The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘On your instructions, I tried it.’
‘Successfully?’
‘I think so.’
Mme Danglars had been taken into the next room. Monte Cristo let a drop of the red liquid fall on her lips and she revived. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘what a terrible dream!’
Villefort grasped her wrist to let her know that it had not been a dream. They looked for M. Danglars, but he was not in the mood for poetical reverie and had gone down into the garden, where he was talking to the elder Cavalcanti about a scheme to build a railway from Leghorn to Florence.
Monte Cristo appeared desperate. He took Mme Danglars’ arm and led her down into the garden, where they found M. Danglars taking coffee between the two Cavalcantis.
‘Tell me, Madame,’ Monte Cristo said, ‘did I really terrify you?’
‘No, Monsieur, but you know our impressions are sometimes amplified by whatever happens to be our state of mind.’
Villefort forced a laugh and said: ‘So, you understand, a supposition may be enough, or a chimera…’
‘Even so,’ Monte Cristo told them, ‘believe it or not, I am convinced that a crime took place in that room.’
‘Beware!’ said Mme de Villefort. ‘We have the crown prosecutor with us.’
‘So we do,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Very well, since that is the case, I shall take advantage of it to make my statement.’
‘Your statement?’ said Villefort.
‘Precisely, in front of witnesses.’
‘All very interesting, this,’ said Debray. ‘If there really has been a crime, it should help our digestion no end.’
‘There was a crime,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Come this way, gentlemen. Come, Monsieur de Villefort. For the statement to be valid it must be made before the proper authorities.’
He took Villefort’s arm and, with Mme Danglars’ arm beneath the other, led the crown prosecutor under the plane-tree to where the shadows were deepest. All the other guests followed.
‘Now then,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Here, at this very spot’ (he stamped his foot on the ground) ‘in order to revive these old trees, I got my men to dig in some leafmould. Well, when they were digging, they uncovered a chest, or the ironwork from a chest, in the midst of which was the skeleton of a new-born child. I hope you don’t consider that an illusion?’
He felt Mme Danglars’ arm stiffen and a tremor go through Villefort’s wrist.
‘A new-born child?’ Debray answered. ‘By Jove! This sounds to me as if it’s getting serious.’
‘Well, I was right,’ said Château-Renaud, ‘when I said just now that houses had a soul and a face like people and that their innermost beings were reflected in their physiognomy. This house was sad because it was full of remorse. It was full of remorse because it was concealing a crime.’
‘Who says it was a crime?’ Villefort asked, making one final effort.
‘What! A child buried alive in a garden! Is that not a crime?’ Monte Cristo exclaimed. ‘What other name do you have for such an action, crown prosecutor?’
‘Who says that he was buried alive?’
‘Why bury him there if he was dead? This garden has never been a cemetery.’
‘What do they do to infanticides in this country?’ Major Cavalcanti asked innocently.
‘Huh! They simply cut off their heads,’ Danglars replied.
‘Oh! They cut off their heads,’ said Cavalcanti.
‘I think so… That’s right, isn’t it, Monsieur de Villefort?’ Monte Cristo asked.
‘Yes, Count,’ he answered, in a voice that was hardly human.
Monte Cristo could see that the two people for whose benefit he had devised this scene could not bear any more of it; so, not wishing to push them too far, he said: ‘But, gentlemen, I think we are forgetting the coffee!’ And he led his guests over to the table which had been set in the middle of the lawn.
‘The truth is, Monsieur le Comte,’ said Mme Danglars, ‘I am ashamed to admit my weakness, but all those frightful stories have been too much for me. I beg you, let me sit down.’ She slumped into a chair.
Monte Cristo bowed and went over to Mme de Villefort. ‘I think Madame Danglars needs your flask again,’ he said. But before Mme de Villefort could go over to her friend, the crown prosecutor had already whispered in Mme Danglars’ ear: ‘I must speak to you.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Where?’
‘In my office… At the law courts, if you prefer. That could be the safest place.’
