‘ “Why have you pulled up here?” Monsieur d’Epinay asked.
‘ “Because you have insulted a man, Monsieur,” said the president, “and this man does not want to take a step further without demanding that you make honourable amends.”
‘ “Here is yet another method of assassination,” said the general, shrugging his shoulders.
‘ “Silence!” the president replied. “Unless you wish me to consider you as one of those people you referred to a short while ago, that is to say, as a coward who uses his weakness as a shield. You are alone, and one man alone will answer you. You have a sword at your side, and I have one in this cane. You have no second, but one of these gentlemen will serve you. Now, if you are agreeable, you can take off your blindfold.”
‘The general at once tore off the handkerchief around his eyes, saying: “At last, I shall find out whom I am dealing with.”
‘The carriage door was opened and the four men got down…’
Once more Franz paused. He wiped the sweat from his brow: there was something fearful in the sight of this son, pale and trembling, reading aloud these previously unknown details of his father’s death.
Valentine clasped her hands as if in prayer. Noirtier looked at Villefort with an almost sublime expression of contempt and pride.
Franz continued: ‘As we mentioned, it was February the fifth. For the past three days the temperature had fallen to five or six degrees below freezing. The stairway was coated with ice, the general was tall and fat, so the president offered him the side nearest the rail to go down. The two seconds followed behind.
‘The night was dark, the quayside between the stairway and the river was damp with snow and frost, and a few blocks of ice flowed past in the deep, black water. One of the seconds went to fetch a lantern from a coal barge and by the light of it they examined the weapons.
‘The president’s sword, which he said was a simple swordstick, was shorter than that of his opponent and had no handguard. General d’Epinay suggested that they should draw lots for the two swords, but the president replied that he had provoked the duel and that by so doing he had implied that each of them should use their own weapon. The seconds tried to persuade him, but the president told them to desist.
‘The lantern was set on the ground, the two adversaries stood on either side of it and the duel began. The light transformed the two swords into shafts of lightning, but the men could hardly be seen, so dark was it.
‘The general had the reputation of being one of the best blades in the army. But, from the first passes, he was harried so hard that he gave ground and, in doing so, he fell.
‘The seconds thought he was dead, but his opponent, who knew that he had not hit him, offered his hand to help him back to his feet. This gesture, instead of calming the general, annoyed him and he threw himself in his turn against his opponent.
‘The latter, however, did not give an inch, blocking him against his sword. Three times the general retreated, finding he was too hard-pressed, then returned to the fray. On the third occasion, he fell once more.
‘They thought that he had slipped, as before; but, since he did not get up, the witnesses went over to him and tried to lift him to his feet. Then the man who had taken hold of his shoulders felt something wet beneath his hands. It was blood.
‘The general, who had more or less lost consciousness, recovered his senses and said: “Ah, they sent me some swordsman, some fencing master from the army.”
‘Without replying, the president went over to the second who was holding the lantern and, rolling back his sleeve, showed two wounds that had pierced his arm and then, opening his coat and unbuttoning his waistcoat, he pointed to a third wound in his side. Yet he had not uttered a sigh.
‘General d’Epinay was in his death-agony. He expired five minutes later.’
Franz read these last words in such a choking voice that they could hardly be heard. After reading them, he stopped, passing his hand across his eyes as if to dispel a cloud. But after a moment’s silence, he went on:
‘The president went back up the stairway, after replacing his sword in its stick. A trace of blood in the snow marked his passage. He had not yet reached the top of the stairs when he heard the dull sound of something hitting the water: it was the general’s body which the seconds had just thrown into the river after confirming that it was dead.
‘Consequently, the general died as the result of an honourable duel and not, as might be supposed, in an ambush.
‘In witness of which we have signed the present account to establish the true facts, so that none of the participants in these terrible events should ever be accused of premeditated murder or of failing to respect the laws of honour. Signed: Beaurepaire, Duchampy and Lecharpal.’
