Chapter 40. The Breakfast
And what sort of persons do you expect to breakfast?” said Beauchamp.
“A gentleman, and a diplomatist.”
“Then we shall have to wait two hours for the gentleman, and three forthe diplomatist. I shall come back to dessert; keep me somestrawberries, coffee, and cigars. I shall take a cutlet on my way to theChamber.”
“Do not do anything of the sort; for were the gentleman a Montmorency,and the diplomatist a Metternich, we will breakfast at eleven; in themeantime, follow Debray’s example, and take a glass of sherry and abiscuit.”
“Be it so; I will stay; I must do something to distract my thoughts.”
“You are like Debray, and yet it seems to me that when the minister isout of spirits, the opposition ought to be joyous.”
“Ah, you do not know with what I am threatened. I shall hear thismorning that M. Danglars make a speech at the Chamber of Deputies, andat his wife’s this evening I shall hear the tragedy of a peer of France.The devil take the constitutional government, and since we had ourchoice, as they say, at least, how could we choose that?”
“I understand; you must lay in a stock of hilarity.”
“Do not run down M. Danglars’ speeches,” said Debray; “he votes for you,for he belongs to the opposition.”
“Pardieu, that is exactly the worst of all. I am waiting until you sendhim to speak at the Luxembourg, to laugh at my ease.”
“My dear friend,” said Albert to Beauchamp, “it is plain that theaffairs of Spain are settled, for you are most desperately out of humorthis morning. Recollect that Parisian gossip has spoken of a marriagebetween myself and Mlle. Eugénie Danglars; I cannot in conscience,therefore, let you run down the speeches of a man who will one day sayto me, ‘Vicomte, you know I give my daughter two millions.’”
“Ah, this marriage will never take place,” said Beauchamp. “The king hasmade him a baron, and can make him a peer, but he cannot make him agentleman, and the Count of Morcerf is too aristocratic to consent, forthe paltry sum of two million francs, to a mésalliance. The Viscount ofMorcerf can only wed a marchioness.”
“But two million francs make a nice little sum,” replied Morcerf.
“It is the social capital of a theatre on the boulevard, or a railroadfrom the Jardin des Plantes to La Râpée.”
“Never mind what he says, Morcerf,” said Debray, “do you marry her. Youmarry a money-bag label, it is true; well, but what does that matter? Itis better to have a blazon less and a figure more on it. You have sevenmartlets on your arms; give three to your wife, and you will still havefour; that is one more than M. de Guise had, who so nearly became Kingof France, and whose cousin was Emperor of Germany.”
“On my word, I think you are right, Lucien,” said Albert absently.
“To be sure; besides, every millionaire is as noble as a bastard—thatis, he can be.”
“Do not say that, Debray,” returned Beauchamp, laughing, “for here isChâteau-Renaud, who, to cure you of your mania for paradoxes, will passthe sword of Renaud de Montauban, his ancestor, through your body.”
“He will sully it then,” returned Lucien; “for I am low—very low.”
“Oh, heavens,” cried Beauchamp, “the minister quotes Béranger, whatshall we come to next?”
“M. de Château-Renaud—M. Maximilian Morrel,” said the servant,announcing two fresh guests.
“Now, then, to breakfast,” said Beauchamp; “for, if I remember, you toldme you only expected two persons, Albert.”
“Morrel,” muttered Albert—“Morrel—who is he?”
But before he had finished, M. de Château-Renaud, a handsome young manof thirty, gentleman all over,—that is, with the figure of a Guiche andthe wit of a Mortemart,—took Albert’s hand.
“My dear Albert,” said he, “let me introduce to you M. MaximilianMorrel, captain of Spahis, my friend; and what is more—however the manspeaks for himself—my preserver. Salute my hero, viscount.”
And he stepped on one side to give place to a young man of refined anddignified bearing, with large and open brow, piercing eyes, and blackmoustache, whom our readers have already seen at Marseilles, undercircumstances sufficiently dramatic not to be forgotten. A rich uniform,half French, half Oriental, set off his graceful and stalwart figure,and his broad chest was decorated with the order of the Legion of Honor.The young officer bowed with easy and elegant politeness.
“Monsieur,” said Albert with affectionate courtesy, “the count ofChâteau-Renaud knew how much pleasure this introduction would give me;you are his friend, be ours also.”
“Well said,” interrupted Château-Renaud; “and pray that, if you shouldever be in a similar predicament, he may do as much for you as he didfor me.”
“What has he done?” asked Albert.
“Oh, nothing worth speaking of,” said Morrel; “M. de Château-Renaudexaggerates.”
“Not worth speaking of?” cried Château-Renaud; “life is not worthspeaking of!—that is rather too philosophical, on my word, Morrel. It isvery well for you, who risk your life every day, but for me, who onlydid so once——”
“We gather from all this, baron, that Captain Morrel saved your life.”
