On the second circuit the count had the carriage stopped and asked his companions’ permission to leave them, with the carriage at their disposal. Franz looked up: they were opposite the Palazzo Rospoli; and at the middle window, outside which there was a sheet of white damask with a red cross, he saw a blue domino costume under which he had no difficulty imagining the lovely Greek from the Teatro Argentina.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the count, ‘when you are tired of being actors and would like to become spectators again, you know that there are places for you in my windows. Meanwhile, please make use of my carriage, my coachman and my servants.’
We forgot to mention that the count’s coachman was dressed soberly in a black bear’s skin exactly like the one worn by Odry in The Bear and the Pasha;2 and that the two lackeys standing behind the barouche had green monkey costumes, which fitted them perfectly, and masks on springs with which they were making faces at the passers-by.
Franz thanked the count for his kind offer. As for Albert, he was engaged in flirting with a whole carriage full of Roman peasants which, like the count’s, had stopped to take a rest, as vehicles are accustomed to do in traffic; he was showering it with bouquets.
Unfortunately for him, the traffic started to move again and he found himself turning back towards the Piazza del Popolo, while the carriage which had attracted his attention was going up towards the Palazzo di Venezia.
‘Oh! I say!’ he said to Franz. ‘Didn’t you see?’
‘What?’ Franz asked.
‘There: that barouche which is going off, full of Roman peasants.’
‘No.’
‘Well, I’m sure they are charming ladies.’
‘What a pity you are masked, my dear Albert,’ said Franz. ‘This was an opportunity to make up for your disappointment in love.’
‘Oh, I hope that the carnival will not end without bringing me some kind of consolation!’ he replied, half laughing and half serious.
Despite these hopes, the whole day passed without any other adventure except two or three further meetings with the carriage bearing the Roman peasant women. On one of these occasions, either by accident or by design, Albert’s mask fell off. At this, he took the rest of the bouquet of flowers and threw it into the other barouche.
One of the charming women whom Albert perceived under the fetching costume of a peasant from the Romagna must have been touched by this gallantry because, when the two friends’ carriage next passed by, she in turn threw them a bouquet of violets.
Albert seized the flowers. As Franz had no reason to think that they were intended for him, he let Albert take them. Albert victoriously fixed the sprig of violets in his buttonhole and the carriage continued its triumphal progress.
‘There you are!’ said Franz. ‘That could be the start of an adventure!’
‘Laugh as loud as you wish,’ he replied, ‘but I really think so. I am not going to let go of this bouquet.’
‘Don’t dream of it!’ said Franz, laughing. ‘It will serve as a mark of recognition.’
The joke was soon close to reality because, when Franz and Albert, still carried along by the line of traffic, next passed the carriage with the contadine, the one who had thrown the sprig of violets to Albert clapped her hands when she saw it in his buttonhole.
‘Bravo, my dear friend! Bravo!’ said Franz. ‘This is developing splendidly. Shall I go? Would you rather be alone?’
‘No, no, let’s not rush things. I don’t want to be fooled by what is just a first step, a meeting under the clock as we say at the Bal de l’Opéra. If the lovely peasant has any wish to go further, then we’ll meet up with her again tomorrow – or, rather, she will meet up with us. Then she can give me some sign of life and I’ll see what is to be done.’
‘There’s no denying it, my dear Albert,’ said Franz, ‘you are as wise as Nestor and as prudent as Ulysses. And if your Circe is to change you into some beast or other, she will have to be either very clever or very powerful.’
Albert was right. The beautiful stranger had no doubt decided not to carry the intrigue any further that day because, although the two young men made several more circuits, they did not find the carriage they were looking for: it had no doubt disappeared down one of the neighbouring side-streets. So they went back to the Palazzo Rospoli, but the count too had vanished, with the blue domino. The two windows hung with yellow damask continued to be occupied by people who were no doubt his guests.
