‘Monsieur Danglars dined here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With your Viscount Andrea Cavalcanti?’

  ‘With Viscount Andrea Cavalcanti, his father the marquis, Madame Danglars, Monsieur and Madame de Villefort, and some delightful people: Monsieur Debray, Maxmilien Morrel… and who else? Wait… Oh, yes, Monsieur de Château-Renaud.’

  ‘Was my name mentioned?’

  ‘Not once.’

  ‘Too bad.’

  ‘Why? I would have thought that, in forgetting you, they did only what you wanted.’

  ‘My dear Count, if they didn’t mention me, that means that they must have thought about me a lot, so I’m at my wits’ end.’

  ‘What does it matter, since Mademoiselle Danglars was not here among those who were thinking about you? True, she might have thought about you at home.’

  ‘Oh, no. I’m quite sure of that. Or if she did, it was in the same way that I think of her.’

  ‘How charming, this meeting of minds. So you hate one another?’

  ‘Please don’t misunderstand me,’ said Morcerf. ‘If Mademoiselle Danglars were the sort of woman to sympathize with the torments I am not enduring on her behalf and to recompense me outside the provisions of the marriage contract drawn up between our two families, I should be delighted with the arrangement. In short, I think Mademoiselle Danglars would make a charming mistress, but as a wife, good God!’

  ‘So that’s how you envisage your future?’ Monte Cristo said with a laugh.

  ‘Yes. When all’s said and done, it is. Slightly brutal, I realize, but accurate. But, since this dream can never come true and since, for me to reach a particular goal, Mademoiselle Danglars must become my wife – that is to say, live with me, think beside me, sing near me, write verses and make music a few yards away from me, and all this for the rest of my life – then I am appalled at the prospect. You can leave a mistress, Count, but a wife… Huh! That’s a different matter entirely: a wife is for eternity, whether close by or at a distance. The idea of having Mademoiselle Danglars for ever is terrifying – even at a distance.’

  ‘You’re fussy, Viscount.’

  ‘Yes, because I dream of something impossible.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Finding a wife for myself like the one my father found.’

  The colour drained from Monte Cristo’s cheeks and he watched Albert, while toying with some magnificent pistols, rapidly cocking them, then releasing the springs.

  ‘So, your father has been a happy man,’ he said.

  ‘You know how I feel about my mother, Count: she is an angel, still beautiful, still witty, finer than ever. I have just come back from Le Tréport. Now, for any other son, just imagine: travelling with his mother would be an act of kindness or an unavoidable burden. Yet I have just spent four days with mine in Le Tréport and I can tell you they were more satisfying, more relaxing and more poetical than if I had been with Queen Mab or Titania.’1

  ‘Anyone would despair of rivalling such perfection. You will make anyone who hears you wish seriously to remain a bachelor.’

  ‘Which is precisely why, knowing that there is one accomplished woman in the world, I’m not anxious to marry Mademoiselle Danglars. Have you noticed how our egoism paints everything that belongs to us in brilliant hues? The diamond that sparkled in the windows of Marlé or Fossin becomes much lovelier once it is our diamond; but if circumstances force you to acknowledge that there is a still finer one and you are condemned for ever to wear this diamond which is inferior to the other, do you understand what torture that is?’

  ‘Snob!’ the count muttered.

  ‘And that’s why I shall be jumping for joy on the day when Mademoiselle Eugénie notices that I am only a puny little atom, possessing hardly as many hundreds of thousands of francs as she has millions.’

  Monte Cristo smiled.

  ‘I did have another idea,’ Albert went on. ‘Franz likes odd things, so I tried to make him fall in love with Mademoiselle Danglars, in spite of himself. I wrote him four letters in the most enticing of styles, but he always gave me the same answer: “I may be eccentric, it’s true, but my eccentricity does not extend to breaking my word once I have given it.” ’

  ‘Now, there’s what I call true friendship: giving another person as wife the woman one only wants for oneself as a mistress.’

  Albert smiled. ‘Incidentally,’ he said, ‘dear Franz is on his way home; but that doesn’t bother you. You don’t like him, do you?’