“Exactly so.”
“On what occasion?” asked Beauchamp.
“Beauchamp, my good fellow, you know I am starving,” said Debray: “donot set him off on some long story.”
“Well, I do not prevent your sitting down to table,” replied Beauchamp,“Château-Renaud can tell us while we eat our breakfast.”
“Gentlemen,” said Morcerf, “it is only a quarter past ten, and I expectsomeone else.”
“Ah, true, a diplomatist!” observed Debray.
“Diplomat or not, I don’t know; I only know that he charged himself onmy account with a mission, which he terminated so entirely to mysatisfaction, that had I been king, I should have instantly created himknight of all my orders, even had I been able to offer him the GoldenFleece and the Garter.”
“Well, since we are not to sit down to table,” said Debray, “take aglass of sherry, and tell us all about it.”
“You all know that I had the fancy of going to Africa.”
“It is a road your ancestors have traced for you,” said Albertgallantly.
“Yes? but I doubt that your object was like theirs—to rescue the HolySepulchre.”
“You are quite right, Beauchamp,” observed the young aristocrat. “It wasonly to fight as an amateur. I cannot bear duelling ever since twoseconds, whom I had chosen to arrange an affair, forced me to break thearm of one of my best friends, one whom you all know—poor Franzd’Épinay.”
“Ah, true,” said Debray, “you did fight some time ago; about what?”
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“The devil take me, if I remember,” returned Château-Renaud. “But Irecollect perfectly one thing, that, being unwilling to let such talentsas mine sleep, I wished to try upon the Arabs the new pistols that hadbeen given to me. In consequence I embarked for Oran, and went fromthence to Constantine, where I arrived just in time to witness theraising of the siege. I retreated with the rest, for eight-and-fortyhours. I endured the rain during the day, and the cold during the nighttolerably well, but the third morning my horse died of cold. Poorbrute—accustomed to be covered up and to have a stove in the stable, theArabian finds himself unable to bear ten degrees of cold in Arabia.”
“That’s why you want to purchase my English horse,” said Debray, “youthink he will bear the cold better.”
“You are mistaken, for I have made a vow never to return to Africa.”
“You were very much frightened, then?” asked Beauchamp.
“Well, yes, and I had good reason to be so,” replied Château-Renaud. “Iwas retreating on foot, for my horse was dead. Six Arabs came up, fullgallop, to cut off my head. I shot two with my double-barrelled gun, andtwo more with my pistols, but I was then disarmed, and two were stillleft; one seized me by the hair (that is why I now we
ar it so short, forno one knows what may happen), the other swung a yataghan, and I alreadyfelt the cold steel on my neck, when this gentleman whom you see herecharged them, shot the one who held me by the hair, and cleft the skullof the other with his sabre. He had assigned himself the task of savinga man’s life that day; chance caused that man to be myself. When I amrich I will order a statue of Chance from Klagmann or Marochetti.”
“Yes,” said Morrel, smiling, “it was the 5th of September, theanniversary of the day on which my father was miraculously preserved;therefore, as far as it lies in my power, I endeavor to celebrate it bysome——”
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“Heroic action,” interrupted Château-Renaud. “I was chosen. But that isnot all—after rescuing me from the sword, he rescued me from the cold,not by sharing his cloak with me, like St. Martin, but by giving me thewhole; then from hunger by sharing with me—guess what?”
“A Strasbourg pie?” asked Beauchamp.
“No, his horse; of which we each of us ate a slice with a heartyappetite. It was very hard.”
“The horse?” said Morcerf, laughing.
“No, the sacrifice,” returned Château-Renaud; “ask Debray if he wouldsacrifice his English steed for a stranger?”
“Not for a stranger,” said Debray, “but for a friend I might, perhaps.”
“I divined that you would become mine, count,” replied Morrel; “besides,as I had the honor to tell you, heroism or not, sacrifice or not, thatday I owed an offering to bad fortune in recompense for the favors goodfortune had on other days granted to us.”
“The history to which M. Morrel alludes,” continued Château-Renaud, “isan admirable one, which he will tell you some day when you are betteracquainted with him; today let us fill our stomachs, and not ourmemories. What time do you breakfast, Albert?”
“At half-past ten.”
“Precisely?” asked Debray, taking out his watch.
“Oh, you will give me five minutes’ grace,” replied Morcerf, “for I alsoexpect a preserver.”
“Of whom?”
“Of myself,” cried Morcerf; “parbleu! do you think I cannot be saved aswell as anyone else, and that there are only Arabs who cut off heads?Our breakfast is a philanthropic one, and we shall have at table—atleast, I hope so—two benefactors of humanity.”
“What shall we do?” said Debray; “we have only one Monthyon prize.”