‘I shall be there.’
At that moment Mme de Villefort came up.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Mme Danglars, trying to smile. ‘It’s nothing. I’m quite better.’
LXIV
THE BEGGAR
The evening went on. Mme de Villefort expressed a desire to return to Paris, which Mme Danglars had not yet dared to do, despite the obvious discomfort that she felt. So, at his wife’s request, M. de Villefort was the first to make a move to depart. He offered Mme Danglars a place in his landau, so that his wife could look after her. As for M. Danglars, he paid no attention to what was going on, being engrossed in a most absorbing conversation about industrial matters with M. Cavalcanti.
While Monte Cristo was asking Mme de Villefort for her flask, he had noticed M. de Villefort go over to Mme Danglars and, judging by the situation, also guessed what was said between them, even though Villefort had spoken so softly that Mme Danglars herself could hardly hear him.
He made no objection, but let Morrel, Debray and Château-Renaud leave on horseback, while the two ladies got into M. de Villefort’s landau. Danglars, for his part, was increasingly delighted with the elder Cavalcanti, whom he invited to join him in his coupé.
As for Andrea Cavalcanti, he took his tilbury, which was waiting at the door with a groom, dressed in an extravagant version of the English fashion, holding the enormous iron-grey horse and standing on tiptoe. Andrea had said little during dinner, precisely because he was an intelligent lad who was afraid of saying something ridiculous in front of these rich and powerful guests among whom his anxious eyes had perhaps been disturbed to find a crown prosecutor. After that, he had been monopolized by M. Danglars who, after a quick glance at the stiff-necked old major and his rather shy son, had weighed up this evidence in the light of Monte Cristo’s hospitality and concluded that he was dealing with some nabob who had come to Paris to ‘finish’ his only son by introducing him to society.
Consequently he had looked with odious complacency at the huge diamond adorning the major’s little finger – for the major, as a cautious man of the world, had been afraid that some accident might befall his banknotes and had rapidly converted them into an object of value. Then, after dinner, still on the pretext of industry and travel, he had questioned father and son on their style of life. The pair, knowing that one of them was to have his credit of 48,000 francs, when they arrived, with Danglars’ bank, and the other his annual credit of 50,000 livres, had both been charming and full of conviviality towards the banker. Indeed, their gratitude felt so urgent a need to express itself that they would even have shaken hands with Danglars’ servants, if they had not managed to restrain themselves.
One thing in particular increased Danglars’ respect – one might almost say veneration – for Cavalcanti. The latter, obedient to Horace’s principle nil admirari,1 had been satisfied as we saw with demonstrating his erudition by naming the lake from which one gets the best lampreys. Then he had eaten his share of the same without uttering another word. Danglars jumped to the conclusion that this kind of feast was quite familiar to the illustrious descendant of the Cavalcantis, who probably dined at his home in Lucca on trout from Switzerland and lobster from Brittany brought to him by the same means as the count had used to fetch lampreys from Lake Fusaro and sturgeon from the Volga. So, when Cavalcanti announced: ‘Tomorrow, Monsieur, I shall have the honour of visiting you on a matter of business,’ he respond
‘And I, Monsieur,’ he replied, ‘shall be happy to receive you.’ Whereupon he had offered to drive Cavalcanti back to the Hôtel des Princes, provided (of course) that he could bear to be separated from his son.
Cavalcanti replied that his son had long been accustomed to lead the bachelor life of a young man and consequently had his own horses and carriages; since they had not arrived together, he saw no difficulty in their leaving separately.
So the major got into Danglars’ carriage and the banker took his place by his side, ever more charmed by the man’s ideas of order and economy, even though he gave his son 50,000 francs a year, which indicated a fortune capable of producing an income of some 5,000 or 6,000 livres.