At that moment the same bell that had announced the opening of the mascherata sounded its end. At once the procession of traffic up and down the Corso dissolved and all the carriages quickly vanished into the adjoining streets. Franz and Albert were next to the Via delle Maratte: the coachman turned into it without a word and, travelling past the Palazzo Poli to the Piazza di Spagna, he pulled up next to the hotel.
Signor Pastrini came to the door to welcome his guests.
Franz’s first consideration was to find out about the count and express his regret at not having returned to pick him up in time, but Signor Pastrini reassured him by letting him know that the Count of Monte Cristo had ordered a second carriage for himself, which had gone to the Palazzo Rospoli for him at four o’clock. Moreover he had been requested on the count’s behalf to offer the two friends the key to his box in the theatre.
Franz asked Albert what he intended to do, but Albert had some important plans to carry out before he could think about going to the theatre; so, instead of replying, he asked if Signor Pastrini could find him a tailor.
‘A tailor?’ said the hotelier. ‘For what?’
‘To make us some Roman peasant costumes by tomorrow, as elegant as possible.’
Signor Pastrini shook his head. ‘Two costumes by tomorrow!’ he said. ‘I beg Your Excellencies’ pardon, but that is a very French request. Two costumes! You will certainly not find a tailor in Rome during the next week who will agree to sew six buttons on a waistcoat for you, even if you were to pay him an écu apiece for them!’
‘So we must give up our idea of getting these costumes?’
‘Not at all, because we have them ready-made. Let me look after it, and tomorrow when you wake up you will find a collection of hats, jackets and breeches which will meet your requirements.’
‘Leave it up to our host,’ Franz said. ‘He has already shown us that he is a man of resource. So why don’t we have a quiet dinner, then go and see L’Italiana in Algeri?’3
‘Very well, let it be L’Italiana in Algeri,’ said Albert. ‘But consider, Signor Pastrini, that this gentleman and I’ (indicating Franz) ‘attach the highest importance to having the costumes that we asked for tomorrow morning.’
The innkeeper once more reassured his guests that they had nothing to worry about and that their needs would be fully met, so Franz and Albert went upstairs to take off their clowns’ costumes. As he was getting out of his, Albert was very careful to put away his sprig of violets, which would serve as a sign of recognition for the next day.
The two friends sat down to dinner; but as they were eating, Albert could not refrain from pointing out the marked difference between the respective merits of Signor Pastrini’s cook and the one employed by the Count of Monte Cristo; and indeed, honesty obliged Franz to confess, despite the reservations he still seemed to have on the subject of the count, that the comparison was not to the advantage of Signor Pastrini’s chef.
Over dessert, the servant enquired to know the time when the two young men would like their carriage. Albert and Franz exchanged glances, because they were really afraid that they might be taking too many liberties. The servant understood.
‘His Excellency the Count of Monte Cristo,’ he said, ‘has given definite orders that the carriage should remain at the disposal of their lordships for the whole day. Their lordships can therefore make use of it without any compunction.’
They determined to enjoy the count’s courtesy to the full and asked for the horses to be harnessed while they went to change out of their
daytime clothes into evening ones, the others having been slightly rumpled by the events of the day. After that, they repaired to the Teatro Argentina and took their places in the count’s box.
During the first act, Countess G— came into her box. The first place she looked was towards the place where, the previous evening, she had seen the count, so that she saw Franz and Albert in the box of the man about whom she had expressed such a strange opinion to Franz a day earlier. Her opera-glasses interrogated him with such emphasis that Franz realized it would be cruel to leave her curiosity unsatisfied any longer. So, taking advantage of the privilege of spectators in Italian theatres, which allows them to use the playhouses as their reception rooms, the two friends left their box to present their regards to the countess. No sooner had they come into her box than she motioned to Franz to take the place of honour. Albert sat behind them.
‘Well, then,’ she said, hardly giving Franz time to sit down. ‘It appears that you cannot wait to make the acquaintance of this new Lord Ruthwen and that you are now the very best of friends?’