When Franz had finished this account, so terrible for a son to read; when Valentine, pale and tense, had wiped away a tear; and when Villefort, trembling in a corner, had tried to avert the storm with a look of entreaty towards the pitiless old man, d’Epinay turned to Noirtier and said: ‘Monsieur, since you know every detail of this frightful story, since you have had it witnessed by honourable men, and finally since you seem to take an interest in me, even though so far your interest has only been a source of pain, do not deny me one last satisfaction: tell me the name of the president of the club, so that I may at last know who killed my poor father.’
Villefort, as though distracted, was groping for the handle of the door. Valentine shrank back a pace: she had guessed the old man’s reply before anyone, having often noticed the scars of two sword-wounds on his forearm.
‘In heaven’s name, Mademoiselle,’ Franz said, turning to his fiancée, ‘assist me, so that I may discover the name of the man who made me an orphan at the age of two.’
Valentine remained silent and motionless.
‘Come, Monsieur,’ said Villefort. ‘Take my advice, do not prolong this frightful scene. In any case, the names were concealed deliberately. Even my father does not know this president; or, if he does, he would not be able to tell us. There are no proper names in the dictionary.’
‘Alas, no!’ said Franz. ‘The one hope that sustained me throughout the account and gave me the strength to read it to the end, was that I should at least learn the name of the man who killed my father. Monsieur!’ he cried, turning to Noirtier, ‘In heaven’s name, do what you can… I beg you, try to show me, to let me know…’
‘Yes,’ said Noirtier.
‘Ah, Mademoiselle!’ said Franz. ‘Your grandfather indicated that he can tell me… the man’s name… Help me… You understand him… Give us your aid.’
Noirtier looked towards the dictionary. Franz picked it up with a nervous shudder and said the letters of the alphabet until he reached ‘M’. Here the old man signalled ‘Yes’.
‘M!’ Franz repeated. The young man’s finger ran down the words but, at every one, Noirtier replied in the negative. Valentine’s head was buried in her hands.
At last Franz reached the word: ‘MYSELF’.
‘Yes,’ the old man said.
‘You!’ Franz cried, his hair rising on his head. ‘You, Monsieur Noirtier! Did you kill my father?’
‘Yes,’ Noirtier replied, fixing the young man with an imperious look.
Franz’s feet could no longer support him and he slumped into a chair. Villefort opened the door and fled, for he had just had an impulse to stifle the last dregs of life still remaining in the old man’s fearsome heart.
LXXVI
THE PROGRESS OF THE YOUNGER CAVALCANTI
During this time, M. Cavalcanti the elder had left to resume his post, not in the army of His Majesty the Emperor of Austria, but at the roulette tables of Bagni di Lucca, where he was one of the most loyal courtiers. It goes without saying that he had taken with him the amount allocated for his journey – and as a reward for the solemn and dignified way in which he had played his role of father – scrupulously counted down to the last paul.
On his departure, M. Andrea
had inherited all the papers affirming that he had the honour to be the son of the Marquis Bartolomeo and the Marchioness Leonora Corsinari. He was thus more or less established in Parisian society, which is so open to receiving strangers and treating them, not as what they are, but as what they wish to be. In any case, what is required of a young man in Paris? To speak the language, more or less; to be acceptably turned out; to be a good sport; and to pay cash.
It goes without saying that still more indulgence is shown to foreigners than to Parisians.
As a consequence, within a fortnight Andrea had acquired a reasonably good standing. He was addressed as ‘Monsieur le Comte’, it was said that he had an income of 50,000 livres and there were rumours of an immense fortune belonging to his noble father, which was allegedly buried in the quarry at Saravezza. This last detail was stated as a fact in the presence of a scientist, who announced that he had seen that very quarry; this added a great deal of weight to statements that had, until then, been dubious and insubstantial, but henceforth took on the solidity of fact.