“Well, it will be given to someone who has done nothing to deserve it,”said Beauchamp; “that is the way the Academy mostly escapes from thedilemma.”
“And where does he come from?” asked Debray. “You have already answeredthe question once, but so vaguely that I venture to put it a secondtime.”
“Really,” said Albert, “I do not know; when I invited him three monthsago, he was then at Rome, but since that time who knows where he mayhave gone?”
“And you think him capable of being exact?” demanded Debray.
“I think him capable of everything.”
“Well, with the five minutes’ grace, we have only ten left.”
“I will profit by them to tell you something about my guest.”
“I beg pardon,” interrupted Beauchamp; “are there any materials for anarticle in what you are going to tell us?”
“Yes, and for a most curious one.”
“Go on, then, for I see I shall not get to the Chamber this morning, andI must make up for it.”
“I was at Rome during the last Carnival.”
“We know that,” said Beauchamp.
“Yes, but what you do not know is that I was carried off by bandits.”
“There are no bandits,” cried Debray.
“Yes there are, and most hideous, or rather most admirable ones, for Ifound them ugly enough to frighten me.”
“Come, my dear Albert,” said Debray, “confess that your cook isbehindhand, that the oysters have not arrived from Ostend or Marennes,and that, like Madame de Maintenon, you are going to replace the dish bya story. Say so at once; we are sufficiently well-bred to excuse you,and to listen to your history, fabulous as it promises to be.”
“And I say to you, fabulous as it may seem, I tell it as a true one frombeginning to end. The brigands had carried me off, and conducted me to agloomy spot, called the Catacombs of Saint Sebastian.”
“I know it,” said Château-Renaud; “I narrowly escaped catching a feverthere.”
“And I did more than that,” replied Morcerf, “for I caught one. I wasinformed that I was prisoner until I paid the sum of 4,000 Romancrowns—about 24,000 francs. Unfortunately, I had not above 1,500. I wasat the end of my journey and of my credit. I wrote to Franz—and were hehere he would confirm every word—I wrote then to Franz that if he didnot come with the four thousand crowns before six, at ten minutes past Ishould have gone to join the blessed saints and glorious martyrs inwhose company I had the honor of being; and Signor Luigi Vampa, such wasthe name of the chief of these bandits, would have scrupulously kept hisword.”
“But Franz did come with the four thousand crowns,” said Château-Renaud.“A man whose name is Franz d’Épinay or Albert de Morcerf has not muchdifficulty in procuring them.”
“No, he arrived accompanied simply by the guest I am going to present toyou.”
“Ah, this gentleman is a Hercules killing Cacus, a Perseus freeingAndromeda.”
“No, he is a man about my own size.”
“Armed to the teeth?”
“He had not even a knitting-needle.”
“But he paid your ransom?”
“He said two words to the chief and I was free.”
“And they apologized to him for having carried you off?” said Beauchamp.
“Just so.”
“Why, he is a second Ariosto.”
“No, his name is the Count of Monte Cristo.”
“There is no Count of Monte Cristo” said Debray.
“I do not think so,” added Château-Renaud, with the air of a man whoknows the whole of the European nobility perfectly.
“Does anyone know anything of a Count of Monte Cristo?”
“He comes possibly from the Holy Land, and one of his ancestorspossessed Calvary, as the Mortemarts did the Dead Sea.”
“I think I can assist your researches,” said Maximilian. “Monte Cristois a little island I have often heard spoken of by the old sailors myfather employed—a grain of sand in the centre of the Mediterranean, anatom in the infinite.”
“Precisely!” cried Albert. “Well, he of whom I speak is the lord andmaster of this grain of sand, of this atom; he has purchased the titleof count somewhere in Tuscany.”
“He is rich, then?”
“I believe so.”
“But that ought to be visible.”
“That is what deceives you, Debray.”
“I do not understand you.”
“Have you read the Arabian Nights?”
“What a question!”
“Well, do you know if the persons you see there are rich or poor, iftheir sacks of wheat are not rubies or diamonds? They seem like poorfishermen, and suddenly they open some mysterious cavern filled with thewealth of the Indies.”
“Which means?”
“Which means that my Count of Monte Cristo is one of those fishermen. Hehas even a name taken from the book, since he calls himself Sinbad theSailor, and has a cave filled with gold.”
“And you have seen this cavern, Morcerf?” asked Beauchamp.
“No, but Franz has; for heaven’s sake, not a word of this before him.Franz went in with his eyes blindfolded, and was waited on by mutes andby women to whom Cleopatra was a painted strumpet. Only he is not quitesure about the women, for they did not come in until after he had takenhashish, so that what he took for women might have been simply a row ofstatues.”
The two young men looked at Morcerf as if to say,—“Are you mad, or areyou laughing at us?”
“And I also,” said Morrel thoughtfully, “have heard something like thisfrom an old
sailor named Penelon.”
