At a quarter to ten, a valet de chambre came in. This was a little fifteen-year-old groom, who spoke nothing but English and answered to the name of ‘John’. He was Morcerf’s only servant. Of course, on ordinary days the cook from the main house was at his disposal – as was also, on grand occasions, his father the count’s lackey.
The valet de chambre, who was called Germain and who enjoyed his young master’s entire confidence, was holding a bundle of newspapers, which he put down on a table, and a packet of letters, which he gave to Albert.
Albert glanced casually at the various missives and chose two, with perfumed envelopes addressed in fine hands; these he unsealed and read with a certain amount of attention.
‘How did these letters come?’ he asked.
‘One came by the post, the other was brought by Madame Danglars’ valet.’
‘Let Madame Danglars know that I accept the place she is offering me in her box… Wait… Then, during the day, go to Rosa’s and tell her that, in accordance with her invitation, I shall sup with her on leaving the opera; and take her six bottles of different wines, Cyprus, sherry, Malaga… and a barrel of Ostend oysters. Buy the oysters from Borel and make sure that he knows they are for me.’
‘At what time would Monsieur like to be served?’
‘What time is it now?’
‘A quarter to ten.’
‘Well, serve breakfast at exactly half-past ten. Debray may be obliged to go into his ministry; and in any case…’ (Albert looked at his notebook) ‘… that was the time that I agreed with the count: May the twenty-first at half-past ten in the morning. Even though I don’t set much store by his promise, I want to be punctual. Do you know if the countess is up?’
‘If Monsieur le Vicomte wishes, I can find out.’
‘Do. Ask her for one of her liqueur cabinets: mine is not fully replenished. And tell her that I shall have the honour to visit her at about three o’clock and should like her permission to introduce her to someone.’
When the valet had left, Albert slumped on to the divan, tore the wrappings off two or three newspapers, looked at the theatre programmes, winced on seeing that they were performing an opera and not a ballet, hunted in vain through the advertisements for cosmetics for an electuary for the teeth that he had heard mentioned, and successively tossed aside two or three of the most read prints in Paris, muttering in the midst of a prolonged yawn: ‘Really, these papers do get more and more frightfully dull.’
At that moment a light carriage pulled up in front of the door, and a moment later the valet returned to announce M. Lucien Debray. A tall young man, fair-haired, pale, with a confident grey eye and cold, thin lips, wearing a blue coat with engraved gold buttons, a white cravat and a monocle in a tortoiseshell rim dangling from a silk cord – which, by a co-ordinated effort of the supercilliary and zygomatic arches, he managed from time to time to secure in the cavity of his right eye – came in without smiling or speaking, and with a semi-official bearing.
‘Good morning, Lucien, good morning,’ Albert said. ‘Ah, but you terrify me, my dear fellow, with your punctuality! What am I saying – punctuality! I was expecting you last of all, and you arrive at five to ten, when the invitation was definitely fixed only at half-past! It’s a miracle! Can this mean that the government is overthrown, by any chance?’
‘No, my dearest fellow,’ the young man said, planting himself on the divan. ‘Rest assured, we are always unsteady, but we never fall. I am beginning to think that we are becoming utterly unmovable, even without the affairs of the Peninsula, which are going to fix us in place once and for all.’
‘Yes, that’s right. You are getting rid of Don Carlos of Spain.’2
‘Not at all, dearest fellow, we must put this straight: we are taking him across the French frontier and entertaining him most royally in Bourges.’
‘In Bourges?’
‘Yes, and he has no grounds for complaint, dammit! Bourges is King Charles VII’s capital. What! You hadn’t heard? All Paris has known about it since yesterday, and it had already reached the Stock Exchange the day before that, because Monsieur Danglars – I haven’t the slightest idea how that man manages to learn everything as soon as we do – Danglars bet on a bull market and won a million.’
‘And you, a new ribbon, apparently. Isn’t that a blue band I can see with the rest of your decorations?’
‘Huh! They sent me the Charles III medal, y’know,’ Debray answered in an offhand manner.
