The Count of Monte Cristo

  This harsh letter, from a young man who until then had been so respectful, was devastating to the pride of someone like Villefort. Hardly had he entered his study than his wife followed. Franz’s disappearance, at M. Noirtier’s summons, had so astonished everyone that the position of Mme de Villefort, who had remained alone with the notary and the witnesses, had become more and more embarrassing. Eventually she made up her mind and left, announcing that she was going to find out what had happened.

  Villefort told her only that, after a dispute between himself, M. Noirtier and M. d’Epinay, Franz’s engagement to Valentine had been broken off. This was not easy to relay to the people who were still waiting, so Mme de Villefort went back and said simply that M. Noirtier had suffered some kind of apoplectic seizure at the start of the meeting, so the signature of the contract had naturally been postponed for a few days. This news, false though it was, made such a singular impression, coming after two other misfortunes of the same kind, that all of them looked at one another in astonishment, then left without a word.

  Meanwhile Valentine, at once happy and appalled, after embracing and thanking the weak old man who had with just a single blow shattered a bond that she had already come to consider indissoluble, asked if she could retire so that she could recover, and Noirtier, with a look, gave her permission to do so. However, instead of going up to her room, Valentine went out and down the corridor, then, leaving by the little door, ran into the garden. In the midst of all the events that had taken place, one after the other, her mind had been constantly tormented by a vague apprehension: from one moment to the next, she expected to see Morrel burst in, pale and threatening like the Laird of Ravenswood at the betrothal of Lucy of Lammermoor.1

  As it happened, she reached the gate just in time. Maximilien, guessing what was about to take place when he saw Franz leave the cemetery with M. de Villefort, had followed him. Then, after seeing him enter, he saw him come out again, then return with Château-Renaud. He could no longer have any doubt. He hurried to his field, ready for anything, sure that Valentine would come there to him as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

  He had been right. His eye pressed to the fence, he saw the young woman run towards the gate, without taking any of her usual precautions. At first glance, Maximilien was reassured, and at her first word he leapt with joy.

  ‘Saved!’ Valentine said.

  ‘Saved!’ Morrel repeated, unable to believe such good fortune. ‘By whom are we saved?’

  ‘By my grandfather. Oh, Morrel! Love him dearly!’

  Morrel swore to love the old man with all his soul; and the oath cost him nothing, for at that moment he did not merely love him like a friend or a father: he adored him as a god.

  ‘But how did it happen?’ Morrel asked. ‘What strange means did he employ?’

  Valentine opened her mouth to tell him everything, but then considered that there was a dreadful secret behind all this that did not belong only to her grandfather.

  ‘Later,’ she said. ‘I shall tell you everything later.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I am your wife.’

  This put the conversation on a plane which made it easy for Morrel to understand anything; so he understood that he must be content with what he knew and that this was enough for one day. However, he agreed to leave only on the promise that he would see Valentine the following evening.

  She gave him her promise. Everything had changed in her eyes and it was certainly easier for her now to believe that she would marry Morrel than it had been an hour earlier to believe that she would not marry Franz.

  While this was going on, Mme de Villefort had gone up to see Noirtier. The old man looked at her with the stern, dark eye that he usually turned on her.

  ‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘I do not need to tell you that Valentine’s engagement has been broken off, because this is where the breach occurred.’

  Noirtier gave no sign of emotion.

  ‘But,’ Mme de Villefort went on, ‘what you do not know, Monsieur, is that I was always opposed to the match, which was to take place in spite of my objections.’

  Noirtier looked enquiringly at his daughter-in-law.

  ‘Well, now that the engagement is broken off – and I was always aware of your distaste for it – I have come with a request that neither Monsieur de Villefort nor Valentine could make.’

  Noirtier’s eyes asked what this could be.

  ‘I have come, Monsieur,’ Mme de Villefort went on, ‘as the only person who has a right to do so, being the only one who has nothing to gain from it, to beg you to restore to your granddaughter, not your goodwill, since she has always had that, but your fortune.’

