My father has been a Jacobin more than anything else; and the senator’s robe, which Napoleon cast on his shoulders, only served to disguise the old man without in any degree changing him. When my father conspired, it was not for the emperor, it was against the Bourbons; for M. Noirtier possessed this peculiarity, he never projected any Utopian schemes which could never be realized, but strove for possibilities, and he applied to the realization of these possibilities the terrible theories of The Mountain,—theories that never shrank from any means that were deemed necessary to bring about the desired result.


Well, it is just as I thought; it was politics which brought Noirtier and M. d’Épinay into personal contact. Although General d’Épinay served under Napoleon, did he not still retain royalist sentiments? And was he not the person who was assassinated one evening on leaving a Bonapartist meeting to which he had been invited on the supposition that he favored the cause of the emperor?


and it was to prevent the renewal of old feuds that M. de Villefort formed the idea of uniting in the bonds of affection the two children of these inveterate enemies.


It was a sublime and charitable thought, and the whole world should applaud it. It would be noble to see Mademoiselle Noirtier de Villefort assuming the title of Madame Franz d’Épinay.


Although it will be a serious thing for Valentine to lose her grandfather’s fortune, I do not think that M. d’Épinay will be frightened at this pecuniary loss. He will, perhaps, hold me in greater esteem than the money itself, seeing that I sacrifice everything in order to keep my word with him. Besides, he knows that Valentine is rich in right of her mother, and that she will, in all probability, inherit the fortune of M. and Madame de Saint-Méran, her mother’s parents, who both love her tenderly.


And who are fully as well worth loving and tending as M. Noirtier; besides, they are to come to Paris in about a month, and Valentine, after the affront she has received, need not consider it necessary to continue to bury herself alive by being shut up with M. Noirtier.


But it seems to me, and I must begin by asking your pardon for what I am about to say, that if M. Noirtier disinherits Mademoiselle de Villefort because she is going to marry a man whose father he detested, he cannot have the same cause of complaint against this dear Edward.


True, is it not unjust—shamefully unjust? Poor Edward is as much M. Noirtier’s grandchild as Valentine, and yet, if she had not been going to marry M. Franz, M. Noirtier would have left her all his money; and supposing Valentine to be disinherited by her grandfather, she will still be three times richer than he.


Count, we will not entertain you any longer with our family misfortunes. It is true that my patrimony will go to endow charitable institutions, and my father will have deprived me of my lawful inheritance without any reason for doing so, but I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that I have acted like a man of sense and feeling. M. d’Épinay, to whom I had promised the interest of this sum, shall receive it, even if I endure the most cruel privations.


However, perhaps it would be better to explain this unlucky affair to M. d’Épinay, in order to give him the opportunity of himself renouncing his claim to the hand of Mademoiselle de Villefort.


Ah, that would be a great pity,


A great pity,


Undoubtedly, a marriage once concerted and then broken off, throws a sort of discredit on a young lady; then again, the old reports, which I was so anxious to put an end to, will instantly gain ground. No, it will all go well; M. d’Épinay, if he is an honorable man, will consider himself more than ever pledged to Mademoiselle de Villefort, unless he were actuated by a decided feeling of avarice, but that is impossible.


I agree with M. de Villefort, and if I were sufficiently intimate with him to allow of giving my advice, I would persuade him, since I have been told M. d’Épinay is coming back, to settle this affair at once beyond all possibility of revocation. I will answer for the success of a project which will reflect so much honor on M. de Villefort.


Well, that is all that I wanted, and I will be guided by a counsellor such as you are. Therefore let everyone here look upon what has passed today as if it had not happened, and as though we had never thought of such a thing as a change in our original plans.


Sir, the world, unjust as it is, will be pleased with your resolution; your friends will be proud of you, and M. d’Épinay, even if he took Mademoiselle de Villefort without any dowry, which he will not do, would be delighted with the idea of entering a family which could make such sacrifices in order to keep a promise and fulfil a duty.


Are you going to leave us, count?


I am sorry to say I must do so, madame, I only came to remind you of your promise for Saturday.


Did you fear that we should forget it?


You are very good, madame, but M. de Villefort has so many important and urgent occupations.


My husband has given me his word, sir, you have just seen him resolve to keep it when he has everything to lose, and surely there is more reason for his doing so where he has everything to gain.


And, is it at your house in the Champs-Élysées that you receive your visitors?


No, which is precisely the reason which renders your kindness more meritorious,—it is in the country.


In the country?


Yes.


Where is it, then? Near Paris, is it not?


Very near, only half a league from the Barriers,—it is at Auteuil.


At Auteuil? true, Madame de Villefort told me you lived at Auteuil, since it was to your house that she was taken. And in what part of Auteuil do you reside?


Rue de la Fontaine.


Rue de la Fontaine! at what number?


No. 28.


Then, was it you who bought M. de Saint-Méran’s house!


Did it belong to M. de Saint-Méran?


Yes, and, would you believe it, count——


Believe what?


You think this house pretty, do you not?


I think it charming.


Well, my husband would never live in it.


Indeed? that is a prejudice on your part, M. de Villefort, for which I am quite at a loss to account.


I do not like Auteuil, sir,


But I hope you will not carry your antipathy so far as to deprive me of the pleasure of your company, sir,


No, count,—I hope—I assure you I shall do my best,


Oh. I allow of no excuse. On Saturday, at six o’clock. I shall be expecting you, and if you fail to come, I shall think—for how do I know to the contrary?—that this house, which has remained uninhabited for twenty years, must have some gloomy tradition or dreadful legend connected with it.


I will come, count,—I will be sure to come,


Thank you, now you must permit me to take my leave of you.


You said before that you were obliged to leave us, monsieur, and you were about to tell us why when your attention was called to some other subject.


Indeed madame. I scarcely know if I dare tell you where I am going.


Nonsense; say on.


Well, then, it is to see a thing on which I have sometimes mused for hours together.


What is it?


A telegraph. So now I have told my secret.


A telegraph?


Yes, a telegraph. I had often seen one placed at the end of a road on a hillock, and in the light of the sun its black arms, bending in every direction, always reminded me of the claws of an immense beetle, and I assure you it was never without emotion that I gazed on it, for I could not help thinking how wonderful it was that these various signs should be made to cleave the air with such precision as to convey to the distance of three hundred leagues the ideas and wishes of a man sitting at a table at one end of the line to another man similarly placed at the opposite extremity, and all this effected by a simple act of volition on the part of the sender of the message. I began to think of genii, sylphs, gnomes, in short, of all the ministers of the occult sciences, until I laughed aloud at the freaks of my own imagination. Now, it never occurred to me to wish for a nearer inspection of these large insects, with their long black claws, for I always feared to find under their stone wings some little human genius fagged to death with cabals, factions, and government intrigues. But one fine day I learned that the mover of this telegraph was only a poor wretch, hired for twelve hundred francs a year, and employed all day, not in studying the heavens like an astronomer, or in gazing on the water like an angler, or even in enjoying the privilege of observing the country around him, but all his monotonous life was passed in watching his white-bellied, black-clawed fellow insect, four or five leagues distant from him. At length I felt a desire to study this living chrysalis more closely, and to endeavor to understand the secret part played by these insect-actors when they occupy themselves simply with pulling different pieces of string. And are you going there? I am. What telegraph do you intend visiting? that of the home department, or of the observatory? Oh, no; I should find there people who would force me to understand things of which I would prefer to remain ignorant, and who would try to explain to me, in spite of myself, a mystery which even they do not understand. Ma foi! I should wish to keep my illusions concerning insects unimpaired; it is quite enough to have those dissipated which I had formed of my fellow-creatures. I shall, therefore, not visit either of these telegraphs, but one in the open country where I shall find a good-natured simpleton, who knows no more than the machine he is employed to work.


You are a singular man,


What line would you advise me to study?


The one that is most in use just at this time.


The Spanish one, you mean, I suppose?


Yes; should you like a letter to the minister that they might explain to you——


No, since, as I told you before, I do not wish to comprehend it. The moment I understand it there will no longer exist a telegraph for me; it will be nothing more than a sign from M. Duchâtel, or from M. Montalivet, transmitted to the prefect of Bayonne, mystified by two Greek words, têle, graphein. It is the insect with black claws, and the awful word which I wish to retain in my imagination in all its purity and all its importance.


Go then; for in the course of two hours it will be dark, and you will not be able to see anything.


Ma foi! you frighten me. Which is the nearest way? Bayonne?


Yes; the road to Bayonne.


And afterwards the road to Châtillon?


Yes.


By the tower of Montlhéry, you mean?


Thank you. Good-bye. On Saturday I will tell you my impressions concerning the telegraph.


You are gathering your crop, sir?


Excuse me, sir. I am not up there, I know, but I have only just come down.


Do not let me interfere with you in anything, my friend, gather your strawberries, if, indeed, there are any left.