‘Come now, don’t pretend you’re not pleased. Admit that you’re glad to have it.’
‘Well, yes, so I am. As a fashion accessory, a medal looks quite fine on a high-buttoned black frock-coat. Very elegant.’
‘And,’ Morcerf said, smiling, ‘it makes one look like the Prince of Wales or the Duke of Reichstadt.’
‘Which is why you are seeing me at this time in the morning, my dearest fellow.’
‘Because you wanted to let me know they had given you the Charles III medal?’
‘No, because I spent the night sending out letters: twenty-five diplomatic dispatches. When I arrived home this morning at dawn, I tried to sleep but I was overcome with a headache, so I got up to go out for an hour’s ride. In the Bois de Boulogne I was overcome with hunger and boredom, two enemies that rarely attack together but, despite that, were leagued against me in a sort of Carlist – Republican alliance. It was then that I remembered we are feasting with you this morning. So here I am: I am hungry, feed me; I am bored, entertain me.’
‘It is my duty as your host to do both, dear friend,’ said Albert, ringing for his valet, while Lucien turned over the folded newspapers with the tip of a switch which he held by its gold knob inlaid with turquoise. ‘Germain, a glass of sherry and a biscuit. And, while you are waiting for those, dear Lucien, take a cigar – contraband, naturally. I insist that you try one and suggest to your ministry that they sell us the same, instead of those dried walnut-leaves that they condemn conscientious citizens to smoke.’
‘Pooh! Certainly not! As soon as you knew they came from the government, you would find them abominable and refuse to touch them. In any case, it’s nothing to do with the Home Office, it’s a matter for the Inland Revenue. Apply to Monsieur Humann, Department of Indirect Taxes, corridor A, room twenty-six.’
‘Well, I never,’ said Albert. ‘I am amazed at how much you know. But, go on: take a cigar.’
‘Ah, my dear Viscount,’ Lucien said, lighting a Manilla at a pink candle burning in a silver-gilt candlestick before slumping back on to the divan, ‘my dear Viscount, how lucky you are to have nothing to do! You really can’t tell how lucky!’
‘And what would you do, my jolly old pacifier of kingdoms,’ Morcerf asked, with a hint of irony, ‘if you had nothing to occupy you? What! The minister’s private secretary, engaged simultaneously in the great European cabal and in the petty intrigues of Parisian society; with kings – and, better still, queens – to protect, parties to unite, elections to manage; doing more from your study with your pen and your telegraph than Napoleon did from his battlefields with his sword and his victories; enjoying an income of twenty-five thousand livres apart from your salary, and a horse that Château-Renaud offered to buy from you for four hundred louis, which you refused to sell, and a tailor who never fails to make you a perfect pair of trousers; being able to go to the Opera, the Jockey Club and the Théâtre des Variétés… you have all this, and you are bored? Well, I have got something to entertain you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m going to introduce you to someone.’
‘Man or woman?’
‘A man.’
‘Huh! I already know plenty of those!’
‘Not like the one I am speaking about.’
‘Where does he come from? The end of the world?’
‘Perhaps from even further than that.’
‘No! Then I hope he’s not bringing our breakfast.’
‘Don’t worry. Breakfast is being cooked in th
e kitchens of the maternal home. Are you hungry, then?’
‘I am ashamed to confess it, but I am. I had dinner yesterday at the home of Baron Danglars. I don’t know if you have noticed, my friend, but one always dines very poorly with these Stock Exchange types. It’s as though they had a guilty conscience.’
‘Huh! You can afford to disparage other people’s dinners, seeing the kind of spread one gets from your ministers.’
‘Yes, but at least we don’t invite respectable people. If we were not obliged to do the honours for some right-thinking and, above all, right-voting bumpkins, we would shun our own tables like the plague, believe me.’
‘In that case, my good fellow, have another glass of sherry and a biscuit.’
‘With pleasure. Your Spanish wine is excellent: you see, we were quite right to pacify that country.’
‘Yes, but what about Don Carlos?’
‘Let Don Carlos drink claret, and in ten years we’ll marry his son to the little queen.’