‘Although we are not quite as intimate as you imply, I cannot deny, Madame la Comtesse, that we have taken advantage of his hospitality all day.’
‘How – all day?’
‘That’s precisely it: this morning we took lunch from him, we went up and down the Corso in his carriage throughout the mascherata and finally, this evening, we are in his box at the theatre.’
‘Does this mean that you are now acquaintances?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Tell it to me.’
‘You would be too frightened by it.’
‘All the more reason.’
‘At least wait until the story has an ending.’
‘Agreed. I do like stories to be complete. Meanwhile, how did you make contact? Who introduced you to him?’
‘No one. On the contrary: he had himself introduced.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday, after we left you.’
‘By what means?’
‘Oh, the most banal imaginable: through the intermediary of our landlord.’
‘Is he staying at the Hôtel de Londres then, like you?’
‘Not only in the same hotel, but on the same floor.’
‘What’s his name? You must at least know his name?’
‘Of course. The Count of Monte Cristo.’
‘What kind of a name is that? It’s not the name of any family.’
‘No, it’s the name of an island he has purchased.’
‘Is he a count?’
‘Yes, a Tuscan count.’
‘Huh! We must learn to swallow that,’ said the countess, who came from one of the oldest families in the Venezia. ‘What kind of a man is he, otherwise?’
‘Ask the Vicomte de Morcerf.’
‘Do you hear that, Monsieur? I am being referred to you.’
‘We would be very hard to please if we were not to find him pleasing, Madame,’ said Albert. ‘A friend of ten years could not have done more for us than he did, and with the grace, delicacy of feeling and courtesy that betray a genuine man of the world.’
‘Come, come,’ said the countess, laughing. ‘You will find that my vampire is quite simply some nouveau riche who wants to be excused for his wealth and who has adopted the mask of Lara so as not to be mistaken for Rothschild. Did you see her?’
‘Her?’ Franz asked, with a smile.
‘The beautiful Greek from yesterday.’
‘No. I do believe that we heard the sound of her guzla, but she herself remained completely invisible.’
‘My dear Franz,’ said Albert, ‘when you say “invisible”, you are quite simply trying to be mysterious. Who do you think was that blue domino we saw in the window hung with white damask?’
‘And where was this window with the white damask?’ asked the countess.
‘At the Palazzo Rospoli.’
‘So the count had three windows in the Palazzo Rospoli?’
‘Yes. Did you drive down the Corso?’
‘Naturally.’
‘And did you notice two windows with yellow damask and one with white damask, marked with a red cross? Those were the count’s.’
‘Well I never! Is the man a nabob? Do you know what it costs to have three windows like those for carnival week in the Palazzo Rospoli, that is to say the best place on the Corso?’
‘Two or three hundred Roman écus… ?’
‘Two or three thousand, you should say.’
‘The devil it does!’
‘Does his island bring in such an income?’
‘His island? Not a baiocco.’
‘So why did he buy it?’
‘On a whim.’
‘He’s an eccentric?’
‘The fact is,’ said Albert, ‘that he did seem quite eccentric to me. My dear man, if he were to live in Paris and go to our theatres, I would say that he was either a hoaxer, or else some poor devil destroyed by literature: there’s no denying he made two or three quips this morning worthy of Didier or Antony.’4
At this moment a visitor came in and Franz gave up his seat to the newcomer, according to custom. This move and the disturbance changed the subject of conversation.
An hour later the two friends returned to the hotel. Signor Pastrini had already taken care of their disguises for the next day and promised them that they would be pleased with the results of his ingenious efforts.
The next morning at nine he came into Franz’s room, accompanied by a tailor carrying eight or ten Roman peasant costumes. The two friends chose two alike, more or less of their size, and requested their host to have about twenty ribbons sewn to each of their hats, and to obtain for them two of those charming striped silk scarves in bright colours that the men of the people are accustomed to tie round their waists on holidays.