“Ah,” cried Albert, “it is very lucky that M. Morrel comes to aid me;you are vexed, are you not, that he thus gives a clew to the labyrinth?”
“My dear Albert,” said Debray, “what you tell us is so extraordinary.”
“Ah, because your ambassadors and your consuls do not tell you ofthem—they have no time. They are too much taken up with interfering inthe affairs of their countrymen who travel.”
“Now you get angry, and attack our poor agents. How will you have themprotect you? The Chamber cuts down their salaries every day, so that nowthey have scarcely any. Will you be ambassador, Albert? I will send youto Constantinople.”
“No, lest on the first demonstration I make in favor of Mehemet Ali, theSultan send me the bowstring, and make my secretaries strangle me.”
“You say very true,” responded Debray.
“Yes,” said Albert, “but this has nothing to do with the existence ofthe Count of Monte Cristo.”
“Pardieu! everyone exists.”
“Doubtless, but not in the same way; everyone has not black slaves, aprincely retinue, an arsenal of weapons that would do credit to anArabian fortress, horses that cost six thousand francs apiece, and Greekmistresses.”
“Have you seen the Greek mistress?”
“I have both seen and heard her. I saw her at the theatre, and heard herone morning when I breakfasted with the count.”
“He eats, then?”
“Yes; but so little, it can hardly be called eating.”
“He must be a vampire.”
“Laugh, if you will; the Countess G——, who knew Lord Ruthven, declaredthat the count was a vampire.”
“Ah, capital,” said Beauchamp. “For a man not connected with newspapers,here is the pendant to the famous sea-serpent of the Constitutionnel.”
“Wild eyes, the iris of which contracts or dilates at pleasure,” saidDebray; “facial angle strongly developed, magnificent forehead, lividcomplexion, black beard, sharp and white teeth, politenessunexceptionable.”
“Just so, Lucien,” returned Morcerf; “you have described him feature forfeature. Yes, keen and cutting politeness. This man has often made meshudder; and one day when we were viewing an execution, I thought Ishould faint, more from hearing the cold and calm manner in which hespoke of every description of torture, than from the sight of theexecutioner and the culprit.”
“Did he not conduct you to the ruins of the Colosseum and suck yourblood?” asked Beauchamp.
“Or, having delivered you, make you sign a flaming parchment,surrendering your soul to him as Esau did his birth-right?”
“Rail on, rail on at your ease, gentlemen,” said Morcerf, somewhatpiqued. “When I look at you Parisians, idlers on the Boulevard de Gandor the Bois de Boulogne, and think of this man, it seems to me we arenot of the same race.”
“I am highly flattered,” returned Beauchamp.
“At the same time,” added Château-Renaud, “your Count of Monte Cristo isa very fine fellow, always excepting his little arrangements with theItalian banditti.”
“There are no Italian banditti,” said Debray.
“No vampire,” cried Beauchamp.
“No Count of Monte Cristo” added Debray. “There is half-past tenstriking, Albert.”
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“Confess you have dreamed this, and let us sit down to breakfast,”continued Beauchamp.
But the sound of the clock had not died away when Germain announced,“His excellency the Count of Monte Cristo.” The involuntary starteveryone gave proved how much Morcerf’s narrative had impressed them,and Albert himself could not wholly refrain from manifesting suddenemotion. He had not heard a carriage stop in the street, or steps in theantechamber; the door had itself opened noiselessly. The count appeared,dressed with the greatest simplicity, but the most fastidious dandycould have found nothing to cavil at in his toilet. Every article ofdress—hat, coat, gloves, and boots—was from the first makers. He seemedscarcely five-and-thirty. But what struck everybody was his extremeresemblance to the portrait Debray had drawn. The count advanced,smiling, into the centre of the room, and approached Albert, whohastened towards him holding out his hand in a ceremonial manner.
“Punctuality,” said Monte Cristo, “is the politeness of kings, accordingto one of your sovereigns, I think; but it is not the same withtravellers. However, I hope you will excuse the two or three seconds Iam behindhand; five hundred leagues are not to be accomplished withoutsome trouble, and especially in France, where, it seems, it is forbiddento beat the postilions.”
“My dear count,” replied Albert, “I was announcing your visit to some ofmy friends, whom I had invited in consequence of the promise you did methe honor to make, and whom I now present to you. They are the Count ofChâteau-Renaud, whose nobility goes back to the twelve peers, and whoseancestors had a place at the Round Table; M. Lucien Debray, privatesecretary to the minister of the interior; M. Beauchamp, an editor of apaper, and the terror of the French government, but of whom, in spite ofhis national celebrity, you perhaps have not heard in Italy, since hispaper is prohibited there; and M. Maximilian Morrel, captain of Spahis.”