  Noirtier’s eyes remained unsure for an instant, clearly seeking the motives behind this demand and unable to find them.

  ‘Am I right to hope, Monsieur,’ Mme de Villefort said, ‘that your intentions were in harmony with the request I have just made?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Noirtier.

  ‘In that case, Monsieur,’ she concluded, ‘I shall leave you with both gratitude and contentment.’ And, bowing to him, she went out of the room.

  The following day, Noirtier duly called for the notary. The first will was torn up and a new one made under which he left his entire fortune to Valentine, on condition that she was not separated from him. Some people in society therefore calculated that Mlle de Villefort, heiress to the Marquis and Marquise de Saint-Méran and now restored to her grandfather’s favour, would one day have an income of nearly 300,000 livres.

  While the engagement was being broken off at the Villeforts’, the Comte de Morcerf received a visit from Monte Cristo and, to show Danglars how eager he was, he put on his lieutenant-general’s dress uniform – the one he had had decked out with all his decorations – and called for his best horses. In this finery, he trotted round to the Rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin and had himself announced to Danglars, who was going over his end-of-the-month accounts. In recent weeks this had not been the best time to meet the banker if one wanted to find him in a good mood. So, at the sight of his old friend, Danglars put on his most majestic air and drew himself up in his chair.

  Morcerf, contrary to his usual strait-laced manner, was wearing a jolly, affable smile. Since he was more or less certain that his suit would be received favourably, he did not bother with diplomatic niceties, but came straight to the point: ‘Here I am, Baron,’ he said. ‘For a long time we have been beating about the bush over what we said…’

  As he began speaking, Morcerf expected the banker’s face to relax, attributing its lowering expression to his silence; but, on the contrary, the face became still more cold and impassive (though one would hardly have deemed this possible). This was why Morcerf had stopped in the middle of his sentence.

  ‘What did we say, Monsieur le Comte?’ the banker asked, as if searching his memory for an explanation of the general’s meaning.

  ‘Ah, I see!’ the count said. ‘You are going to respect the formalities, my dear sir, and want to remind me that protocol requires us to follow the proper procedure. Very well, so be it! You must forgive me: I only have one son and this is the first time I have considered marrying him, so I am still a novice in these matters. Right, I’ll do as you wish.’ And, with a forced smile, he got up, made a deep bow to Danglars and said: ‘Baron, I have the honour to ask for the hand of Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars, your daughter, for my son, Viscount Albert de Morcerf.’

  However, instead of receiving these words in the favourable manner that Morcerf would have expected, Danglars raised an eyebrow and – without inviting the count, who was still standing, to sit down – said: ‘Monsieur le Comte, I shall have to consider the matter before giving you a reply.’

  ‘Consider!’ Morcerf exclaimed with mounting astonishment. ‘Haven’t you had time to consider in the eight years since we first mentioned this match?’

  ‘Every day, Count,’ Danglars said, ‘we find that we are obliged to reconsider things in the li
ght of new considerations.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Morcerf asked. ‘I don’t follow you, Baron.’

  ‘I mean, Monsieur, that in the past fortnight certain new circumstances…’

  ‘One moment, I beg you,’ said Morcerf. ‘Are you serious, or is this some game we are playing?’

  ‘What game?’

  ‘Yes, let’s put our cards on the table.’

  ‘That’s all I ask.’

  ‘You have seen Monte Cristo!’

  ‘I see him quite often,’ said Danglars, tugging his chin, ‘he’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘Well, last time you saw him, you told him that I seemed vague and uncertain where this match is concerned.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘Well, here I am, neither vague nor forgetful, as you can see, since I have come to ask you to keep your promise.’

  Danglars said nothing.

  ‘Have you changed your mind,’ Morcerf added, ‘or are you forcing me to make an explicit request just for the pleasure of humiliating me?’