‘Which should get you the Golden Fleece if you’re still in the ministry.’
‘I do believe, Albert, that you are quite set this morning on feeding me with illusions.’
‘Ah, you must admit that’s the diet that best satisfies the stomach. But wait: I can hear Beauchamp’s voice in the antechamber. You can have an argument; that will pass the time.’
‘Argument about what?’
‘About the newspapers.’
‘Oh, my dear man,’ Lucien said, with sovereign contempt, ‘do you think I read the papers?’
‘All the better: then you can argue even more about them.’
‘Monsieur Beauchamp!’ the valet announced.
‘Come in, come in, acid pen!’ Albert said, getting up and going to meet the young man. ‘I have Debray here, as you see. He hates you without even reading you, apparently.’
‘He’s quite right,’ said Beauchamp. ‘I’m just the same. I criticize him without knowing what he does. Good morning, Commandeur.’
‘So! You already know about that, do you?’ the private secretary replied, smiling and shaking hands with the journalist.
‘As you see,’ said Beauchamp.
‘And what are they saying about it out there?’
‘Out where? There are a lot of constellations out there in this year of grace 1838.’
‘In the critical-political one where you shine so brightly.’
‘They say that it is well deserved and that you have sown enough red for a little blue to spring from it.’
‘Now then, that’s not bad at all,’ said Lucien. ‘Why aren’t you with us, my dear Beauchamp? With your wit you would make your fortune in three or four years.’
‘I am quite ready to follow your advice, as soon as I see a government that is guaranteed to last at least six months. Now, one word, dear Albert, because I must give poor Lucien a chance to draw breath. Are we to have breakfast, or lunch? I’m expected in the House: as you see, all is not roses in our profession.’
‘Just breakfast. We are waiting for two more guests, and we shall start as soon as they arrive.’
‘And what sort of people are these whom you are expecting for breakfast?’
‘A nobleman and a diplomat.’
‘Then we can expect to be kept waiting barely two hours for the nobleman and fully two hours for the diplomat. I’ll come back for the last course. Keep me some strawberries, coffee and cigars. I can take a lamb cutlet at the House.’
‘Please, don’t do that, Beauchamp, because even if the nobleman were a Montmorency and the diplomat a Metternich, we should still take breakfast at exactly half-past ten. Meanwhile, do what Debray is doing: taste my sherry and biscuits.’
‘Very well then, I’ll stay. I really must have something to take my mind off things this morning.’
‘Well, well, you are just like Debray! I would have thought that when the government is sad, the opposition would be merry.’
‘Ah, you don’t realize, old man, what is in store for me. This morning I shall have to sit through a speech by Monsieur Danglars in the lower house, and this evening, at his wife’s, a tragedy by a peer of the realm. The devil take this constitutional government! They do say that we had a choice, so what did we choose this one for?’
‘I understand: you need to store up some merriment.’
‘Don’t say anything against Monsieur Danglars’ speeches,’ said Debray. ‘He votes for your side; he’s in the opposition.’
‘Damnation, that’s the worst thing about it! That’s why I’m waiting for you to boot him into the Upper House, where I can laugh at him as much as I like.’
‘My dear,’ Albert said to Beauchamp, ‘it’s plain to see that the Spanish business is settled: you’re in a foul temper this morning. So I shall have to remind you that the gossip columns are talking about a marriage between myself and Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars. For that reason I cannot, in all conscience, allow you to speak ill of the eloquence of a man who one day could well be saying to me: “Monsieur le Vicomte, you know that I am giving my daughter a dowry of two millions.” ’
‘Be serious!’ said Beauchamp. ‘The marriage will never take place. The king may have made him a baron, he could make him a peer of the realm, but he can never make him a gentleman, and the Comte de Morcerf comes of too aristocratic a line ever to agree to such a misalliance for a mere two million francs. The Vicomte de Morcerf must marry a marchioness at least.’
‘Two million! It’s a pretty sum, even so!’ said Morcerf.
‘It’s the working capital you would invest in a music-hall or a railway line from the Jardin des Plantes to the Râpée.’