  ‘What! My dear Viscount, whatever told you that I don’t like Monsieur Franz? I like everybody.’

  ‘I am included in everybody. Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t misunderstand me,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘I like everybody in the way that God ordered us to love our neighbours, that is, in Christian charity. I only bestow true hatred on certain people. But to get back to Franz d’Epinay: he is coming home, you say?’

  ‘Yes, on the instructions of Monsieur de Villefort, who is as mad keen to marry off Mademoiselle Valentine, apparently, as Monsieur Danglars is to marry off Mademoiselle Eugénie. It really does appear that being the father of grown-up girls is one of the most exhausting states. As far as I can see, their temperature soars and their pulses beat ninety to the minute until they have disposed of them.’

  ‘But Monsieur d’Epinay is not like you. He is reconciled to his fate.’

  ‘More than that, he takes it seriously. He puts on white ties and is already talking about his family. And he holds the Villeforts in high esteem.’

  ‘Deservedly, no doubt?’

  ‘I think so. Monsieur de Villefort has always been considered a strict but just man.’

  ‘At last,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Here is someone at least whom you do not treat like poor Monsieur Danglars.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s because I’m not obliged to marry his daughter,’ Albert said, laughing.

  ‘Really, my dear sir,’ said Monte Cristo, ‘you are disgustingly smug.’

  ‘I? Smug?’

  ‘Yes, you. Have a cigar.’

  ‘Thank you. So why am I smug?’

  ‘Because here you are shielding yourself and struggling not to marry Mademoiselle Danglars. Why not just let things take their course, and perhaps you won’t be the first to take back your word.’

  ‘What?’ Albert said, gawping.

  ‘Huh, yes, Monsieur le Vicomte! What do you think of that? They won’t tie you down by force. But, seriously,’ Monte Cristo said, in a different tone of voice, ‘do you want to break it off?’

  ‘I’d give a hundred thousand francs if I could.’

  ‘Well, you’ll be happy to know that Monsieur Danglars is prepared to give twice that amount to achieve the same end.’

  ‘What happiness! Can it be true?’ Albert exclaimed, but was unable, in spite of that, to prevent a faint cloud from passing across his brow. ‘My dear Count, does Monsieur Danglars have some reason for that?’

  ‘How typical that is, you proud and self-absorbed creature! This is indeed the man who enjoys taking an axe to the self-esteem of others, but cries out when a needle touches his own.’

  ‘No, no. I just think that Monsieur Danglars…’

  ‘Should be delighted to have you as a son-in-law; isn’t that it? Well, now, Monsieur Danglars is a man of poor taste, we all know, and he is still more delighted by someone else…’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Look carefully, catch every hint as it goes past and profit by what you learn.’

  ‘Good! I understand. Listen, my mother… No, not my mother, I’m wrong. My father had the idea of giving a ball.’

  ‘A ball at this time of year?’

  ‘Summer balls are in fashion.’

  ‘Even if they weren’t, the countess would only have to wish it and they would become so.’

  ‘Not bad… You know, these are thoroughbred events: people who stay in Paris in July are real Parisians. Would you be good enough to invite Monsieur Ca
valcanti?’

  ‘When will this ball take place?’

  ‘On Saturday.’

  ‘The elder Cavalcanti will have left by then.’

  ‘But not the son, so perhaps you could bring the younger Cavalcanti?’

  ‘Listen, Viscount, I don’t know him…’

  ‘You don’t know him?’

  ‘No. I met him for the first time three or four days ago, and I can’t answer for him at all.’

  ‘But you invite him here!’

  ‘That’s different. He was recommended to me by a good abbé, who might have been mistaken himself. Invite him indirectly, certainly, but don’t ask me to introduce him to you. If he was later to marry Mademoiselle Danglars, you would accuse me of manipulation and you would have a bone to pick with me. In any case, I’m not sure that I’ll go myself.’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘To your ball.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘First of all, you haven’t invited me yet.’

  ‘I came especially to deliver the invitation.’