I have ten left, for here are eleven, and I had twenty-one, five more than last year. But I am not surprised; the spring has been warm this year, and strawberries require heat, sir. This is the reason that, instead of the sixteen I had last year, I have this year, you see, eleven, already plucked—twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Ah, I miss three, they were here last night, sir—I am sure they were here—I counted them. It must be the son of Mère Simon who has stolen them; I saw him strolling about here this morning. Ah, the young rascal—stealing in a garden—he does not know where that may lead him to.


Certainly, it is wrong, but you should take into consideration the youth and greediness of the delinquent.


Of course, but that does not make it the less unpleasant. But, sir, once more I beg pardon; perhaps you are an officer that I am detaining here.


Calm yourself, my friend. I am not an inspector, but a traveller, brought here by a curiosity he half repents of, since he causes you to lose your time.


Ah, my time is not valuable. Still it belongs to government, and I ought not to waste it; but, having received the signal that I might rest for an hour and having ten minutes before me, and my strawberries being ripe, when a day longer—by-the-by, sir, do you think dormice eat them?


Indeed, I should think not, dormice are bad neighbors for us who do not eat them preserved, as the Romans did.


What? Did the Romans eat them? ate dormice?


I have read so in Petronius,


Really? They can’t be nice, though they do say ‘as fat as a dormouse.’ It is not a wonder they are fat, sleeping all day, and only waking to eat all night. Listen. Last year I had four apricots—they stole one, I had one nectarine, only one—well, sir, they ate half of it on the wall; a splendid nectarine—I never ate a better.


You ate it?


That is to say, the half that was left—you understand; it was exquisite, sir. Ah, those gentlemen never choose the worst morsels; like Mère Simon’s son, who has not chosen the worst strawberries. But this year. I’ll take care it shall not happen, even if I should be forced to sit by the whole night to watch when the strawberries are ripe.


Did you come here, sir, to see the telegraph?


Oh, no, not in the least, since there is no danger that anyone can possibly understand what we are saying.


I have been told, that you do not always yourselves understand the signals you repeat.


That is true, sir, and that is what I like best. Because then I have no responsibility. I am a machine then, and nothing else, and so long as I work, nothing more is required of me.


Is it possible, that I can have met with a man that has no ambition? That would spoil my plans.


Sir, the ten minutes are almost up; I must return to my post. Will you go up with me?


I follow you.


Does it require much study to learn the art of telegraphing?


The study does not take long; it was acting as a supernumerary that was so tedious.


And what is the pay?


A thousand francs, sir.


It is nothing.


No; but then we are lodged, as you perceive.


It is very interesting, but it must be very tedious for a lifetime.


Yes. At first my neck was cramped with looking at it, but at the end of a year I became used to it; and then we have our hours of recreation, and our holidays.


Holidays?


Yes.


When?


When we have a fog.


Ah, to be sure.


Those are indeed holidays to me; I go into the garden, I plant, I prune, I trim, I kill the insects all day long.


How long have you been here?


Ten years, and five as a supernumerary make fifteen.


You are——


Fifty-five years old.


How long must you have served to claim the pension?


Oh, sir, twenty-five years.


And how much is the pension?


A hundred crowns.


Poor humanity!


What did you say, sir?


I was saying it was very interesting.


What was?


All you were showing me. And you really understand none of these signals?


None at all.


And have you never tried to understand them?


Never. Why should I?


But still there are some signals only addressed to you.


Certainly.


And do you understand them?


They are always the same.


And they mean——


Nothing new; You have an hour;


Tomorrow.


This is simple enough, but look, is not your correspondent putting itself in motion?


Ah, yes; thank you, sir.


And what is it saying—anything you understand?


Yes; it asks if I am ready.


And you reply?


By the same sign, which, at the same time, tells my right-hand correspondent that I am ready, while it gives notice to my left-hand correspondent to prepare in his turn.


It is very ingenious,


You will see, in five minutes he will speak.


I have, then, five minutes, it is more time than I require. My dear sir, will you allow me to ask you a question?


What is it, sir?


You are fond of gardening?


Passionately.


And you would be pleased to have, instead of this terrace of twenty feet, an enclosure of two acres?


Sir, I should make a terrestrial paradise of it.


You live badly on your thousand francs?


Badly enough; but yet I do live.


Yes; but you have a wretchedly small garden.


True, the garden is not large.


And, then, such as it is, it is filled with dormice, who eat everything.


Ah, they are my scourges.


Tell me, should you have the misfortune to turn your head while your right-hand correspondent was telegraphing——


I should not see him.


Then what would happen?


I could not repeat the signals.


And then?


Not having repeated them, through negligence, I should be fined.


How much?


A hundred francs.


The tenth of your income—that would be fine work.


Ah!


Has it ever happened to you?


Once, sir, when I was grafting a rose-tree.


Well, suppose you were to alter a signal, and substitute another?


Ah, that is another case; I should be turned off, and lose my pension.


Three hundred francs?


A hundred crowns, yes, sir; so you see that I am not likely to do any of these things.


Not even for fifteen years’ wages? Come, it is worth thinking about?


For fifteen thousand francs?


Yes.


Sir, you alarm me.


Nonsense.


Sir, you are tempting me?


Just so; fifteen thousand francs, do you understand?


Sir, let me see my right-hand correspondent.


On the contrary, do not look at him, but at this.


What is it?


What? Do you not know these bits of paper?


Bank-notes!


Exactly; there are fifteen of them.


And whose are they?


Yours, if you like.


Mine?


Yes; yours—your own property.


Sir, my right-hand correspondent is signalling.


Let him signal.


Sir, you have distracted me; I shall be fined.


That will cost you a hundred francs; you see it is your interest to take my bank-notes.


Sir, my right-hand correspondent redoubles his signals; he is impatient.


Never mind—take these; Now this is not all, you cannot live upon your fifteen thousand francs.


I shall still have my place.


No, you will lose it, for you are going to alter your correspondent’s message.


Oh, sir, what are you proposing?


A jest.


Sir, unless you force me——


I think I can effectually force you; Here are ten thousand more francs, with the fifteen thousand already in your pocket, they will make twenty-five thousand. With five thousand you can buy a pretty little house with two acres of land; the remaining twenty thousand will bring you in a thousand francs a year.


A garden with two acres of land!


And a thousand francs a year.


Oh, heavens!


Come, take them,


What am I to do?


Nothing very difficult.


But what is it?


To repeat these signs. There, you see it will not take long.


Yes; but——


Do this, and you will have nectarines and all the rest. Now you are rich,


Yes, but at what a price!


Listen, friend. I do not wish to cause you any remorse; believe me, then, when I swear to you that you have wronged no man, but on the contrary have benefited mankind.


Has your husband any Spanish bonds?


I think so, indeed! He has six millions’ worth.


He must sell them at whatever price.


Why?


Because Don Carlos has fled from Bourges, and has returned to Spain.


How do you know?


The idea of asking how I hear the news, he said.


Good. I have just made a discovery for twenty-five thousand francs, for which I would have paid a hundred thousand.


What have you discovered?


I have just discovered how a gardener may get rid of the dormice that eat his peaches.


That can only be to hold gloves,


Will your excellency deign to open it? and you will find gloves in it.


Good,


I am sure I am the first. I did it on purpose to have you a minute to myself, before everyone came. Julie and Emmanuel have a thousand things to tell you. Ah, really this is magnificent! But tell me, count, will your people take care of my horse?


Do not alarm yourself, my dear Maximilian—they understand.


I mean, because he wants petting. If you had seen at what a pace he came—like the wind!


I should think so,—a horse that cost 5,000 francs!


Do you regret them?


I? Certainly not. No; I should only regret if the horse had not proved good.


It is so good, that I have distanced M. de Château-Renaud, one of the best riders in France, and M. Debray, who both mount the minister’s Arabians; and close on their heels are the horses of Madame Danglars, who always go at six leagues an hour.


Then they follow you?


See, they are here.


The instant Debray had touched the ground, he was at the carriage-door.


Sir, if you were a friend of mine, I should ask you if you would sell your horse.


Ah, madame, why did you not make that request of me?


With you, sir, one can wish for nothing, one is so sure to obtain it. If it were so with M. Morrel——


Unfortunately. I am witness that M. Morrel cannot give up his horse, his honor being engaged in keeping it.


How so?


He laid a wager he would tame Médéah in the space of six months. You understand now that if he were to get rid of the animal before the time named, he would not only lose his bet, but people would say he was afraid; and a brave captain of Spahis cannot risk this, even to gratify a pretty woman, which is, in my opinion, one of the most sacred obligations in the world.


You see my position, madame,


It seems to me, that you have already got horses enough.


Why, you could plant one of the chestnut-trees in the Tuileries inside! How can such enormous jars have been manufactured?


Ah! madame, you must not ask of us, the manufacturers of fine porcelain, such a question. It is the work of another age, constructed by the genii of earth and water.


How so?—at what period can that have been?