As for Andrea, in order to cut a good figure, he started by scolding his groom for not coming to collect him at the steps instead of at the gate, meaning that he had an extra thirty steps to reach his tilbury. The groom accepted the telling-off with good grace and shifted the bit into his left hand, to restrain the horse, which was stamping its hoof with impatience, and with the other hand gave the reins to Andrea, who took them and lightly set his polished boot on the running-board.
At that moment a hand touched his shoulder. The young man looked around, thinking that Danglars or Monte Cristo must have forgotten to tell him something and wished to catch him as he was leaving. But, instead of either of them, he saw a strange face, tanned by the sun and enclosed in a ready-made beard, with eyes shining like gems and a mocking smile which revealed, inside the mouth, each one in its place and not a single one missing, thirty-two sharp white teeth, as ravenous as those of a wolf or a jackal.
The head, with its dirty greying hair, was covered in a red check handkerchief, and the dirtiest, most ragged workman’s smock hung around a frame so fleshless and bony that you half expected the bones to clink like those of a skeleton as it walked. As for the hand which clasped Andrea’s shoulder, and the first thing that the young man saw, it seemed to him to be of gigantic size. Did the young man recognize the creature in the light from the lantern on his tilbury, or was he simply struck by his horrible appearance? We cannot say, but he shuddered and started back.
‘What do you want with me?’ he asked.
‘Beg pardon, guv’nor!’ the man said, lifting a hand to his red kerchief. ‘I may be interrupting, but I must have a word.’
‘You shouldn’t beg after dark,’ the groom said, threatening to drive this trouble-maker away from his master.
‘I’m not begging, my fine fellow,’ the stranger replied with an ironic smile – a smile so terrifying that the groom shrank back. ‘I just want to say two words to your guv’nor, who asked me not a fortnight ago to do something for him.’
‘Come, come,’ said Andrea, loudly enough to disguise his anxiety from the servant. ‘What do you want? Quick now, friend.’
‘I want… I want…’ the man in the red kerchief whispered, ‘you to spare me the trouble of walking back to Paris. I’m very tired and, not having dined as well as you, I can hardly stand.’
The young man shuddered at this unusual familiarity. ‘But what do you want from me?’ he asked.
‘Well, I should like you to let me get into your fine carriage and to drive me back.’
Andrea’s face paled, but he said nothing.
‘For heaven’s sake!’ the man in the red kerchief said, digging his hands into his pockets and giving the young man a challenging look. ‘Yes, it’s an idea I’ve got. Do you understand, my little Benedetto?’
At that name, the young man no doubt thought again, with the result that he went over to his groom and said: ‘I did indeed give this man a job to do for me and he is going to tell me the outcome. Walk as far as the gate and take a cab there, so as not to be too late home.’
The servant went away, surprised.
‘At least let me reach the shadows,’ said Andrea.
‘As far as that’s concerned, I’ll find you the perfect spot,’ the man said, taking the horse by the bit and leading the tilbury to a place where it was impossible for anyone to see the honour Andrea was according him. ‘It’s not because I want the glory of getting into your fine carriage,’ he continued, ‘but simply that I am tired; and also, a bit, because I have business to discuss with you.’
‘Come, get in,’ said the young man.
It is a great shame that it was not daylight, because the spectacle must have been odd indeed, with the tramp plainly seated on the upholstered seat of the tilbury beside its elegant young driver.
Andrea drove the horse to the last house on the outskirts of the village without saying a word to his companion, who smiled and kept his mouth shut, as if delighted to be travelling in such a fine vehicle. But once they were out of Auteuil, Andrea looked around, no doubt to make sure that they could not be overheard or overlooked, pulled up the horse and said, crossing his arms in front of the man with the red kerchief: ‘Damn it! Why have you come to disturb me now?’
‘And why do you defy me, my lad?’
‘How have I defied you?’
‘How? You are asking me how? We separated at the Pont du Var, when you told me you were going to travel through Piedmont and Tuscany, and not a bit of it: you came to Paris.’
‘Why should you mind?’
‘On the contrary, I don’t. Not at all. I even hope it might be useful.’