At this name the count, who had hitherto saluted everyone with courtesy,but at the same time with coldness and formality, stepped a paceforward, and a slight tinge of red colored his pale cheeks.
“You wear the uniform of the new French conquerors, monsieur,” said he;“it is a handsome uniform.”
No one could have said what caused the count’s voice to vibrate sodeeply, and what made his eye flash, which was in general so clear,lustrous, and limpid when he pleased.
“You have never seen our Africans, count?” said Albert.
“Never,” replied the count, who was by this time perfectly master ofhimself again.
“Well, beneath this uniform beats one of the bravest and noblest heartsin the whole army.”
“Oh, M. de Morcerf,” interrupted Morrel.
“Let me go on, captain. And we have just heard,” continued Albert, “of anew deed of his, and so heroic a one, that, although I have seen himtoday for the first time, I request you to allow me to introduce him asmy friend.”
At these words it was still possible to observe in Monte Cristo theconcentrated look, changing color, and slight trembling of the eyelidthat show emotion.
“Ah, you have a noble heart,” said the count; “so much the better.”
This exclamation, which corresponded to the count’s own thought ratherthan to what Albert was saying, surprised everybody, and especiallyMorrel, who looked at Monte Cristo with wonder. But, at the same time,the intonation was so soft that, however strange the speech might seem,it was impossible to be offended at it.
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“Why should he doubt it?” said Beauchamp to Château-Renaud.
“In reality,” replied the latter, who, with his aristocratic glance andhis knowledge of the world, had penetrated at once all that waspenetrable in Monte Cristo, “Albert has not deceived us, for the countis a most singular being. What say you, Morrel!”
“Ma foi, he has an open look about him that pleases me, in spite of thesingular remark he has made about me.”
“Gentlemen,” said Albert, “Germain informs me that breakfast is ready.My dear count, allow me to show you the way.” They passed silently intothe breakfast-room, and everyone took his place.
“Gentlemen,” said the count, seating himself, “permit me to make aconfession which must form my excuse for any improprieties I may commit.I am a stranger, and a stranger to such a degree, that this is the firsttime I have ever been at Paris. The French way of living is utterlyunknown to me, and up to the present time I have followed the Easterncustoms, which are entirely in contrast to the Parisian. I beg you,therefore, to excuse if you find anything in me too Turkish, tooItalian, or too Arabian. Now, then, let us breakfast.”
“With what an air he says all this,” muttered Beauchamp; “decidedly heis a great man.”
“A great man in his own country,” added Debray.
“A great man in every country, M. Debray,” said Château-Renaud.
The count was, it may be remembered, a most temperate guest. Albertremarked this, expressing his fears lest, at the outset, the Parisianmode of life should displease the traveller in the most essential point.
“My dear count,” said he, “I fear one thing, and that is, that the fareof the Rue du Helder is not so much to your taste as that of the Piazzadi Spagna. I ought to have consulted you on the point, and have had somedishes prepared expressly.”
“Did you know me better,” returned the count, smiling, “you would notgive one thought of such a thing for a traveller like myself, who hassuccessively lived on macaroni at Naples, polenta at Milan, olla podridaat Valencia, pilau at Constantinople, curry in India, and swallows’nests in China. I eat everywhere, and of everything, only I eat butlittle; and today, that you reproach me with my want of appetite, is myday of appetite, for I have not eaten since yesterday morning.”
“What,” cried all the guests, “you have not eaten for four-and-twentyhours?”
“No,” replied the count; “I was forced to go out of my road to obtainsome information near Nîmes, so that I was somewhat late, and thereforeI did not choose to stop.”
“And you ate in your carriage?” asked Morcerf.
“No, I slept, as I generally do when I am weary without having thecourage to amuse myself, or when I am hungry without feeling inclined toeat.”
“But you can sleep when you please, monsieur?” said Morrel.
“Yes.”
“You have a recipe for it?”
“An infallible one.”
“That would be invaluable to us in Africa, who have not always any foodto eat, and rarely anything to drink.”
“Yes,” said Monte Cristo; “but, unfortunately, a recipe excellent for aman like myself would be very dangerous applied to an army, which mightnot awake when it was needed.”
“May we inquire what is this recipe?” asked Debray.
“Oh, yes,” returned Monte Cristo; “I make no secret of it. It is amixture of excellent opium, which I fetched myself from Canton in orderto have it pure, and the best hashish which grows in the East—that is,between the Tigris and the Euphrates. These two ingredients are mixed inequal proportions, and formed into pills. Ten minutes after one istaken, the effect is produced. Ask Baron Franz d’Épinay; I think hetasted them one day.”
“Yes,” replied Morcerf, “he said something about it to me.”
“But,” said Beauchamp, who, as became a journalist, was veryincredulous, “you always carry this drug about you?”
“Always.”