I do not know; I have only heard that an emperor of China had an oven built expressly, and that in this oven twelve jars like this were successively baked. Two broke, from the heat of the fire; the other ten were sunk three hundred fathoms deep into the sea. The sea, knowing what was required of her, threw over them her weeds, encircled them with coral, and encrusted them with shells; the whole was cemented by two hundred years beneath these almost impervious depths, for a revolution carried away the emperor who wished to make the trial, and only left the documents proving the manufacture of the jars and their descent into the sea. At the end of two hundred years the documents were found, and they thought of bringing up the jars. Divers descended in machines, made expressly on the discovery, into the bay where they were thrown; but of ten three only remained, the rest having been broken by the waves. I am fond of these jars, upon which, perhaps, misshapen, frightful monsters have fixed their cold, dull eyes, and in which myriads of small fish have slept, seeking a refuge from the pursuit of their enemies. Sir. I do not recommend my pictures to you, who possess such splendid paintings; but, nevertheless, here are two by Hobbema, a Paul Potter, a Mieris, two by Gerard Douw, a Raphael, a Van Dyck, a Zurbaran, and two or three by Murillo, worth looking at.


Stay. I recognize this Hobbema.


Ah, indeed!


Yes; it was proposed for the Museum.


Which, I believe, does not contain one?


No; and yet they refused to buy it.


Why?


You pretend not to know,—because government was not rich enough.


Ah, pardon me. I have heard of these things every day during the last eight years, and I cannot understand them yet.


You will, by and by,


I think not,


Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and Count Andrea Cavalcanti,


Cavalcanti!


A fine name,


these Italians are well named and badly dressed.


those clothes are well cut and quite new.


That is just what I find fault with. That gentleman appears to be well dressed for the first time in his life.


Who are those gentlemen?


You heard—Cavalcanti.


That tells me their name, and nothing else.


Ah! true. You do not know the Italian nobility; the Cavalcanti are all descended from princes.


Have they any fortune?


An enormous one.


What do they do?


Try to spend it all. They have some business with you, I think, from what they told me the day before yesterday. I, indeed, invited them here today on your account. I will introduce you to them.


But they appear to speak French with a very pure accent,


The son has been educated in a college in the south; I believe near Marseilles. You will find him quite enthusiastic.


Upon what subject?


The French ladies, madame. He has made up his mind to take a wife from Paris.


A fine idea that of his,


Not yet, I think. More likely he has been speculating on the Bourse, and has lost money.


M. and Madame de Villefort,


What do you want, M. Bertuccio?


Your excellency has not stated the number of guests.


Ah, true.


How many covers?


Count for yourself.


Is everyone here, your excellency?


Yes.


Good heavens!


What is the matter?


That woman—that woman!


Which?


The one with a white dress and so many diamonds—the fair one.


Madame Danglars?


I do not know her name; but it is she, sir, it is she!


Whom do you mean?


The woman of the garden!—she that was enceinte—she who was walking while she waited for—— Waiting for whom? Oh, oh! do you see?


What? Who?


Him!


Him!—M. de Villefort, the king’s attorney? Certainly I see him.


Then I did not kill him?


Really, I think you are going mad, good Bertuccio,


Then he is not dead?


No; you see plainly he is not dead. Instead of striking between the sixth and seventh left ribs, as your countrymen do, you must have struck higher or lower, and life is very tenacious in these lawyers, or rather there is no truth in anything you have told me—it was a fright of the imagination, a dream of your fancy. You went to sleep full of thoughts of vengeance; they weighed heavily upon your stomach; you had the nightmare—that’s all. Come, calm yourself, and reckon them up—M. and Madame de Villefort, two; M. and Madame Danglars, four; M. de Château-Renaud, M. Debray, M. Morrel, seven; Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, eight.


Eight!


Stop! You are in a shocking hurry to be off—you forget one of my guests. Lean a little to the left. Stay! look at M. Andrea Cavalcanti, the young man in a black coat, looking at Murillo’s ‘Madonna’; now he is turning.


Benedetto? fatality!


Half-past six o’clock has just struck, M. Bertuccio. I ordered dinner at that hour, and I do not like to wait;


The dinner waits.


M. de Villefort, will you conduct the Baroness Danglars?


Gentlemen, you will admit that, when arrived at a certain degree of fortune, the superfluities of life are all that can be desired; and the ladies will allow that, after having risen to a certain eminence of position, the ideal alone can be more exalted. Now, to follow out this reasoning, what is the marvellous?—that which we do not understand. What is it that we really desire?—that which we cannot obtain. Now, to see things which I cannot understand, to procure impossibilities, these are the study of my life. I gratify my wishes by two means—my will and my money. I take as much interest in the pursuit of some whim as you do, M. Danglars, in promoting a new railway line; you, M. de Villefort, in condemning a culprit to death; you, M. Debray, in pacifying a kingdom; you, M. de Château-Renaud, in pleasing a woman; and you, Morrel, in breaking a horse that no one can ride. For example, you see these two fish; one brought from fifty leagues beyond St. Petersburg, the other five leagues from Naples. Is it not amusing to see them both on the same table?


What are the two fish?


M. Château-Renaud, who has lived in Russia, will tell you the name of one, and Major Cavalcanti, who is an Italian, will tell you the name of the other.


This one is, I think, a sterlet,


And that one, if I mistake not, a lamprey.


Just so. Now, M. Danglars, ask these gentlemen where they are caught.


Sterlets, are only found in the Volga.


I know that Lake Fusaro alone supplies lampreys of that size.


Exactly; one comes from the Volga, and the other from Lake Fusaro.


Impossible!


Well, this is just what amuses me. I am like Nero—cupitor impossibilium; and that is what is amusing you at this moment. This fish, which seems so exquisite to you, is very likely no better than perch or salmon; but it seemed impossible to procure it, and here it is.


But how could you have these fish brought to France?


Oh, nothing more easy. Each fish was brought over in a cask—one filled with river herbs and weeds, the other with rushes and lake plants; they were placed in a wagon built on purpose, and thus the sterlet lived twelve days, the lamprey eight, and both were alive when my cook seized them, killing one with milk and the other with wine. You do not believe me, M. Danglars!


I cannot help doubting,


Baptistin, have the other fish brought in—the sterlet and the lamprey which came in the other casks, and which are yet alive.


You are certainly an extraordinary man, and philosophers may well say it is a fine thing to be rich.


And to have ideas,


Oh, do not give me credit for this, madame; it was done by the Romans, who much esteemed them, and Pliny relates that they sent slaves from Ostia to Rome, who carried on their heads fish which he calls the mulus, and which, from the description, must probably be the goldfish. It was also considered a luxury to have them alive, it being an amusing sight to see them die, for, when dying, they change color three or four times, and like the rainbow when it disappears, pass through all the prismatic shades, after which they were sent to the kitchen. Their agony formed part of their merit—if they were not seen alive, they were despised when dead.


Yes, but then Ostia is only a few leagues from Rome.


True, but what would be the use of living eighteen hundred years after Lucullus, if we can do no better than he could?


All this is very extraordinary, still, what I admire the most, I confess, is the marvellous promptitude with which your orders are executed. Is it not true that you only bought this house five or six days ago?


Certainly not longer.


Well, I am sure it is quite transformed since last week. If I remember rightly, it had another entrance, and the courtyard was paved and empty; while today we have a splendid lawn, bordered by trees which appear to be a hundred years old.


Why not? I am fond of grass and shade,


Yes, the door was towards the road before, and on the day of my miraculous escape you brought me into the house from the road, I remember.


Yes, madame; but I preferred having an entrance which would allow me to see the Bois de Boulogne over my gate.


In four days, it is extraordinary!


Indeed, it seems quite miraculous to make a new house out of an old one; for it was very old, and dull too. I recollect coming for my mother to look at it when M. de Saint-Méran advertised it for sale two or three years ago.


M. de Saint-Méran? then this house belonged to M. de Saint-Méran before you bought it?


It appears so. Is it possible that you do not know of whom you purchased it? Quite so; my steward transacts all this business for me.


It is certainly ten years since the house had been occupied, and it was quite melancholy to look at it, with the blinds closed, the doors locked, and the weeds in the court. Really, if the house had not belonged to the father-in-law of the procureur, one might have thought it some accursed place where a horrible crime had been committed.


It is singular, baron, but the same idea came across me the first time I came here; it looked so gloomy I should never have bought it if my steward had not taken the matter into his own hands. Perhaps the fellow had been bribed by the notary.


It is probable, but I can assure you that I had nothing to do with any such proceeding. This house is part of Valentine’s marriage-portion, and M. de Saint-Méran wished to sell it; for if it had remained another year or two uninhabited it would have fallen to ruin.


There was, above all, one room, very plain in appearance, hung with red damask, which, I know not why, appeared to me quite dramatic.


Why so? why dramatic?


Can we account for instinct? Are there not some places where we seem to breathe sadness?—why, we cannot tell. It is a chain of recollections—an idea which carries you back to other times, to other places—which, very likely, have no connection with the present time and place. And there is something in this room which reminds me forcibly of the chamber of the Marquise de Ganges10 or Desdemona. Stay, since we have finished dinner, I will show it to you, and then we will take coffee in the garden. After dinner, the play.


Oh. it is really frightful.


Is it not so? Look at that large clumsy bed, hung with such gloomy, blood-colored drapery! And those two crayon portraits, that have faded from the dampness; do they not seem to say, with their pale lips and staring eyes, ‘We have seen’?