‘Ah! I see!’ Andrea said. ‘You’re speculating on me.’
‘There you are! Insults already.’
‘I warn you, Master Caderousse, you would be making a mistake.’
‘All right, my lad, all right. Don’t get angry. But you must know what it’s like to fall on hard times. It makes you envious. So there am I, thinking you’re roving around Piedmont and Tuscany, forced to work as a faccino or a cicerone, and feeling sorry for you, as I would for my own child… You know I’ve always called you my child?’
‘So? What about it?’
‘Hold on! Be patient!’
‘I am patient. Just say what you have to.’
‘Then all at once I see you riding through the gate at Les Bons-Hommes with a groom, and a tilbury, and brand-new clothes. Brand new! What does it mean? You’ve discovered a gold mine – or have you bought a place on the Exchange?’
‘And the result, you tell me, is that you’re envious?’
‘No, no, I’m happy; so happy that I wanted to congratulate you, little one! But since I was not formally dressed, I took steps to make sure I didn’t compromise you.’
‘Some steps!’ Andrea said. ‘You accosted me in front of my servant.’
‘What do you expect! I accosted you when I could. You have a lively horse and a light carriage, you are by nature as slippery as an eel and, if I had missed you this evening, I might never have caught you at all.’
‘I’m not hiding, as you can see.’
‘Good for you; I wish I could say the same. But I am hiding. Not to mention the fact that I was afraid you would not recognize me – but you did,’ Caderousse added, with his evil smile. ‘There! You’re a kind fellow.’
‘So what do you want?’
‘You’re not polite with me and that’s not nice, Benedetto, to an old comrade. Be careful, you may make me very demanding.’
At this threat, the young man’s anger subsided: a cold breath of coercion had just blown over it. He whipped his horse back to a trot.
‘It’s not nice of you, my friend,’ he said, ‘to take that tone with an old comrade, as you say. You are a Marseillais, I’m…’
‘Have you found out what you are now?’
‘No, but I was brought up in Corsica. You are old and obstinate, I am young and stubborn. It’s a bad idea for people like us to threaten one another. We should do business amicably. Is it my fault if luck is still hard on you and has been kind to me?’
‘So, your luck’s good, is it? Which means it’s not some borrowed groom or borrowed tilbury or borrowed clothes that we have here? Fine! So much the better
‘You can see that very well and you know it, since you’ve accosted me,’ Andrea said, getting more and more excited. ‘If I had a kerchief like yours on my head, a filthy smock on my back and gaping shoes on my feet, you wouldn’t recognize me.’
‘You see, little one, you do despise me, and you are wrong. Now I’ve found you, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be dressed in fine linen like anyone else, since I know your generosity. If you had two coats, you would give one to me. I gave you my share of soup and beans when you were starving.’
‘That’s true,’ Andrea said.
‘What an appetite you had! Do you still?’
‘Surely,’ Andrea said with a laugh.
‘You must have had a good dinner with that prince you have just left.’
‘He’s not a prince, just a count.’
‘A count? Rich, huh?’
‘Yes, but don’t rely on him. He looks an awkward customer.’
‘Oh, don’t worry! I’ve got no plans for your count; keep him for yourself. But,’ Caderousse added, the same unpleasant smile hovering about his lips, ‘you’ll have to pay for it, you know…’
‘Come on, what do you need?’
‘I think that with a hundred francs a month…’
‘Yes?’
‘I could live…’
‘On a hundred francs?’
‘And not very well, as you know. However, with…’
‘With?’
‘A hundred and fifty francs, I should be very happy.’
‘Here are two hundred,’ said Andrea, putting ten gold louis into Caderousse’s hand.
‘Good,’ said Caderousse.
‘Come and see the concierge on the first of every month and you will have the same.’
‘Come, now! You’re humiliating me again!’
‘Why?’
‘Sending me to deal with the skivvies. No, I want to deal directly with you.’
‘Very well, ask for me, and on the first of every month, for as long as I am getting my income, you shall have yours.’