“Would it be an indiscretion to ask to see those precious pills?”continued Beauchamp, hoping to take him at a disadvantage.
“No, monsieur,” returned the count; and he drew from his pocket amarvellous casket, formed out of a single emerald and closed by a goldenlid which unscrewed and gave passage to a small greenish colored pelletabout the size of a pea. This ball had an acrid and penetrating odor.There were four or five more in the emerald, which would contain about adozen. The casket passed around the table, but it was more to examinethe admirable emerald than to see the pills that it passed from hand tohand.
“And is it your cook who prepares these pills?” asked Beauchamp.
“Oh, no, monsieur,” replied Monte Cristo; “I do not thus betray myenjoyments to the vulgar. I am a tolerable chemist, and prepare my pillsmyself.”
“This is a magnificent emerald, and the largest I have ever seen,” saidChâteau-Renaud, “although my mother has some remarkable family jewels.”
“I had three similar ones,” returned Monte Cristo. “I gave one to theSultan, who mounted it in his sabre; another to our holy father thePope, who had it set in his tiara, opposite to one nearly as large,though not so fine, given by the Emperor Napoleon to his predecessor,Pius VII. I kept the third for myself, and I had it hollowed out, whichreduced its value, but rendered it more commodious for the purpose Iintended.”
Everyone looked at Monte Cristo with astonishment; he spoke with so muchsimplicity that it was evident he spoke the truth, or that he was mad.However, the sight of the emerald made them naturally incline to theformer belief.
“And what did these two sovereigns give you in exchange for thesemagnificent presents?” asked Debray.
“The Sultan, the liberty of a woman,” replied the Count; “the Pope, thelife of a man; so that once in my life I have been as powerful as ifheaven had brought me into the world on the steps of a throne.”
“And it was Peppino you saved, was it not?” cried Morcerf; “it was forhim that you obtained pardon?”
“Perhaps,” returned the count, smiling.
“My dear count, you have no idea what pleasure it gives me to hear youspeak thus,” said Morcerf. “I had announced you beforehand to my friendsas an enchanter of the Arabian Nights, a wizard of the Middle Ages; butthe Parisians are so subtle in paradoxes that they mistake for capricesof the imagination the most incontestable truths, when these truths donot form a part of their daily existence. For example, here is Debraywho reads, and Beauchamp who prints, every day, ‘A member of the JockeyClub has been stopped and robbed on the Boulevard;’ ‘four persons havebeen assassinated in the Rue St. Denis’ or ‘the Faubourg St. Germain;’‘ten, fifteen, or twenty thieves, have been arrested in a café on theBoulevard du Temple, or in the Thermes de Julien,’—and yet these samemen deny the existence of the bandits in the Maremma, the Campagna diRomana, or the Pontine Marshes. Tell them yourself that I was taken bybandits, and that without your generous intercession I should now havebeen sleeping in the Catacombs of St. Sebastian, instead of receivingthem in my humble abode in the Rue du Helder.”
“Ah,” said Monte Cristo “you promised me never to mention thatcircumstance.”
“It was not I who made that promise,” cried Morcerf; “it must have beensomeone else whom you have rescued in the same manner, and whom you haveforgotten. Pray speak of it, for I shall not only, I trust, relate thelittle I do know, but also a great deal I do not know.”
“It seems to me,” returned the count, smiling, “that you played asufficiently important part to know as well as myself what happened.”
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“Well, you promise me, if I tell all I know, to relate, in your turn,all that I do not know?”
“That is but fair,” replied Monte Cristo.
“Well,” said Morcerf, “for three days I believed myself the object ofthe attentions of a masque, whom I took for a descendant of Tullia orPoppæa, while I was simply the object of the attentions of a contadina,and I say contadina to avoid saying peasant girl. What I know is, that,like a fool, a greater fool than he of whom I spoke just now, I mistookfor this peasant girl a young bandit of fifteen or sixteen, with abeardless chin and slim waist, and who, just as I was about to imprint achaste salute on his lips, placed a pistol to my head, and, aided byseven or eight others, led, or rather dragged me, to the Catacombs ofSt. Sebastian, where I found a highly educated brigand chief perusingCæsar’s Commentaries, and who deigned to leave off reading to inform me,that unless the next morning, before six o’clock, four thousand piastreswere paid into his account at his banker’s, at a quarter past six Ishould have ceased to exist. The letter is still to be seen, for it isin Franz d’Épinay’s possession, signed by me, and with a postscript ofM. Luigi Vampa. This is all I know, but I know not, count, how youcontrived to inspire so much respect in the bandits of Rome whoordinarily have so little respect for anything. I assure you, Franz andI were lost in admiration.”