‘Take no notice, Morcerf,’ Debray said offhandedly. ‘Get married. You will be marrying the label on a moneybag, won’t you? So what does it matter? Better that the label should have one more nought and one less shield on it. There are seven blackbirds on your own coat of arms: well, you can give three to your wife and still have four left for yourself. That is one more than Monsieur de Guise, who was nearly king of France and whose first cousin was emperor of Germany.’
‘Lucien, by gad, I do believe you’re right,’ Albert replied absent-mindedly.
‘Of course I am! In any case, every millionaire is as noble as a bastard, or can be.’
‘Hush, don’t say that, Debray,’ Beauchamp replied, laughing. ‘Here is Château-Renaud who might well run you through with the sword of his ancestor, Renaud de Montauban, to cure you of the habit of making such quips.’
‘Then he would surely be lowering himself,’ Lucien retorted, ‘ “for I am low-born and very mean”.’
‘Huh!’ Beauchamp exclaimed. ‘Listen to this: the government sings Béranger.3 What are we coming to, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Monsieur de Château-Renaud! Monsieur Maximilien Morrel!’ cried the valet de chambre, announcing the two new arrivals.
‘All present and correct,’ said Beauchamp. ‘Now we can eat! If I’m not mistaken, you were only expecting two more guests, Albert?’
‘Morrel!’ Albert muttered in surprise. ‘Morrel? Who’s that?’
Before he could finish, M. de Château-Renaud, a handsome young man of thirty and an aristocrat from head to foot (that is to say, with the face of a Guiche and the wit of a Mortemart), had seized Albert by the hand:
‘My dearest, allow me to present Captain Maximilien Morrel, my friend and, moreover, my saviour. In any event, the man presents himself well enough. Vicomte, salute my hero.’
At this, he stood aside to reveal the tall, noble young man with the broad brow, piercing eye and dark moustache whom our readers will remember seeing in Marseille – in such dramatic circumstances that they cannot so soon have forgotten about them. His broad chest, decorated with the cross of the Legion of Honour, was shown off by a rich uniform, part-French and part-Oriental, worn magnificently, which also brought out his military bearing. The young officer bowed with elegant good manners: every one of Morrel’s movements was graceful, because he was st
rong.
‘Monsieur,’ said Albert, with courteous warmth, ‘Monsieur le Baron de Château-Renaud already knew how much it would delight me to meet you. You are one of his friends, Monsieur; please be ours.’
‘Very well,’ said Château-Renaud, ‘and hope, my dear Vicomte, that if the situation should arise, he will do the same for you as he did for me.’
‘What was that?’ asked Albert.
‘Please!’ Morrel protested. ‘It is not worth mentioning. The baron exaggerates.’
‘What do you mean,’ said Château-Renaud, ‘ “not worth mentioning”? Life is not worth mentioning? I must tell you that you are sounding a little bit too philosophical about it, my dear Morrel. It is all very well for you, when you risk your life every day, but for me, who does so only once, and by accident…’
‘If I understand you correctly, Baron, you are saying that Captain Morrel saved your life.’
‘By God he did, and that’s the long and short of it,’ said Château-Renaud.
‘On what occasion?’ Beauchamp asked.
‘Beauchamp, old chap, you must know I’m dying of hunger,’ said Debray. ‘Let’s not start on any long stories.’
‘Very well, then,’ said Beauchamp. ‘I certainly have no objection to sitting down at table. Château-Renaud can tell us about it over breakfast.’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Morcerf, ‘please note that it is still only a quarter past ten, and we are waiting for one last guest.’
‘Of course, that’s right!’ said Debray. ‘A diplomat.’
‘A diplomat or something else, I don’t know what. All I do know is that I entrusted him with a mission on my behalf which he carried out so much to my satisfaction that if I had been king I should have instantly made him a knight of all orders, including the Garter and the Golden Fleece, if I had both to give.’
‘So, as we are not yet going in to breakfast,’ said Debray, ‘pour yourself a glass of sherry, as we have done, Baron, and tell us about it.’
‘You know that I got this notion of going to Africa.’