Chapter 82. The Burglary
The day following that on which the conversation we have related tookplace, the Count of Monte Cristo set out for Auteuil, accompanied by Aliand several attendants, and also taking with him some horses whosequalities he was desirous of ascertaining. He was induced to undertakethis journey, of which the day before he had not even thought and whichhad not occurred to Andrea either, by the arrival of Bertuccio fromNormandy with intelligence respecting the house and sloop. The house wasready, and the sloop which had arrived a week before lay at anchor in asmall creek with her crew of six men, who had observed all the requisiteformalities and were ready again to put to sea.
The count praised Bertuccio’s zeal, and ordered him to prepare for aspeedy departure, as his stay in France would not be prolonged more thana month.
“Now,” said he, “I may require to go in one night from Paris to Tréport;let eight fresh horses be in readiness on the road, which will enable meto go fifty leagues in ten hours.”
“Your highness had already expressed that wish,” said Bertuccio, “andthe horses are ready. I have bought them, and stationed them myself atthe most desirable posts, that is, in villages, where no one generallystops.”
“That’s well,” said Monte Cristo; “I remain here a day or two—arrangeaccordingly.”
As Bertuccio was leaving the room to give the requisite orders,Baptistin opened the door: he held a letter on a silver waiter.
“What are you doing here?” asked the count, seeing him covered withdust; “I did not send for you, I think?”
Baptistin, without answering, approached the count, and presented theletter. “Important and urgent,” said he.
The count opened the letter, and read:
“‘M. de Monte Cristo is apprised that this night a man will enter hishouse in the Champs-Élysées with the intention of carrying off somepapers supposed to be in the secretaire in the dressing-room. Thecount’s well-known courage will render unnecessary the aid of thepolice, whose interference might seriously affect him who sends thisadvice. The count, by any opening from the bedroom, or by concealinghimself in the dressing-room, would be able to defend his propertyhimself. Many attendants or apparent precautions would prevent thevillain from the attempt, and M. de Monte Cristo would lose theopportunity of discovering an enemy whom chance has revealed to him whonow sends this warning to the count,—a warning he might not be able tosend another time, if this first attempt should fail and another bemade.’”
The count’s first idea was that this was an artifice—a gross deception,to draw his attention from a minor danger in order to expose him to agreater. He was on the point of sending the letter to the commissary ofpolice, notwithstanding the advice of his anonymous friend, or perhapsbecause of that advice, when suddenly the idea occurred to him that itmight be some personal enemy, whom he alone should recognize and overwhom, if such were the case, he alone would gain any advantage, asFiesco17 had done over the Moor who would have killed him. We know thecount’s vigorous and daring mind, denying anything to be impossible,with that energy which marks the great man.
From his past life, from his resolution to shrink from nothing, thecount had acquired an inconceivable relish for the contests in which hehad engaged, sometimes against nature, that is to say, against God, andsometimes against the world, that is, against the devil.
“They do not want my papers,” said Monte Cristo, “they want to kill me;they are no robbers, but assassins. I will not allow the prefect ofpolice to interfere with my private affairs. I am rich enough, forsooth,to distribute his authority on this occasion.”
The count recalled Baptistin, who had left the room after delivering theletter.
“Return to Paris,” said he; “assemble the servants who remain there. Iwant all my household at Auteuil.”
“But will no one remain in the house, my lord?” asked Baptistin.
“Yes, the porter.”
“My lord will remember that the lodge is at a distance from the house.”
“Well?”
“The house might be stripped without his hearing the least noise.”
“By whom?”
“By thieves.”
“You are a fool, M. Baptistin. Thieves might strip the house—it wouldannoy me less than to be disobeyed.” Baptistin bowed.
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“You understand me?” said the count. “Bring your comrades here, one andall; but let everything remain as usual, only close the shutters of theground floor.”
“And those of the first floor?”
“You know they are never closed. Go!”
The count signified his intention of dining alone, and that no one butAli should attend him. Having dined with his usual tranquillity andmoderation, the count, making a signal to Ali to follow him, went out bythe side-gate and on reaching the Bois de Boulogne turned, apparentlywithout design towards Paris and at twilight; found himself opposite hishouse in the Champs-Élysées. All was dark; one solitary, feeble lightwas burning in the porter’s lodge, about forty paces distant from thehouse, as Baptistin had said.
Monte Cristo leaned against a tree, and with that scrutinizing glancewhich was so rarely deceived, looked up and down the avenue, examinedthe passers-by, and carefully looked down the neighboring streets, tosee that no one was concealed. Ten minutes passed thus, and he wasconvinced that no one was watching him. He hastened to the side-doorwith Ali, entered hurriedly, and by the servants’ staircase, of which hehad the key, gained his bedroom without opening or disarranging a singlecurtain, without even the porter having the slightest suspicion that thehouse, which he supposed empty, contained its chief occupant.
Arrived in his bedroom, the count motioned to Ali to stop; then hepassed into the dressing-room, which he examined. Everything appeared asusual—the precious secretaire in its place, and the key in thesecretaire. He double locked it, took the key, returned to the bedroomdoor, removed the double staple of the bolt, and went in. Meanwhile Alihad procured the arms the count required—namely, a short carbine and apair of double-barrelled pistols, with which as sure an aim might betaken as with a single-barrelled one. Thus armed, the count held thelives of five men in his hands. It was about half-past nine.
The count and Ali ate in haste a crust of bread and drank a glass ofSpanish wine; then Monte Cristo slipped aside one of the movable panels,which enabled him to see into the adjoining room. He had within hisreach his pistols and carbine, and Ali, standing near him, held one ofthe small Arabian hatchets, whose form has not varied since theCrusades. Through one of the windows of the bedroom, on a line with thatin the dressing-room, the count could see into the street.
Two hours passed thus. It was intensely dark; still Ali, thanks to hiswild nature, and the count, thanks doubtless to his long confinement,could distinguish in the darkness the slightest movement of the trees.The little light in the lodge had long been extinct. It might beexpected that the attack, if indeed an attack was projected, would bemade from the staircase of the ground floor, and not from a window; inMonte Cristo’s opinion, the villains sought his life, not his money. Itwould be his bedroom they would attack, and they must reach it by theback staircase, or by the window in the dressing-room.
The clock of the Invalides struck a quarter to twelve; the west windbore on its moistened gusts the doleful vibration of the three strokes.
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As the last stroke died away, the count thought he heard a slight noisein the dressing-room; this first sound, or rather this first grinding,was followed by a second, then a third; at the fourth, the count knewwhat to expect. A firm and well-practised hand was engaged in cuttingthe four sides of a pane of glass with a diamond. The count felt hisheart beat more rapidly.
Inured as men may be to danger, forewarned as they may be of peril, theyunderstand, by the