This was the state of things in that portion of Parisian society to which we have introduced our readers when, one evening, Monte Cristo went to visit M. Danglars. Danglars himself was out, but the count was invited to visit the baroness, who was at liberty to receive guests, and he accepted.
Since the dinner at Auteuil and the subsequent events, Mme Danglars could not hear Monte Cristo’s name without a sort of nervous twitch. If the mention of his name was not followed by the count’s physical presence, this painful sensation intensified. On the other hand, if the count appeared, his open features, his shining eyes, his friendliness and his gallantry towards Mme Danglars very rapidly dispelled all traces of anxiety. It seemed to the baroness impossible that a man so charming in appearance could have any evil designs against her. In any case, even the most corrupt of us finds it hard to believe in evil unless it is based on some interest. We reject the idea of harm done for no cause and without gain as anomalous.
When Monte Cristo entered the boudoir into which we have already once introduced our readers – and where the baroness was casting an anxious eye over drawings handed to her by her daughter after she had looked at them with the younger Cavalcanti – the count’s presence produced its usual effect and the baroness received him with a smile, though she had been somewhat troubled at the sound of his name.
He took in the whole scene at a glance. Beside the baroness, Eugénie was sitting, almost recumbent, on a sofa, with Cavalcanti standing. He was dressed in black like a hero from Goethe, with highly polished shoes and white silk stockings, running a white, well-manicured hand through his blond hair in the midst of which could be seen the flicker of a diamond: despite Monte Cristo’s advice, the vain young man had not been able to resist slipping this stone on to his little finger. The hand movement was accompanied by provocative glances at Mlle Danglars and sighs dispatched in the same direction as the glances.
Mlle Danglars was still the same: that is to say, beautiful, cold and contemptuous. Not a single glance or sigh from Andrea escaped her, but they appeared to be deflected by the breastplate of Minerva, which philosophers sometimes say in fact covered the breast of Sappho.1
Eugénie greeted the count coldly and took advantage of the earliest opportunity in the conversation to take herself off to her study, whence two voices could shortly be heard, merry and boisterous, accompanied by the first chords on a piano, informing Monte Cristo that Mlle Danglars had just preferred the company of Mlle Louise d’Armilly, her singing instructor, to his own and that of M. Cavalcanti.
Most of all, even as he was talking to Mme Danglars and appeared entirely absorbed in the conversation, the count noticed M. Andrea Cavalcanti: his anxiety, his way of going over to the door to listen to the music (without daring to go through it), his way of expressing his admiration.
Shortly afterwards, the banker himself came in. His first look was towards Monte Cristo, the second towards Andrea. As for his wife, he greeted her as certain husbands do greet their wives, a thing that bachelors will be able to imagine only when someone has done a very profound analysis of the conventions of married life.
‘Haven’t these young ladies invited you to make music with them?’ Danglars asked Andrea.
‘Alas, no, Monsieur,’ Andrea replied, with an even more perceptible sigh than the earlier ones.
Danglars at once went across to the door between the two rooms and opened it, to reveal the two young women sitting on the same piano seat in front of the same piano. Each was playing the part for one hand, an exercise that they had practised to amuse themselves and at which they had become remarkably proficient.
Framed in this way by the door, Mlle d’Armilly could now be seen with Eugénie forming one of those tableaux vivants which are often exhibited in Germany. She was of quite exceptional beauty – or, rather, of exquisite sweetness. She was a small woman, as slender and blonde as a fairy, with eyes heavy with tiredness and long hair falling in ringlets across an excessively long neck, of the sort that Perugino sometimes gives to his virgins. It was said that she had a weak chest and that, like Antonia in the Violon de Crémone,2 she would one day die singing.
Monte Cristo took in this female group in a single, rapid, searching glance. It was the first time he had seen Mlle d’Armilly, though he had often heard her mentioned in this house.
‘Well, then?’ the banker said to his daughter. ‘Are you trying to keep us out?’ And he led the young man into the small drawing-room. Whether by chance or intentionally, the door was pushed to behind Andrea so that, from where they were sitting, neither Monte Cristo nor the baroness could see anything. But, as the banker had followed Andrea, Mme Danglars did not appear to notice this fact.