“Nothing more simple,” returned the count. “I had known the famous Vampafor more than ten years. When he was quite a child, and only a shepherd,I gave him a few gold pieces for showing me my way, and he, in order torepay me, gave me a poniard, the hilt of which he had carved with hisown hand, and which you may have seen in my collection of arms. In afteryears, whether he had forgotten
this interchange of presents, whichought to have cemented our friendship, or whether he did not recollectme, he sought to take me, but, on the contrary, it was I who capturedhim and a dozen of his band. I might have handed him over to Romanjustice, which is somewhat expeditious, and which would have beenparticularly so with him; but I did nothing of the sort—I suffered himand his band to depart.”
“With the condition that they should sin no more,” said Beauchamp,laughing. “I see they kept their promise.”
“No, monsieur,” returned Monte Cristo “upon the simple condition thatthey should respect myself and my friends. Perhaps what I am about tosay may seem strange to you, who are socialists, and vaunt humanity andyour duty to your neighbor, but I never seek to protect a society whichdoes not protect me, and which I will even say, generally occupiesitself about me only to injure me; and thus by giving them a low placein my esteem, and preserving a neutrality towards them, it is societyand my neighbor who are indebted to me.”
“Bravo,” cried Château-Renaud; “you are the first man I ever metsufficiently courageous to preach egotism. Bravo, count, bravo!”
“It is frank, at least,” said Morrel. “But I am sure that the count doesnot regret having once deviated from the principles he has so boldlyavowed.”
“How have I deviated from those principles, monsieur?” asked MonteCristo, who could not help looking at Morrel with so much intensity,that two or three times the young man had been unable to sustain thatclear and piercing glance.
“Why, it seems to me,” replied Morrel, “that in delivering M. deMorcerf, whom you did not know, you did good to your neighbor and tosociety.”
“Of which he is the brightest ornament,” said Beauchamp, drinking off aglass of champagne.
“My dear count,” cried Morcerf, “you are at fault—you, one of the mostformidable logicians I know—and you must see it clearly proved thatinstead of being an egotist, you are a philanthropist. Ah, you callyourself Oriental, a Levantine, Maltese, Indian, Chinese; your familyname is Monte Cristo; Sinbad the Sailor is your baptismal appellation,and yet the first day you set foot in Paris you instinctively displaythe greatest virtue, or rather the chief defect, of us eccentricParisians,—that is, you assume the vices you have not, and conceal thevirtues you possess.”
“My dear vicomte,” returned Monte Cristo, “I do not see, in all I havedone, anything that merits, either from you or these gentlemen, thepretended eulogies I have received. You were no stranger to me, for Iknew you from the time I gave up two rooms to you, invited you tobreakfast with me, lent you one of my carriages, witnessed the Carnivalin your company, and saw with you from a window in the Piazza del Popolothe execution that affected you so much that you nearly fainted. I willappeal to any of these gentlemen, could I leave my guest in the hands ofa hideous bandit, as you term him? Besides, you know, I had the ideathat you could introduce me into some of the Paris salons when I came toFrance. You might some time ago have looked upon this resolution as avague project, but today you see it was a reality, and you must submitto it under penalty of breaking your word.”
“I will keep it,” returned Morcerf; “but I fear that you will be muchdisappointed, accustomed as you are to picturesque events and fantastichorizons. Amongst us you will not meet with any of those episodes withwhich your adventurous existence has so familiarized you; our Chimborazois Mortmartre, our Himalaya is Mount Valérien, our Great Desert is theplain of Grenelle, where they are now boring an artesian well to waterthe caravans. We have plenty of thieves, though not so many as is said;but these thieves stand in far more dread of a policeman than a lord.France is so prosaic, and Paris so civilized a city, that you will notfind in its eighty-five departments—I say eighty-five, because I do notinclude Corsica—you will not find, then, in these eighty-fivedepartments a single hill on which there is not a telegraph, or a grottoin which the commissary of police has not put up a gaslamp. There is butone service I can render you, and for that I place myself entirely atyour orders, that is, to present, or make my friends present, youeverywhere; besides, you have no need of anyone to introduce you—withyour name, and your fortune, and your talent” (Monte Cristo bowed with asomewhat ironical smile) “you can present yourself everywhere, and bewell received. I can be useful in one way only—if knowledge of Parisianhabits, of the means of rendering yourself comfortable, or of thebazaars, can assist, you may depend upon me to find you a fittingdwelling here. I do not dare offer to share my apartments with you, as Ishared yours at Rome—I, who do not profess egotism, but am yet egotistpar excellence; for, except myself, these rooms would not hold a shadowmore, unless that shadow were feminine.”
“Ah,” said the count, “that is a most conjugal reservation; I recollectthat at Rome you said something of a projected marriage. May Icongratulate you?”
“The affair is still in projection.”
“And he who says in ‘projection,’ means already decided,” said Debray.
“No,” replied Morcerf, “my father is most anxious about it; and I hope,ere long, to introduce you, if not to my wife, at least to mybetrothed—Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars.”