  Danglars realized that, if the conversation were to continue along these lines, it would be to his disadvantage, so he said: ‘Monsieur le Comte, you must be justifiably surprised by my coolness; I understand that; so, believe me, you cannot regret it more than I do myself; but, I assure you, it is required by circumstances beyond my control.’

  ‘That’s all very well, my dear sir,’ said the count. ‘And your average visitor might be satisfied with such mumbo-jumbo. But the Comte de Morcerf is not your average visitor and, when a man like myself comes to see another, when he reminds him of a promise and the other fails to keep his word, then he has the right to demand on the spot that he at least be given a good reason.’

  Danglars was a coward, but he did not wish to appear one. He was irritated by Morcerf’s tone.

  ‘I have plenty of good reasons,’ he answered.

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  ‘That there is a good reason, but not one that I can easily give you.’

  ‘I suppose you must realize, however,’ said Morcerf, ‘that your reservations are of little use to me; and, in any event, one thing seems clear, which is that you are rejecting the match.’

  ‘No,’ said Danglars. ‘I am postponing a decision, that’s all.’

  ‘You surely cannot be expecting that I should submit to your whim and wait, quietly and humbly, until you are more favourably disposed?’

  ‘Very well then, Count, if you cannot wait, consider our arrangement annulled.’

  The count bit his lip until it bled in order to restrain himself from the outburst that his proud and irascible temperament urged him to make. Realizing, however, that in these circumstances he was the one who would appear ridiculous, he was already making his way to the door of the room when he changed his mind and returned. A cloud had passed across his brow, replacing injured pride with a hint of uncertainty.

  ‘Come, my dear Danglars,’ he said. ‘We have known one another for many years and should consequently show some consideration for one another. You owe me an explanation and the least I can ask is that you should tell me what unfortunate event has caused my son to forfeit your good intentions towards him.’

  ‘It is nothing personal to the Viscount, that’s all I can tell you, Monsieur,’ Danglars replied, becoming impertinent again when he saw that Morcerf was giving ground.

  ‘So to whom is it personal?’ Morcerf asked in a strangled voice, the colour draining from his face.

  Danglars noted each of these symptoms and stared at the count with unusual self-confidence. ‘You should be grateful to me for refusing to clarify the matter,’ he said.

  A nervous shudder, doubtless the product of repressed anger, shook Morcerf. He made a supreme effort to contain himself. ‘I have the right,’ he said, ‘and the intention of requiring the satisfaction of an explanation. Do you have something against Madame de Morcerf? Is it that my wealth is insufficient? Or my political opinions, the contrary of yours…’

  ‘None of that, Monsieur,’ said Danglars. ‘In those cases, it would be unforgivable since I knew all that when I entered the agreement. No, look no further. I am truly ashamed of having made you suggest such things. Believe me, we should leave it there. Let’s settle for a simple delay, which will be neither an engagement nor a breach. For heaven’s sake, there is no hurry! My daughter is seventeen and your son twenty-one. Time will move on, even as we pause, and events will occur… Things that appear obscure one day are sometimes only too clear the next; in that way, the cruellest slanders can vanish from one day to the next.’

  ‘Slanders! Did you say slanders, Monsieur!’ Morcerf cried, white as a sheet. ‘Someone is slandering me!’

  ‘I tell you, Count, look no further.’

  ‘So I must accept this rejection without a murmur?’

  ‘It is above all painful for me. Yes, more than for you, because I was counting on the honour of a match with you, and a broken engagement always looks worse for the girl than for her fiancé.’

  ‘Very well, Monsieur, let’s say no more,’ Morcerf muttered and, angrily slapping his gloves, left the room. Danglars noticed that not once had Morcerf dared to ask if it was because of him – Morcerf – that Danglars was withdrawing his consent.

  That evening, he had a long meeting with several of his friends and M. Cavalcanti, who had remained constantly in the salon with the ladies, was the last to leave the banker’s house.