  ‘That’s too kind. But suppose I have another engagement.’

  ‘I have only to tell you one thing, and I think you will be good enough to forgo any prior engagement.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘My mother begs you to come.’

  ‘The Comtesse de Morcerf?’ Monte Cristo said with a shudder.

  ‘I warn you, Count, Madame de Morcerf speaks to me quite freely; and if you did not feel those sympathetic fibres I mentioned just now crackling inside you, that means that you are entirely devoid of them, because you were our only subject of conversation in the past four days.’

  ‘I was? I am overwhelmed.’

  ‘Listen, this is a privilege of your profession: when one is a living enigma…’

  ‘Ah, so I’m also an enigma for your mother? Quite honestly, I should have thought her too sensible to indulge in such flights of fancy.’

  ‘An enigma, my dear Count, an enigma for everyone, my mother as well as the rest. As long as the mystery has been recognized but not solved, you will remain an enigma, don’t worry. My mother is only puzzled by the fact that you seem so young. I think, underneath, that whereas Countess G— thinks you are Lord Ruthwen, my mother takes you for Cagliostro or the Comte de Saint-Germain. The first time you meet Madame de Morcerf, you must confirm her in that impression. It shouldn’t be difficult: you have the wit of one and the philosopher’s stone of the other.’

  ‘Thank you for warning me,’ the count said, smiling. ‘I shall try to live up to all expectations.’

  ‘So you will come on Saturday?’

  ‘Since Madame de Morcerf requests my company.’

  ‘You are charming.’

  ‘And Monsieur Danglars?’

  ‘Oh, he’s already had a triple invitation. My father looked after that. We shall also try to have The Great Daguesseau, Monsieur de Villefort, but I don’t expect we shall succeed.’

  ‘One must never give up hope, the proverb says.’

  ‘Do you dance, my dear Count?’

  ‘Do I dance?’

  ‘Yes, you. Why not?’

  ‘Well, I suppose, while one is still under forty. But no, I don’t dance. However, I like to watch others. Does Madame de Morcerf dance?’

  ‘No, never. You can talk. She so much wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I give you my word. And I must tell you, you are the first man about whom my mother has shown such curiosity.’

  Albert took his hat and got up. The count accompanied him to the door. Stopping at the top of the steps, he said: ‘I was wrong about one thing.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘It was indiscreet of me to tell you about Monsieur Danglars.’

  ‘On the contrary, please keep telling me, talk about him as much as you like, as long as the message remains the same.’

  ‘Well, you make me feel better about it. So when is Monsieur d’Epinay arriving back?’

  ‘In five or six days at the latest.’

  ‘And when is he getting married?’

  ‘As soon as Monsieur and Madame de Saint-Méran are here.’

  ‘When he gets to Paris, bring him to see me. Even though you say that I don’t like him, I assure you I shall be happy to see him.’

  ‘Very well, m’lud. Your orders shall be carried out.’

  ‘Au revoir!’

  ‘Until Saturday, at least – it’s agreed?’

  ‘Of course! I’ve given my word.’ The count watched and waved. Then, when Albert had got into his phaeton, he turned around and saw Bertuccio behind him. ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘She went to the law courts,’ the steward answered.

  ‘Did she stay long?’

  ‘An hour and a half.’

  ‘Then returned home?’

  ‘Without stopping.’

  ‘Very good,’ said the count. ‘And now, my dear Monsieur Bertuccio, if I have a piece of advice for you, it is to go to Normandy and see if you can’t find the little estate I mentioned.’

  Bertuccio bowed and, the count’s command being entirely coincidental with his own wishes, left that very evening.

  LXIX

  INFORMATION

  M. de Villefort kept his word to Mme Danglars (and most of all to himself) by trying to find out how the Count of Monte Cristo could have learnt the story of the house in Auteuil. That same day he wrote to a certain M. de Boville who, after once being an inspector of prisons, had been transferred at a higher rank to the detective branch of the police, enquiring whether he could provide the necessary information. Boville asked for two days to hunt down the best sources. When the two days were up, M. de Villefort received the following note:

  The person described as the Count of Monte Cristo is known particularly to Lord Wilmore, a rich foreigner and an occasional visitor to Paris, who is here at the moment; and also to Abbé Busoni, a Sicilian priest who is highly reputed in the East, where he accomplished many good works.