Albert was anxious to see how he looked in his new costume: it was a jacket and trousers of blue velvet, embroidered stockings, buckled shoes and a silk waistcoat. Indeed Albert could not do otherwise than look elegant in this picturesque costume; and when the belt was fastened round his slender waist, and his hat, tilted a little to one side, let a shower of ribbons fall over his shoulder, Franz was obliged to admit that dress often has a lot to do with the superior physique that we attribute to some nations. The Turks – so picturesque in the old days with their long, brightly coloured robes – are now hideous in their blue buttoned frock-coats and those Greek hats which make them look like wine bottles with red tops. Don’t you agree?
Franz complimented Albert who, moreover, was standing in front of the mirror and smiling at himself with a quite unmistakable air of self-satisfaction. It was at this point that the Count of Monte Cristo came in.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘since, agreeable though it is to have a companion in pleasure, freedom is more agreeable still, I have come to tell you that I am leaving the carriage that you used yesterday at your disposal today and for the following days. Our host must have told you that I have three or four at livery with him, so you are not depriving me in any way. Feel free to enjoy it, either for pleasure or for business. Our meeting-place, should we have anything to say to one another, is the Palazzo Rospoli.’
The two young friends tried to make some objection, but there was really no good reason to refuse an offer which suited them very well, so eventually they accepted.
The count stayed with them for about a quarter of an hour, conversing fluently on every subject. As we have already been able to observe, he was well acquainted with the literature of every country. A glance at the walls of his drawing-room had shown Franz and Albert that he was a connoisseur of fine art. A few unpretentious words which he let slip in passing proved that he was not without some understanding in science; it appeared that he had particularly concerned himself with chemistry.
The two friends did not presume to repay the count for the luncheon he had given them: it wo
uld have been a poor jest to offer him, in exchange for his excellent table, the very mediocre fare that made up Signor Pastrini’s table d’hôte. They said as much openly and he accepted their excuses with evident appreciation of their thoughtfulness.
Albert was charmed by the count’s manners and was only prevented from recognizing him as a true aristocrat because of his learning. Most of all he was delighted at being able to have full use of the carriage: he had some ideas concerning his graceful peasant girls and, since they had appeared to him in a very elegant carriage, he was not sorry at being able to continue to seem to be on an equal footing with them in this respect.
At half-past one the two friends went downstairs. The coachman and the footmen had had the notion of putting their livery on over their wild animals’ skins, which made them look even more grotesque than the day before, and were complimented warmly by Albert and Franz. Albert had sentimentally attached his sprig of fading violets to his buttonhole.
At the first sound of the bell, they set off and hurried into the Corso down the Via Vittoria.
On their second circuit, a bouquet of fresh violets, thrown from a carriage full of young lady clowns into the count’s barouche told Albert that, like himself and his friend, the peasant girls from the previous day had changed costume and, whether by accident or by reason of the same feeling that had inspired him, gallantly, to adopt their costume, they had chosen the one that he and Franz had been wearing.
Albert put the fresh flowers in place of the old ones, but kept the faded bouquet in his hand; and, when he once more passed by the barouche, lifted it tenderly to his lips: not only the person who had thrown it to him but also her companions seemed to find this highly amusing.
The day was no less lively than the one before; a careful observer might even have noticed more noise and more merriment. The count was seen for a moment at the window, but when the carriage came round again, he had already gone.
It goes without saying that the flirtatious exchange between Albert and the lady clown with the bunch of violets lasted the whole day.
That evening, when he returned, Franz found a letter from the embassy telling him that he would have the honour of an audience with His Holiness the following day. On every previous occasion when he had visited Rome, he had asked for and obtained the same favour; and, for religious reasons and out of gratitude, he did not want to stop off in the capital of the Christian world without paying a respectful homage to one of the successors of Saint Peter who stands as a rare example of all the Christian virtues.