Oh, are you courageous enough to sit down upon the very seat perhaps upon which the crime was committed?


And then, this is not all.


What is there more?


Ah, what else is there? for, at present, I cannot say that I have seen anything extraordinary. What do you say, M. Cavalcanti?


Ah, we have at Pisa, Ugolino’s tower; at Ferrara, Tasso’s prison; at Rimini, the room of Francesca and Paolo.


Yes, but you have not this little staircase. Look at it, and tell me what you think of it.


What a wicked-looking, crooked staircase,


I do not know whether the wine of Chios produces melancholy, but certainly everything appears to me black in this house,


Can you imagine, some Othello or Abbé de Ganges, one stormy, dark night, descending these stairs step by step, carrying a load, which he wishes to hide from the sight of man, if not from God?


Ah, madame, what is the matter with you? how pale you look!


It is very evident what is the matter with her. M. de Monte Cristo is relating horrible stories to us, doubtless intending to frighten us to death.


Yes, really, count, you frighten the ladies.


What is the matter?


Nothing. I want air, that is all.


Will you come into the garden?


No, no. I would rather remain here.


Are you really frightened, madame?


Oh, no, sir, but you suppose scenes in a manner which gives them the appearance of reality.


Ah, yes, it is all a matter of imagination. Why should we not imagine this the apartment of an honest mother? And this bed with red hangings, a bed visited by the goddess Lucina? And that mysterious staircase, the passage through which, not to disturb their sleep, the doctor and nurse pass, or even the father carrying the sleeping child?


Madame Danglars is ill, it would be better to take her to her carriage.


Oh, mon Dieu! and I have forgotten my smelling-bottle!


I have mine,


Ah,


Yes, at your advice I have made the trial.


And have you succeeded?


I think so.


Ah, what a frightful dream!


Really, madame, did I alarm you much?


Oh, no, sir, but you know, things impress us differently, according to the mood of our minds.


And then, you know, an idea, a supposition, is sufficient.


Well, you may believe me if you like, but it is my opinion that a crime has been committed in this house.


Take care, the king’s attorney is here.


Ah, since that is the case, I will take advantage of his presence to make my declaration.


Your declaration?


Yes, before witnesses.


Oh, this is very interesting, if there really has been a crime, we will investigate it.


There has been a crime. Come this way, gentlemen; come, M. Villefort, for a declaration to be available, should be made before the competent authorities. Stay, here, in this very spot I had the earth dug up and fresh mould put in, to refresh these old trees; well, my man, digging, found a box, or rather, the iron-work of a box, in the midst of which was the skeleton of a newly born infant.


A newly born infant, this affair becomes serious!


Well. I was not wrong just now then, when I said that houses had souls and faces like men, and that their exteriors carried the impress of their characters. This house was gloomy because it was remorseful: it was remorseful because it concealed a crime.


Who said it was a crime?


How? is it not a crime to bury a living child in a garden? And pray what do you call such an action?


But who said it was buried alive?


Why bury it there if it were dead? This garden has never been a cemetery.


What is done to infanticides in this country?


Oh, their heads are soon cut off,


Ah, indeed?


I think so; am I not right, M. de Villefort?


Yes, count,


Come, gentlemen,—some coffee, we seem to have forgotten it,


Indeed, count. I am ashamed to own it, but all your frightful stories have so upset me, that I must beg you to let me sit down;


I must speak to you.


When?


Tomorrow.


Where?


In my office, or in the court, if you like,—that is the surest place.


I will be there. Thanks, my dear friend, it is over now, and I am much better.


Tomorrow, sir, I shall have the honor of waiting upon you on business.


And I, sir, shall be most happy to receive you.


What do you want of me?


Pardon me, my friend, if I disturb you,


but I want to speak to you.


You have no right to beg at night,


I am not begging, my fine fellow,


I only wish to say two or three words to your master, who gave me a commission to execute about a fortnight ago.


Come. Come, what do you want? Come, what do you want? Speak quickly, friend.


I wish—I wish you to spare me the walk back to Paris. I am very tired, and as I have not eaten so good a dinner as you, I can scarcely stand.


Tell me, tell me what you want?


Well, then, I want you to take me up in your fine carriage, and carry me back.


Yes,


I have taken the whim into my head; do you understand, Master Benedetto?


This man is right; I did indeed charge him with a commission, the result of which he must tell me; walk to the barrier, there take a cab, that you may not be too late. Let me at least reach a shady spot,


Oh, as for that, I’ll take you to a splendid place,


Don’t think I want the glory of riding in your fine carriage,


oh, no, it’s only because I am tired, and also because I have a little business to talk over with you.


Come, step in,


Now, tell me why you come to disturb my tranquillity?


Let me ask you why you deceived me?


How have I deceived you?


‘How,’ do you ask? When we parted at the Pont du Var, you told me you were going to travel through Piedmont and Tuscany; but instead of that, you come to Paris.


How does that annoy you?


It does not; on the contrary, I think it will answer my purpose.


So, you are speculating upon me?


What fine words he uses!


I warn you, Master Caderousse, that you are mistaken.


Well, well, don’t be angry, my boy; you know well enough what it is to be unfortunate; and misfortunes make us jealous. I thought you were earning a living in Tuscany or Piedmont by acting as facchino or cicerone, and I pitied you sincerely, as I would a child of my own. You know I always did call you my child.


Come, come, what then?


Patience—patience!


I am patient, but go on.


All at once I see you pass through the barrier with a groom, a tilbury, and fine new clothes. You must have discovered a mine, or else become a stockbroker.


So that, as you confess, you are jealous?


No, I am pleased—so pleased that I wished to congratulate you; but as I am not quite properly dressed, I chose my opportunity, that I might not compromise you.


Yes, and a fine opportunity you have chosen! you speak to me before my servant.


How can I help that, my boy? I speak to you when I can catch you. You have a quick horse, a light tilbury, you are naturally as slippery as an eel; if I had missed you tonight, I might not have had another chance.


You see, I do not conceal myself.


You are lucky; I wish I could say as much, for I do conceal myself; and then I was afraid you would not recognize me, but you did. It was very polite of you.


Come, what do you want?


You do not speak affectionately to me, Benedetto, my old friend, that is not right—take care, or I may become troublesome.


You should not speak so to an old friend like me, Caderousse, as you said just now; you are a native of Marseilles, I am——


Do you know then now what you are?


No, but I was brought up in Corsica; you are old and obstinate, I am young and wilful. Between people like us threats are out of place, everything should be amicably arranged. Is it my fault if fortune, which has frowned on you, has been kind to me?


Fortune has been kind to you, then? Your tilbury, your groom, your clothes, are not then hired? Good, so much the better,


Oh, you knew that well enough before speaking to me. If I had been wearing a handkerchief like yours on my head, rags on my back, and worn-out shoes on my feet, you would not have known me.


You wrong me, my boy; now I have found you, nothing prevents my being as well-dressed as anyone, knowing, as I do, the goodness of your heart. If you have two coats you will give me one of them. I used to divide my soup and beans with you when you were hungry.


True,


What an appetite you used to have! Is it as good now?


Oh, yes,


How did you come to be dining with that prince whose house you have just left?


He is not a prince; simply a count.


A count, and a rich one too, eh?


Yes; but you had better not have anything to say to him, for he is not a very good-tempered gentleman.


Oh, be easy! I have no design upon your count, and you shall have him all to yourself. But, you must pay for it—you understand?


Well, what do you want?


I think that with a hundred francs a month——


Well?


I could live——


Upon a hundred francs!


Come—you understand me; but that with——


With?


With a hundred and fifty francs I should be quite happy.


Here are two hundred,


Good!


Apply to the steward on the first day of every month, and you will receive the same sum.


There now, again you degrade me.


How so?


By making me apply to the servants, when I want to transact business with you alone.


Well, be it so, then. Take it from me then, and so long at least as I receive my income, you shall be paid yours.


Come, come; I always said you were a fine fellow, and it is a blessing when good fortune happens to such as you. But tell me all about it?


Why do you wish to know?


What? do you again defy me?


No; the fact is, I have found my father.


What? a real father?


Yes, so long as he pays me——


You’ll honor and believe him—that’s right. What is his name?


Major Cavalcanti.


Is he pleased with you?


So far I have appeared to answer his purpose.


And who found this father for you?


The Count of Monte Cristo.


The man whose house you have just left?


Yes.


I wish you would try and find me a situation with him as grandfather, since he holds the money-chest!


Well, I will mention you to him. Meanwhile, what are you going to do?


I?


Yes, you.


It is very kind of you to trouble yourself about me.


Since you interest yourself in my affairs, I think it is now my turn to ask you some questions.


Ah, true. Well; I shall rent a room in some respectable house, wear a decent coat, shave every day, and go and read the papers in a café. Then, in the evening, I shall go to the theatre; I shall look like some retired baker. That is what I want.


Come, if you will only put this scheme into execution, and be steady, nothing could be better.


Do you think so, M. Bossuet? And you—what will you become? A peer of France?


Ah,


Major Cavalcanti is already one, perhaps; but then, hereditary rank is abolished.