  M. de Villefort replied, ordering that the most precise information should be obtained at once on these two persons. By the next evening, his orders had been carried out and he received the following news:

  The abbé was only in Paris for one month. He lived behind the church of Saint-Sulpice in a little house consisting of a single storey above the ground floor, the entire accommodation, of which he was the sole tenant, being made up of four rooms altogether, two up and two down. The two downstairs rooms consisted of a dining-room with a table, two chairs and a walnut sideboard; and a drawing-room, painted white, with no ornaments, no carpet and no clock. It could be seen that, for himself, the abbé was content with the bare necessities.

  Admittedly, he preferred to live in the first-floor living-room, which was entirely furnished with theological texts and parchments in which, according to his valet, he was accustomed to bury himself for months on end, making this less a living-room than a library.

  This valet examined visitors through a kind of judas window. If their faces were unknown or unpleasing to him, he would tell them that M. l’Abbé was not in Paris. Most were satisfied with this reply, knowing that the abbé often travelled and sometimes spent long periods abroad. In any case, whether or not he was at home, whether he was in Paris or in Cairo, the abbé always gave alms, so the little window in his door served as a passage for the gifts that the valet constantly distributed in his master’s name.

  The other room, close to the library, was a bedroom. The furnishings here were entirely made up of a bed with no curtains, four armchairs and a sofa covered in yellow Utrecht velvet, together with a prie-dieu.

  As for Lord Wilmore, he lived in the Rue Fontaine-Saint-Georges. He was one of those touring Englishmen who spend all their inheritance on travel. He rented the apartment, furnished, where he lived, but spent only two or three hours a day there and slept there rarely. One of his eccentricities was that he refused to speak French, even though it was reported that he
could write the language very correctly.

  The day after the crown prosecutor received this precious information, a man, getting down from his carriage at the corner of the Rue Férou, went and knocked on a door painted in olive green and asked for Abbé Busoni.

  ‘Monsieur l’Abbé went out early this morning,’ said the valet.

  ‘I cannot be satisfied by that answer,’ the visitor said. ‘For I come on behalf of a person to whom everyone is at home. But kindly give Abbé Busoni…’

  ‘I already told you: he is not here,’ the valet repeated.

  ‘Then when he gets back, give him this card and this sealed paper. Will the abbé be at home this evening at eight?’

  ‘Undoubtedly, Monsieur, unless he is working, in which case it is as if he was out.’

  ‘So I shall come back this evening at the time we mentioned,’ the visitor said, then went away.

  That evening, at the appointed hour, the same man returned in the same carriage, which this time, instead of stopping on the corner of the Rue Férou, drew up in front of the green door. He knocked, it was opened and he went in. From the valet’s obsequious behaviour, he realized that his letter had had the desired effect.

  ‘Is Monsieur l’Abbé at home?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, he is working in his library, but he is expecting you, sir,’ the servant replied.

  The stranger climbed a fairly rough staircase. Sitting behind a table, the whole surface of which was flooded in the light concentrated on it by a huge lampshade, while the rest of the apartment was in shadow, he saw the abbé, in ecclesiastical dress, his head hooded in one of those hoods with which medieval scholars used to cover their skulls.

  ‘Do I have the honour of speaking to Monsieur Busoni?’ the visitor asked.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur,’ the abbé replied. ‘And you are the person sent to me by Monsieur de Boville, former inspector of prisons, on behalf of the prefect of police?’

  ‘Precisely, Monsieur.’

  ‘One of those agents appointed to look after security in Paris?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur,’ the stranger replied, with momentary hesitation and, above all, a blush.

  The abbé adjusted the large glasses that covered not only his eyes but also his temples; and, sitting down again, he motioned to the visitor to do likewise.