  The next day, when he woke up, Danglars asked for the papers and they were brought to him at once. He put three or four aside, and picked up L’Impartial. This was the one managed and edited by Beauchamp. He quickly tore off the wrapper, opened it with nervous haste, cast a contemptuous eye over the home news and came to the ‘news in brief’, where he stopped with a malicious grin at an item beginning with the words: ‘A correspondent writes from Janina…’

  ‘Very well,’ he said, after reading it. ‘There is a little piece on Colonel Fernand which will quite probably relieve me of the obligation to give the Comte de Morcerf any further explanation.’

  At this same moment, which is to say just as nine o’clock was striking, Albert de Morcerf, dressed in black and neatly buttoned up, arrived at the house in the Champs-Elysées in a state of some agitation and curtly asked for the count.

  ‘Monsieur le Comte went out some half an hour ago,’ said the concierge.

  ‘Did he take Baptistin with him?’ Morcerf asked.

  ‘No, Monsieur le Vicomte.’

  ‘Call Baptistin, I wish to speak with him.’

  The concierge went to look for the valet himself and came back with him a short time later.

  ‘My friend,’ said Albert, ‘I beg you to forgive me for asking, but I wanted to find out from you whether your master is really not at home.’

  ‘No, Monsieur, he is not,’ Baptistin replied.

  ‘Even to me?’

  ‘I know how happy my master is to receive Monsieur and I should be careful to exclude him from any general instruction.’

  ‘You are right, because I have a serious matter to discuss with him. Do you think he will be long?’

  ‘No, he ordered breakfast for ten o’clock.’

  ‘Very well, I shall take a walk along the Champs-Elysées and be here at ten. If Monsieur le Comte returns before I do, ask him to be so good as to expect me.’

  ‘I shall, Monsieur may be sure of that.’

  Albert left his hired cab at the count’s door and went off on foot. Walking past the Allée des Veuves, he thought he recognized the count’s horses standing at the door of Gosset’s shooting gallery. He went over and, having recognized the horses, now recognized the driver.

  ‘Is the count shooting?’ he asked him.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur,’ the coachman replied.

  Several shots had rung out at regular intervals since Morcerf had approached the shooting gallery. He went in. The attendant was standing in the little garden.

  ‘I beg the vicomte’s
pardon,’ he said, ‘but would you mind waiting for a moment?’

  ‘Why is that, Philippe?’ Albert asked: being a regular visitor, he was astonished at this incomprehensible barrier.

  ‘Because the gentleman who is practising at the moment hires the whole range for himself and never shoots in front of anyone.’

  ‘Not even you, Philippe.’

  ‘As you see, Monsieur, I am standing by the door to my office.’

  ‘And who loads his pistols?’

  ‘His servant.’

  ‘A Nubian?’

  ‘A negro.’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’

  ‘Do you know the gentleman, then?’

  ‘I have come to find him. He is a friend.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a different matter. I’ll go in and tell him.’ And Philippe, driven by curiosity, went into the shooting gallery. A moment later Monte Cristo appeared at the door.

  ‘Please forgive me for following you here, my dear Count,’ said Albert, ‘and I must start by telling you that it was not the fault of your servants; I alone have been indiscreet. I went to your house and was told that you were out walking, but that you would return at ten o’clock for breakfast. I also went out for a walk to pass the time and it was then that I saw your horses and your carriage.’

  ‘What you say leads me to hope that you have come to invite me to breakfast.’

  ‘No, thank you, there’s no question of dining for the moment. Perhaps we may lunch together later, but I shall be poor company, confound it.’

  ‘What on earth is the matter?’

  ‘My dear Count, I am going to fight today.’

  ‘You! How on earth is that?’

  ‘In a duel, of course.’

  ‘Yes, I realize that, but for what reason? You understand, people fight for all sorts of reasons.’

  ‘On a point of honour.’

  ‘Ah, now. That’s serious.’