Shortly afterwards the count heard Andrea’s voice harmonizing with the sound of the piano which accompanied a Corsican song. As he listened to this with a smile – forgetting Andrea and recalling Benedetto – Mme Danglars was boasting to Monte Cristo of her husband’s strength of character, since that very morning he had again lost three or four hundred thousand francs in a Milanese bankruptcy. Indeed, the praise was well merited: if the count had not known of it through the baroness, or perhaps through one of those means he had of knowing everything, the baron’s face would have told him nothing.
‘Good!’ Monte Cristo thought. ‘He is already at the stage where he is concealing his losses. A month ago he was boasting of them.’ Then, aloud, he said: ‘Oh, Madame! Monsieur Danglars knows the Exchange so well that he is sure to regain there what he loses elsewhere.’
‘I see that you share a common misconception,’ said Mme Danglars.
‘What is that?’ asked Monte Cristo.
‘That Monsieur Danglars gambles on the Stock Exchange – when in fact, on the contrary, he never does any such thing.’
‘Ah, of course not! I recall now that Monsieur Debray told me… By the way, Madame, what has become of Monsieur Debray? I have not seen him for three or four days.’
‘Nor have I,’ said Mme Danglars, with astonishing self-control. ‘But you began to say something…’
‘What was that?’
‘That Monsieur Debray, you said, told you…’
‘That’s right: Monsieur Debray told me that you were the one who is addicted to gambling on the Exchange.’
‘I did have a taste for it, I admit,’ said Mme Danglars, ‘for a while, but no longer.’
‘Then you are wrong, Madame. Heavens! Chance is so uncertain a thing that, if I were a woman and fate had made me the wife of a banker, however much faith I had in my husband’s good luck – because, as you know, everything in speculation depends on good or bad luck – however much, I say, I were to trust in my husband’s good luck, I should make certain of acquiring some independent means, even if to do so I had to entrust my interests to a stranger.’
Mme Danglars blushed, despite herself.
‘Now, for example,’ said Monte Cristo, as if he had noticed nothing, ‘people are speak
ing of a splendid killing that was made yesterday on Neapolitan bonds.’
‘I don’t have any of those,’ the baroness interjected, ‘and I never did. But that’s enough of the Exchange now, Monsieur le Comte. We must sound like a couple of stockbrokers. What about the poor Villeforts, who are having such bad luck at present?’
‘What has happened to them?’ Monte Cristo asked quite innocently.
‘But you know very well: after losing Monsieur de Saint-Méran three or four days3 after his departure, they have just lost the marchioness three or four days after her arrival.’
‘So they have. I did hear that. But, as Claudius says to Hamlet4, such is the law of nature: they lost their fathers, and mourned them; they will die before their sons, who will mourn them in turn.’
‘But that’s not all.’
‘How do you mean, it’s not all?’
‘No. You know they were going to marry their daughter…’
‘To Monsieur Franz d’Epinay… Has the marriage fallen through?’
‘Yesterday morning, apparently, Franz released them from their obligations.’
‘Really? Does anyone know the reason for this upset?’
‘No.’
‘Good Lord! What are you telling me, Madame? And how is Monsieur de Villefort facing up to all this misfortune?’
‘Philosophically, as always.’
At that moment Danglars returned, alone.
‘Well!’ said the baroness. ‘Have you left Monsieur Cavalcanti with your daughter?’
‘What about Mademoiselle d’Armilly?’ the banker said. ‘Doesn’t she count?’ Then he turned to Monte Cristo. ‘A charming young man, don’t you think, Monsieur le Comte, this Prince Cavalcanti? The only question is: is he really a prince?’
‘I can’t guarantee it,’ Monte Cristo said. ‘His father was introduced to me as a marquis, he could be a count; but I think that he doesn’t even make any great claim to the title himself.’