“Eugénie Danglars,” said Monte Cristo; “tell me, is not her father BaronDanglars?”
“Yes,” returned Morcerf, “a baron of a new creation.”
“What matter,” said Monte Cristo “if he has rendered the State serviceswhich merit this distinction?”
“Enormous ones,” answered Beauchamp. “Although in reality a Liberal, henegotiated a loan of six millions for Charles X., in 1829, who made hima baron and chevalier of the Legion of Honor; so that he wears theribbon, not, as you would think, in his waistcoat-pocket, but at hisbutton-hole.”
“Ah,” interrupted Morcerf, laughing, “Beauchamp, Beauchamp, keep thatfor the Corsaire or the Charivari, but spare my future father-in-lawbefore me.” Then, turning to Monte Cristo, “You just now spoke his nameas if you knew the baron?”
“I do not know him,” returned Monte Cristo; “but I shall probably soonmake his acquaintance, for I have a credit opened with him by the houseof Richard & Blount, of London, Arstein & Eskeles of Vienna, and Thomson& French at Rome.” As he pronounced the two last names, the countglanced at Maximilian Morrel. If the stranger expected to produce aneffect on Morrel, he was not mistaken—Maximilian started as if he hadbeen electrified.
“Thomson & French,” said he; “do you know this house, monsieur?”
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“They are my bankers in the capital of the Christian world,” returnedthe count quietly. “Can my influence with them be of any service toyou?”
“Oh, count, you could assist me perhaps in researches which have been,up to the present, fruitless. This house, in past years, did ours agreat service, and has, I know not for what reason, always denied havingrendered us this service.”
“I shall be at your orders,” said Monte Cristo bowing.
“But,” continued Morcerf, “à propos of Danglars,—we have strangelywandered from the subject. We were speaking of a suitable habitation forthe Count of Monte Cristo. Come, gentlemen, let us all propose someplace. Where shall we lodge this new guest in our great capital?”
“Faubourg Saint-Germain,” said Château-Renaud. “The count will findthere a charming hotel, with a court and garden.”
“Bah! Château-Renaud,” returned Debray, “you only know your dull andgloomy Faubourg Saint-Germain; do not pay any attention to him,count—live in the Chaussée d’Antin, that’s the real centre of Paris.”
“Boulevard de l’Opéra,” said Beauchamp; “the second floor—a house with abalcony. The count will have his cushions of silver cloth brought there,and as he smokes his chibouque, see all Paris pass before him.”
“You have no idea, then, Morrel?” asked Château-Renaud; “you do notpropose anything.”
“Oh, yes,” returned the young man, smiling; “on the contrary, I haveone, but I expected the count would be tempted by one of the brilliantproposals made him, yet as he has not replied to an
y of them, I willventure to offer him a suite of apartments in a charming hotel, in thePompadour style, that my sister has inhabited for a year, in the RueMeslay.”
“You have a sister?” asked the count.
“Yes, monsieur, a most excellent sister.”
“Married?”
“Nearly nine years.”
“Happy?” asked the count again.
“As happy as it is permitted to a human creature to be,” repliedMaximilian. “She married the man she loved, who remained faithful to usin our fallen fortunes—Emmanuel Herbaut.”
Monte Cristo smiled imperceptibly.
“I live there during my leave of absence,” continued Maximilian; “and Ishall be, together with my brother-in-law Emmanuel, at the dispositionof the Count, whenever he thinks fit to honor us.”
“One minute,” cried Albert, without giving Monte Cristo the time toreply. “Take care, you are going to immure a traveller, Sinbad theSailor, a man who comes to see Paris; you are going to make a patriarchof him.”
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“Oh, no,” said Morrel; “my sister is five-and-twenty, my brother-in-lawis thirty, they are gay, young, and happy. Besides, the count will be inhis own house, and only see them when he thinks fit to do so.”
“Thanks, monsieur,” said Monte Cristo; “I shall content myself withbeing presented to your sister and her husband, if you will do me thehonor to introduce me; but I cannot accept the offer of anyone of thesegentlemen, since my habitation is already prepared.”
“What,” cried Morcerf; “you are, then, going to a hotel—that will bevery dull for you.”
“Was I so badly lodged at Rome?” said Monte Cristo smiling.
“Parbleu! at Rome you spent fifty thousand piastres in furnishing yourapartments, but I presume that you are not disposed to spend a similarsum every day.”
“It is not that which deterred me,” replied Monte Cristo; “but as Idetermined to have a house to myself, I sent on my valet de chambre, andhe ought by this time to have bought the house and furnished it.”
“But you have, then, a valet de chambre who knows Paris?” saidBeauchamp.
“It is the first time he has ever been in Paris. He is black, and cannotspeak,” returned Monte Cristo.
“It is Ali!” cried Albert,