No politics, Caderousse. And now that you have all you want, and that we understand each other, jump down from the tilbury and disappear.


Not at all, my good friend.


How? Not at all?


Why, just think for a moment; with this red handkerchief on my head, with scarcely any shoes, no papers, and ten gold napoleons in my pocket, without reckoning what was there before—making in all about two hundred francs,—why, I should certainly be arrested at the barriers. Then, to justify myself, I should say that you gave me the money; this would cause inquiries, it would be found that I left Toulon without giving due notice, and I should then be escorted back to the shores of the Mediterranean. Then I should become simply No. 106, and good-bye to my dream of resembling the retired baker! No, no, my boy; I prefer remaining honorably in the capital.


Good Caderousse, how happy you will be.


I will do my best,


Well, then, we will go into Paris. But how will you pass through the barrier without exciting suspicion? It seems to me that you are in more danger riding than on foot.


Wait, we shall see.


But, tell me, am I to remain bareheaded?


Pooh, it is so windy that your hat can easily appear to have blown off.


Come, come; enough of this,


What are you waiting for? I hope I am not the cause.


Hush. Well!


Ah, you would not like me to risk taking cold? You? Oh, you are young while I am beginning to get old. Au revoir, Benedetto;


Alas, one cannot be completely happy in this world!


What was the matter with you, Hermine? and why were you so affected at that story, or rather fable, which the count related?


Because I have been in such shocking spirits all the evening, my friend,


No, Hermine, you cannot make me believe that; on the contrary, you were in excellent spirits when you arrived at the count’s. M. Danglars was disagreeable, certainly, but I know how much you care for his ill-humor. Someone has vexed you; I will allow no one to annoy you.


You are deceived, Lucien, I assure you, and what I have told you is really the case, added to the ill-humor you remarked, but which I did not think it worth while to allude to.


What is my daughter doing?


She practiced all the evening, and then went to bed,


Yet I think I hear her piano.


It is Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly, who is playing while Mademoiselle Danglars is in bed.


Well, come and undress me. My dear M. Lucien, you are always complaining that Eugénie will not address a word to you.


Madame. I am not the only one who makes similar complaints, I think I heard Morcerf say that he could not extract a word from his betrothed.


True, yet I think this will all pass off, and that you will one day see her enter your study.


My study?


At least that of the minister.


Why so!


To ask for an engagement at the Opera. Really, I never saw such an infatuation for music; it is quite ridiculous for a young lady of fashion.


Well, let her come, with your consent and that of the baron, and we will try and give her an engagement, though we are very poor to pay such talent as hers.


Go, Cornélie. I do not require you any longer. Come, Hermine, answer candidly,—something vexes you—is it not so? Nothing. I am frightful tonight,


Good-evening, madame; good-evening, M. Debray.


Read me something, M. Debray,


Excuse me, but you will tire yourself, baroness, by such late hours, and M. Debray lives some distance from here.


M. Lucien. I assure you I have no desire to sleep, and that I have a thousand things to tell you this evening, which you must listen to, even though you slept while hearing me.


I am at your service, madame,


My dear M. Debray, do not kill yourself tonight listening to the follies of Madame Danglars, for you can hear them as well tomorrow; but I claim tonight and will devote it, if you will allow me, to talk over some serious matters with my wife. Do not think I wish to turn you out, my dear Debray, oh, no, not at all. An unexpected occurrence forces me to ask my wife to have a little conversation with me; it is so rarely I make such a request, I am sure you cannot grudge it to me.


It is extraordinary, how easily these husbands, whom we ridicule, gain an advantage over us.


Do you know, sir, that you are improving? Generally you are only rude, but tonight you are brutal.


It is because I am in a worse humor than usual,


And what have I to do with your ill-humor? do these things concern me? Keep your ill-humor at home in your money boxes, or, since you have clerks whom you pay, vent it upon them.


Not so, your advice is wrong, so I shall not follow it. My money boxes are my Pactolus, as, I think, M. Demoustier says, and I will not retard its course, or disturb its calm. My clerks are honest men, who earn my fortune, whom I pay much below their deserts, if I may value them according to what they bring in; therefore I shall not get into a passion with them; those with whom I will be in a passion are those who eat my dinners, mount my horses, and exhaust my fortune.


And pray who are the persons who exhaust your fortune? Explain yourself more clearly, I beg, sir.


Oh, make yourself easy!—I am not speaking riddles, and you will soon know what I mean. The people who exhaust my fortune are those who draw out 700,000 francs in the course of an hour.


I do not understand you, sir,


You understand me perfectly, on the contrary, but, if you will persist, I will tell you that I have just lost 700,000 francs upon the Spanish loan.


And pray, am I responsible for this loss?


Why not?


Is it my fault you have lost 700,000 francs?


Certainly it is not mine.


Once for all, sir. I tell you I will not hear cash named; it is a style of language I never heard in the house of my parents or in that of my first husband.


Oh, I can well believe that, for neither of them was worth a penny.


The better reason for my not being conversant with the slang of the bank, which is here dinning in my ears from morning to night; that noise of jingling crowns, which are constantly being counted and re-counted, is odious to me. I only know one thing I dislike more, which is the sound of your voice.


Really? Well, this surprises me, for I thought you took the liveliest interest in all my affairs!


I? What could put such an idea into your head?


Yourself.


Ah?—what next?


Most assuredly.


I should like to know upon what occasion?


Oh, mon Dieu! that is very easily done. Last February you were the first who told me of the Haitian funds. You had dreamed that a ship had entered the harbor at Le Havre, that this ship brought news that a payment we had looked upon as lost was going to be made. I know how clear-sighted your dreams are; I therefore purchased immediately as many shares as I could of the Haitian debt, and I gained 400,000 francs by it, of which 100,000 have been honestly paid to you. You spent it as you pleased; that was your business. In March there was a question about a grant to a railway. Three companies presented themselves, each offering equal securities. You told me that your instinct,—and although you pretend to know nothing about speculations, I think on the contrary, that your comprehension is very clear upon certain affairs,—well, you told me that your instinct led you to believe the grant would be given to the company called the Southern. I bought two thirds of the shares of that company; as you had foreseen, the shares trebled in value, and I picked up a million, from which 250,000 francs were paid to you for pin-money. How have you spent this 250,000 francs?—it is no business of mine.


When are you coming to the point?


Patience, madame, I am coming to it.


That’s fortunate.


In April you went to dine at the minister’s. You heard a private conversation respecting Spanish affairs—on the expulsion of Don Carlos. I bought some Spanish shares. The expulsion took place and I pocketed 600,000 francs the day Charles V. repassed the Bidassoa. Of these 600,000 francs you took 50,000 crowns. They were yours, you disposed of them according to your fancy, and I asked no questions; but it is not the less true that you have this year received 500,000 livres.


Well, sir, and what then?


Ah, yes, it was just after this that you spoiled everything.


Really, your manner of speaking——


It expresses my meaning, and that is all I want. Well, three days after that you talked politics with M. Debray, and you fancied from his words that Don Carlos had returned to Spain. Well, I sold my shares, the news got out, and I no longer sold—I gave them away, next day I find the news was false, and by this false report I have lost 700,000 francs.


Well?


Well, since I gave you a fourth of my gains, I think you owe me a fourth of my losses; the fourth of 700,000 francs is 175,000 francs.


What you say is absurd, and I cannot see why M. Debray’s name is mixed up in this affair.


Because if you do not possess the 175,000 francs I reclaim, you must have lent them to your friends, and M. Debray is one of your friends.


For shame!


Oh, let us have no gestures, no screams, no modern drama, or you will oblige me to tell you that I see Debray leave here, pocketing the whole of the 500,000 livres you have handed over to him this year, while he smiles to himself, saying that he has found what the most skilful players have never discovered—that is, a roulette where he wins without playing, and is no loser when he loses.


Wretch!


will you dare to tell me you did not know what you now reproach me with?


I do not say that I did know it, and I do not say that I did not know it. I merely tell you to look into my conduct during the last four years that we have ceased to be husband and wife, and see whether it has not always been consistent. Some time after our rupture, you wished to study music, under the celebrated baritone who made such a successful appearance at the Théâtre Italien; at the same time I felt inclined to learn dancing of the danseuse who acquired such a reputation in London. This cost me, on your account and mine, 100,000 francs. I said nothing, for we must have peace in the house; and 100,000 francs for a lady and gentleman to be properly instructed in music and dancing are not too much. Well, you soon become tired of singing, and you take a fancy to study diplomacy with the minister’s secretary. You understand, it signifies nothing to me so long as you pay for your lessons out of your own cash box. But today I find you are drawing on mine, and that your apprenticeship may cost me 700,000 francs per month. Stop there, madame, for this cannot last. Either the diplomatist must give his lessons gratis, and I will tolerate him, or he must never set his foot again in my house;—do you understand, madame?


Oh, this is too much


you are worse than despicable.


But


I find you did not even pause there——


Insults!


You are right; let us leave these facts alone, and reason coolly. I have never interfered in your affairs excepting for your good; treat me in the same way. You say you have nothing to do with my cash box. Be it so. Do as you like with your own, but do not fill or empty mine. Besides, how do I know that this was not a political trick, that the minister enraged at seeing me in the opposition, and jealous of the popular sympathy I excite, has not concerted with M. Debray to ruin me?


A probable thing!


Why not? Who ever heard of such an occurrence as this?—a false telegraphic despatch—it is almost impossible for wrong signals to be made as they were in the last two telegrams. It was done on purpose for me—I am sure of it.


Sir, are you not aware that the man employed there was dismissed, that they talked of going to law with him, that orders were issued to arrest him and that this order would have been put into execution if he had not escaped by flight, which proves that he was either mad or guilty? It was a mistake.


Yes, which made fools laugh, which caused the minister to have a sleepless night, which has caused the minister’s secretaries to blacken several sheets of paper, but which has cost me 700,000 francs.


But, sir, if all this is, as you say, caused by M. Debray, why, instead of going direct to him, do you come and tell me of it? Why, to accuse the man, do you address the woman?


Do I know M. Debray?—do I wish to know him?—do I wish to know that he gives advice?—do I wish to follow it?—do I speculate? No; you do all this, not I.


Still it seems to me, that as you profit by it——


Foolish creature,


Women fancy they have talent because they have managed two or three intrigues without being the talk of Paris! But know that if you had even hidden your irregularities from your husband, who has but the commencement of the art—for generally husbands will not see—you would then have been but a faint imitation of most of your friends among the women of the world. But it has not been so with me,—I see, and always have seen, during the last sixteen years. You may, perhaps, have hidden a thought; but not a step, not an action, not a fault, has escaped me, while you flattered yourself upon your address, and firmly believed you had deceived me. What has been the result?—that, thanks to my pretended ignorance, there is none of your friends, from M. de Villefort to M. Debray, who has not trembled before me. There is not one who has not treated me as the master of the house,—the only title I desire with respect to you; there is not one, in fact, who would have dared to speak of me as I have spoken of them this day. I will allow you to make me hateful, but I will prevent your rendering me ridiculous, and, above all, I forbid you to ruin me.


The baroness had been tolerably composed until the name of Villefort had been pronounced; but then she became pale, and, rising, as if touched by a spring, she stretched out her hands as though conjuring an apparition; she then took two or three steps towards her husband, as though to tear the secret from him, of which he was ignorant, or which he withheld from some odious calculation,—odious, as all his calculations were.


M. de Villefort!—What do you mean?


I mean that M. de Nargonne, your first husband, being neither a philosopher nor a banker, or perhaps being both, and seeing there was nothing to be got out of a king’s attorney, died of grief or anger at finding, after an absence of nine months, that you had been enceinte six. I am brutal,—I not only allow it, but boast of it; it is one of the reasons of my success in commercial business. Why did he kill himself instead of you? Because he had no cash to save. My life belongs to my cash. M. Debray has made me lose 700,000 francs; let him bear his share of the loss, and we will go on as before; if not, let him become bankrupt for the 250,000 livres, and do as all bankrupts do—disappear. He is a charming fellow, I allow, when his news is correct; but when it is not, there are fifty others in the world who would do better than he.


The day following this scene, at the hour Debray usually chose to pay a visit to Madame Danglars on his way to his office, his coupé did not appear. At this time, that is, about half-past twelve, Madame Danglars ordered her carriage, and went out. Danglars, hidden behind a curtain, watched the departure he had been waiting for. He gave orders that he should be informed as soon as Madame Danglars appeared; but at two o’clock she had not returned. He then called for his horses, drove to the Chamber, and inscribed his name to speak against the budget. From twelve to two o’clock Danglars had remained in his study, unsealing his dispatches, and becoming more and more sad every minute, heaping figure upon figure, and receiving, among other visits, one from Major Cavalcanti, who, as stiff and exact as ever, presented himself precisely at the hour named the night before, to terminate his business with the banker.


On leaving the Chamber, Danglars, who had shown violent marks of agitation during the sitting, and been more bitter than ever against the ministry, re-entered his carriage, and told the coachman to drive to the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, No. 30.


Monte Cristo was at home; only he was engaged with someone and begged Danglars to wait for a moment in the drawing-room. While the banker was waiting in the anteroom, the door opened, and a man dressed as an abbé and doubtless more familiar with the house than he was, came in and instead of waiting, merely bowed, passed on to the farther apartments, and disappeared.


A minute after the door by which the priest had entered reopened, and Monte Cristo appeared.


Pardon me, my dear baron, but one of my friends, the Abbé Busoni, whom you perhaps saw pass by, has just arrived in Paris; not having seen him for a long time, I could not make up my mind to leave him sooner, so I hope this will be sufficient reason for my having made you wait.


Nay, it is my fault; I have chosen my visit at a wrong time, and will retire.


Not at all; on the contrary, be seated; but what is the matter with you? You look careworn; really, you alarm me. Melancholy in a capitalist, like the appearance of a comet, presages some misfortune to the world.


I have been in ill-luck for several days, and I have heard nothing but bad news.


Ah, indeed? Have you had another fall at the Bourse?


No; I am safe for a few days at least. I am only annoyed about a bankrupt of Trieste.


Really? Does it happen to be Jacopo Manfredi?


Exactly so. Imagine a man who has transacted business with me for I don’t know how long, to the amount of 800,000 or 900,000 francs during the year. Never a mistake or delay—a fellow who paid like a prince. Well, I was a million in advance with him, and now my fine Jacopo Manfredi suspends payment!


Really?


It is an unheard-of fatality. I draw upon him for 600,000 francs, my bills are returned unpaid, and, more than that, I hold bills of exchange signed by him to the value of 400,000 francs, payable at his correspondent’s in Paris at the end of this month. Today is the 30th. I present them; but my correspondent has disappeared. This, with my Spanish affairs, made a pretty end to the month.


Then you really lost by that affair in Spain?


Yes; only 700,000 francs out of my cash box—nothing more!


Why, how could you make such a mistake—such an old stager?


Oh, it is all my wife’s fault. She dreamed Don Carlos had returned to Spain; she believes in dreams. It is magnetism, she says, and when she dreams a thing it is sure to happen, she assures me. On this conviction I allow her to speculate, she having her bank and her stockbroker; she speculated and lost. It is true she speculates with her own money, not mine; nevertheless, you can understand that when 700,000 francs leave the wife’s pocket, the husband always finds it out. But do you mean to say you have not heard of this? Why, the thing has made a tremendous noise.


Yes, I heard it spoken of, but I did not know the details, and then no one can be more ignorant than I am of the affairs in the Bourse.


Then you do not speculate?


I?—How could I speculate when I already have so much trouble in regulating my income? I should be obliged, besides my steward, to keep a clerk and a boy. But touching these Spanish affairs, I think that the baroness did not dream the whole of the Don Carlos matter. The papers said something about it, did they not?


Then you believe the papers?


I?—not the least in the world; only I fancied that the honest Messager was an exception to the rule, and that it only announced telegraphic despatches.


Well, that’s what puzzles me, the news of the return of Don Carlos was brought by telegraph.


So that, you have lost nearly 1,700,000 francs this month.


Not nearly, indeed; that is exactly my loss.


Diable! it is a hard blow for a third-rate fortune.


Third-rate, what do you mean by that?


Certainly. I make three assortments in fortune—first-rate, second-rate, and third-rate fortunes. I call those first-rate which are composed of treasures one possesses under one’s hand, such as mines, lands, and funded property, in such states as France, Austria, and England, provided these treasures and property form a total of about a hundred millions; I call those second-rate fortunes, that are gained by manufacturing enterprises, joint-stock companies, viceroyalties, and principalities, not drawing more than 1,500,000 francs, the whole forming a capital of about fifty millions; finally, I call those third-rate fortunes, which are composed of a fluctuating capital, dependent upon the will of others, or upon chances which a bankruptcy involves or a false telegram shakes, such as banks, speculations of the day—in fact, all operations under the influence of greater or less mischances, the whole bringing in a real or fictitious capital of about fifteen millions. I think this is about your position, is it not?


Confound it, yes!


The result, then, of six more such months as this would be to reduce the third-rate house to despair.


Oh, how you are running on!


Let us imagine seven such months,


What a bad calculator you are! I have made money at the same time by speculations which have succeeded. I have made up the loss of blood by nutrition. I lost a battle in Spain, I have been defeated in Trieste, but my naval army in India will have taken some galleons, and my Mexican pioneers will have discovered some mine.


Very good, very good! But the wound remains and will reopen at the first loss.


No, for I am only embarked in certainties, replied Danglars, with the air of a mountebank sounding his own praises; “to involve me, three governments must crumble to dust.”


Well, such things have been.


That there should be a famine!


Recollect the seven fat and the seven lean kine.


Or, that the sea should become dry, as in the days of Pharaoh, and even then my vessels would become caravans.


So much the better. I congratulate you, my dear M. Danglars, said Monte Cristo; “I see I was deceived, and that you belong to the class of second-rate fortunes.”


I think I may aspire to that honor, said Danglars with a smile, which reminded Monte Cristo of the sickly moons which bad artists are so fond of daubing into their pictures of ruins. “But, while we are speaking of business,” Danglars added, pleased to find an opportunity of changing the subject, “tell me what I am to do for M. Cavalcanti.”


Give him money, if he is recommended to you, and the recommendation seems good.


Excellent; he presented himself this morning with a bond of 40,000 francs, payable at sight, on you, signed by Busoni, and returned by you to me, with your endorsement—of course, I immediately counted him over the forty bank-notes.


Monte Cristo nodded his head in token of assent.


But that is not all, continued Danglars; “he has opened an account with my house for his son.”


May I ask how much he allows the young man?


Five thousand francs per month.


Sixty thousand francs per year. I thought I was right in believing that Cavalcanti to be a stingy fellow. How can a young man live upon 5,000 francs a month? But you understand that if the young man should want a few thousands more—— Do not advance it; the father will never repay it. You do not know these ultramontane millionaires; they are regular misers. And by whom were they recommended to you?


Oh, by the house of Fenzi, one of the best in Florence.


I do not mean to say you will lose, but, nevertheless, mind you hold to the terms of the agreement.


Would you not trust the Cavalcanti?


I? oh, I would advance ten millions on his signature. I was only speaking in reference to the second-rate fortunes we were mentioning just now.


And with all this, how unassuming he is! I should never have taken him for anything more than a mere major.


And you would have flattered him, for certainly, as you say, he has no manner. The first time I saw him he appeared to me like an old lieutenant who had grown mouldy under his epaulets. But all the Italians are the same; they are like old Jews when they are not glittering in Oriental splendor.


The young man is better,


Yes; a little nervous, perhaps, but, upon the whole, he appeared tolerable. I was uneasy about him.


Why?


Because you met him at my house, just after his introduction into the world, as they told me. He has been travelling with a very severe tutor, and had never been to Paris before.


Ah, I believe noblemen marry amongst themselves, do they not? they like to unite their fortunes.


It is usual, certainly; but Cavalcanti is an original who does nothing like other people. I cannot help thinking that he has brought his son to France to choose a wife.


Do you think so?


I am sure of it.


And you have heard his fortune mentioned?


Nothing else was talked of; only some said he was worth millions, and others that he did not possess a farthing.


And what is your opinion?


I ought not to influence you, because it is only my own personal impression.


Well, and it is that——


My opinion is, that all these old podestàs, these ancient condottieri,—for the Cavalcanti have commanded armies and governed provinces,—my opinion, I say, is, that they have buried their millions in corners, the secret of which they have transmitted only to their eldest sons, who have done the same from generation to generation; and the proof of this is seen in their yellow and dry appearance, like the florins of the republic, which, from being constantly gazed upon, have become reflected in them.


Certainly,


and this is further supported by the fact of their not possessing an inch of land.


Very little, at least; I know of none which Cavalcanti possesses, excepting his palace in Lucca.


Ah, he has a palace? come, that is something.


Yes; and more than that, he lets it to the Minister of Finance while he lives in a simple house. Oh, as I told you before, I think the old fellow is very close.


Come, you do not flatter him.


I scarcely know him; I think I have seen him three times in my life; all I know relating to him is through Busoni and himself. He was telling me this morning that, tired of letting his property lie dormant in Italy, which is a dead nation, he wished to find a method, either in France or England, of multiplying his millions, but remember, that though I place great confidence in Busoni, I am not responsible for this.


Never mind; accept my thanks for the client you have sent me. It is a fine name to inscribe on my ledgers, and my cashier was quite proud of it when I explained to him who the Cavalcanti were. By the way, this is merely a simple question, when this sort of people marry their sons, do they give them any fortune?


Oh, that depends upon circumstances. I know an Italian prince, rich as a gold mine, one of the noblest families in Tuscany, who, when his sons married according to his wish, gave them millions; and when they married against his consent, merely allowed them thirty crowns a month. Should Andrea marry according to his father’s views, he will, perhaps, give him one, two, or three millions. For example, supposing it were the daughter of a banker, he might take an interest in the house of the father-in-law of his son; then again, if he disliked his choice, the major takes the key, double-locks his coffer, and Master Andrea would be obliged to live like the sons of a Parisian family, by shuffling cards or rattling the dice.


Ah, that boy will find out some Bavarian or Peruvian princess; he will want a crown, an El Dorado, and Potosí.


No; these grand lords on the other side of the Alps frequently marry into plain families; like Jupiter, they like to cross the race. But do you wish to marry Andrea, my dear M. Danglars, that you are asking so many questions?


Ma foi, it would not be a bad speculation, I fancy, and you know I am a speculator.


You are not thinking of Mademoiselle Danglars, I hope; you would not like poor Andrea to have his throat cut by Albert?


Albert, ah, well; he would care very little about it, I think.


But he is betrothed to your daughter, I believe?


Well, M. de Morcerf and I have talked about this marriage, but Madame de Morcerf and Albert——


You do not mean to say that it would not be a good match?


Indeed, I imagine that Mademoiselle Danglars is as good as M. de Morcerf.


Mademoiselle Danglars’ fortune will be great, no doubt, especially if the telegraph should not make any more mistakes.


Oh, I do not mean her fortune only; but tell me——


What?


Why did you not invite M. and Madame de Morcerf to your dinner? I did so, but he excused himself on account of Madame de Morcerf being obliged to go to Dieppe for the benefit of sea air.


Yes, yes,


it would do her a great deal of good.


Why so?


Because it is the air she always breathed in her youth.


But still, if Albert be not so rich as Mademoiselle Danglars,


you must allow that he has a fine name?


So he has; but I like mine as well.


Certainly; your name is popular, and does honor to the title they have adorned it with; but you are too intelligent not to know that according to a prejudice, too firmly rooted to be exterminated, a nobility which dates back five centuries is worth more than one that can only reckon twenty years.


And for this very reason. I prefer M. Andrea Cavalcanti to M. Albert de Morcerf.


Still, I should not think the Morcerfs would yield to the Cavalcanti?


The Morcerfs!—Stay, my dear count, you are a man of the world, are you not?


I think so.


And you understand heraldry?


A little.


Well, look at my coat-of-arms, it is worth more than Morcerf’s.


Because, though I am not a baron by birth, my real name is, at least, Danglars.


Well, what then?


While his name is not Morcerf.


How?—not Morcerf?


Not the least in the world.


Go on.


I have been made a baron, so that I actually am one; he made himself a count, so that he is not one at all.


Impossible!


Listen my dear count; M. de Morcerf has been my friend, or rather my acquaintance, during the last thirty years. You know I have made the most of my arms, though I never forgot my origin.


A proof of great humility or great pride,


Well, when I was a clerk, Morcerf was a mere fisherman.


And then he was called——


Fernand.


Only Fernand?


Fernand Mondego.


You are sure?


Pardieu! I have bought enough fish of him to know his name.


Then, why did you think of giving your daughter to him?


Because Fernand and Danglars, being both parvenus, both having become noble, both rich, are about equal in worth, excepting that there have been certain things mentioned of him that were never said of me.


What?


Oh, nothing!


Ah, yes; what you tell me recalls to mind something about the name of Fernand Mondego. I have heard that name in Greece.


In conjunction with the affairs of Ali Pasha?


Exactly so.


This is the mystery. I acknowledge I would have given anything to find it out.


It would be very easy if you much wished it?


How so?


Probably you have some correspondent in Greece?


I should think so.


At Yanina?


Everywhere.


Well, write to your correspondent in Yanina, and ask him what part was played by a Frenchman named Fernand Mondego in the catastrophe of Ali Tepelini.


You are right. I will write today.


Do so.


I will.


And if you should hear of anything very scandalous——


I will communicate it to you.


You will oblige me.


Thanks, madame,—thanks for your punctuality;


It is a long time, madame,


it is a long time since I had the pleasure of speaking alone with you, and I regret that we have only now met to enter upon a painful conversation.


Nevertheless, sir, you see I have answered your first appeal, although certainly the conversation must be much more painful for me than for you.


It is true, then,


it is true, then, that all our actions leave their traces—some sad, others bright—on our paths; it is true that every step in our lives is like the course of an insect on the sands;—it leaves its track! Alas, to many the path is traced by tears.


Sir, you can feel for my emotion, can you not? Spare me, then, I beseech you. When I look at this room,—whence so many guilty creatures have departed, trembling and ashamed, when I look at that chair before which I now sit trembling and ashamed,—oh, it requires all my reason to convince me that I am not a very guilty woman and you a menacing judge.


And I,


I feel that my place is not in the judge’s seat, but on the prisoner’s bench.


You?


Yes, I.


I think, sir, you exaggerate your situation. The paths of which you were just speaking have been traced by all young men of ardent imaginations. Besides the pleasure, there is always remorse from the indulgence of our passions, and, after all, what have you men to fear from all this? the world excuses, and notoriety ennobles you.


Madame, you know that I am no hypocrite, or, at least, that I never deceive without a reason. If my brow be severe, it is because many misfortunes have clouded it; if my heart be petrified, it is that it might sustain the blows it has received. I was not so in my youth, I was not so on the night of the betrothal, when we were all seated around a table in the Rue du Cours at Marseilles. But since then everything has changed in and about me; I am accustomed to brave difficulties, and, in the conflict to crush those who, by their own free will, or by chance, voluntarily or involuntarily, interfere with me in my career. It is generally the case that what we most ardently desire is as ardently withheld from us by those who wish to obtain it, or from whom we attempt to snatch it. Thus, the greater number of a man’s errors come before him disguised under the specious form of necessity; then, after error has been committed in a moment of excitement, of delirium, or of fear, we see that we might have avoided and escaped it. The means we might have used, which we in our blindness could not see, then seem simple and easy, and we say, ‘Why did I not do this, instead of that?’ Women, on the contrary, are rarely tormented with remorse; for the decision does not come from you,—your misfortunes are generally imposed upon you, and your faults the results of others’ crimes.


In any case, sir, you will allow, even if the fault were alone mine, I last night received a severe punishment for it.


Poor thing,


it was too severe for your strength, for you were twice overwhelmed, and yet——


Well?


Well, I must tell you. Collect all your courage, for you have not yet heard all.


Ah, what is there more to hear?


You only look back to the past, and it is, indeed, bad enough. Well, picture to yourself a future more gloomy still—certainly frightful, perhaps sanguinary!


Alas,


doubtless it is chance.


Chance?


No, no, madame, there is no such thing as chance.


Oh, yes; has not a fatal chance revealed all this? Was it not by chance the Count of Monte Cristo bought that house? Was it not by chance he caused the earth to be dug up? Is it not by chance that the unfortunate child was disinterred under the trees?—that poor innocent offspring of mine, which I never even kissed, but for whom I wept many, many tears. Ah, my heart clung to the count when he mentioned the dear spoil found beneath the flowers.


Well, no, madame,—this is the terrible news I have to tell you,


no, nothing was found beneath the flowers; there was no child disinterred—no. You must not weep, no, you must not groan, you must tremble!


What can you mean?


I mean that M. de Monte Cristo, digging underneath these trees, found neither skeleton nor chest, because neither of them was there!


Neither of them there? Neither of them there!


No,


no, a hundred times no!


Then you did not bury the poor child there, sir? Why did you deceive me? Where did you place it? tell me—where?


There! But listen to me—listen—and you will pity me who has for twenty years alone borne the heavy burden of grief I am about to reveal, without casting the least portion upon you.


Oh, you frighten me! But speak; I will listen.


You recollect that sad night, when you were half-expiring on that bed in the red damask room, while I, scarcely less agitated than you, awaited your delivery. The child was born, was given to me—motionless, breathless, voiceless; we thought it dead.


We thought it dead,


I placed it in the chest, which was to take the place of a coffin; I descended to the garden, I dug a hole, and then flung it down in haste. Scarcely had I covered it with earth, when the arm of the Corsican was stretched towards me; I saw a shadow rise, and, at the same time, a flash of light. I felt pain; I wished to cry out, but an icy shiver ran through my veins and stifled my voice; I fell lifeless, and fancied myself killed. Never shall I forget your sublime courage, when, having returned to consciousness, I dragged myself to the foot of the stairs, and you, almost dying yourself, came to meet me. We were obliged to keep silent upon the dreadful catastrophe. You had the fortitude to regain the house, assisted by your nurse. A duel was the pretext for my wound. Though we scarcely expected it, our secret remained in our own keeping alone. I was taken to Versailles; for three months I struggled with death; at last, as I seemed to cling to life, I was ordered to the South. Four men carried me from Paris to Châlons, walking six leagues a day; Madame de Villefort followed the litter in her carriage. At Châlons I was put upon the Saône, thence I passed on to the Rhône, whence I descended, merely with the current, to Arles; at Arles I was again placed on my litter, and continued my journey to Marseilles. My recovery lasted six months. I never heard you mentioned, and I did not dare inquire for you. When I returned to Paris, I learned that you, the widow of M. de Nargonne, had married M. Danglars.


What was the subject of my thoughts from the time consciousness returned to me? Always the same—always the child’s corpse, coming every night in my dreams, rising from the earth, and hovering over the grave with menacing look and gesture. I inquired immediately on my return to Paris; the house had not been inhabited since we left it, but it had just been let for nine years. I found the tenant. I pretended that I disliked the idea that a house belonging to my wife’s father and mother should pass into the hands of strangers. I offered to pay them for cancelling the lease; they demanded 6,000 francs. I would have given 10,000—I would have given 20,000. I had the money with me; I made the tenant sign the deed of resilition, and when I had obtained what I so much wanted, I galloped to Auteuil. No one had entered the house since I had left it.


It was five o’clock in the afternoon; I ascended into the red room, and waited for night. There all the thoughts which had disturbed me during my year of constant agony came back with double force. The Corsican, who had declared the vendetta against me, who had followed me from Nîmes to Paris, who had hid himself in the garden, who had struck me, had seen me dig the grave, had seen me inter the child,—he might become acquainted with your person,—nay, he might even then have known it. Would he not one day make you pay for keeping this terrible secret? Would it not be a sweet revenge for him when he found that I had not died from the blow of his dagger? It was therefore necessary, before everything else, and at all risks, that I should cause all traces of the past to disappear—that I should destroy every material vestige; too much reality would always remain in my recollection. It was for this I had annulled the lease—it was for this I had come—it was for this I was waiting.


Night arrived; I allowed it to become quite dark. I was without a light in that room; when the wind shook all the doors, behind which I continually expected to see some spy concealed, I trembled. I seemed everywhere to hear your moans behind me in the bed, and I dared not turn around. My heart beat so violently that I feared my wound would open. At length, one by one, all the noises in the neighborhood ceased. I understood that I had nothing to fear, that I should neither be seen nor heard, so I decided upon descending to the garden.


Listen, Hermine; I consider myself as brave as most men, but when I drew from my breast the little key of the staircase, which I had found in my coat—that little key we both used to cherish so much, which you wished to have fastened to a golden ring—when I opened the door, and saw the pale moon shedding a long stream of white light on the spiral staircase like a spectre, I leaned against the wall, and nearly shrieked. I seemed to be going mad. At last I mastered my agitation. I descended the staircase step by step; the only thing I could not conquer was a strange trembling in my knees. I grasped the railings; if I had relaxed my hold for a moment, I should have fallen. I reached the lower door. Outside this door a spade was placed against the wall; I took it, and advanced towards the thicket. I had provided myself with a dark lantern. In the middle of the lawn I stopped to light it, then I continued my path.


It was the end of November, all the verdure of the garden had disappeared, the trees were nothing more than skeletons with their long bony arms, and the dead leaves sounded on the gravel under my feet. My terror overcame me to such a degree as I approached the thicket, that I took a pistol from my pocket and armed myself. I fancied continually that I saw the figure of the Corsican between the branches. I examined the thicket with my dark lantern; it was empty. I looked carefully around; I was indeed alone,—no noise disturbed the silence but the owl, whose piercing cry seemed to be calling up the phantoms of the night. I tied my lantern to a forked branch I had noticed a year before at the precise spot where I stopped to dig the hole.


The grass had grown very thickly there during the summer, and when autumn arrived no one had been there to mow it. Still one place where the grass was thin attracted my attention; it evidently was there I had turned up the ground. I went to work. The hour, then, for which I had been waiting during the last year had at length arrived. How I worked, how I hoped, how I struck every piece of turf, thinking to find some resistance to my spade! But no, I found nothing, though I had made a hole twice as large as the first. I thought I had been deceived—had mistaken the spot. I turned around, I looked at the trees, I tried to recall the details which had struck me at the time. A cold, sharp wind whistled through the leafless branches, and yet the drops fell from my forehead. I recollected that I was stabbed just as I was trampling the ground to fill up the hole; while doing so I had leaned against a laburnum; behind me was an artificial rockery, intended to serve as a resting-place for persons walking in the garden; in falling, my hand, relaxing its hold of the laburnum, felt the coldness of the stone. On my right I saw the tree, behind me the rock. I stood in the same attitude, and threw myself down. I rose, and again began digging and enlarging the hole; still I found nothing, nothing—the chest was no longer there!


The chest no longer there?


Think not I contented myself with this one effort. No; I searched the whole thicket. I thought the assassin, having discovered the chest, and supposing it to be a treasure, had intended carrying it off, but, perceiving his error, had dug another hole, and deposited it there; but I could find nothing. Then the idea struck me that he had not taken these precautions, and had simply thrown it in a corner. In the last case I must wait for daylight to renew my search. I remained in the room and waited.


Oh, Heaven!


When daylight dawned I went down again. My first visit was to the thicket. I hoped to find some traces which had escaped me in the darkness. I had turned up the earth over a surface of more than twenty feet square, and a depth of two feet. A laborer would not have done in a day what occupied me an hour. But I could find nothing—absolutely nothing. Then I renewed the search. Supposing it had been thrown aside, it would probably be on the path which led to the little gate; but this examination was as useless as the first, and with a bursting heart I returned to the thicket, which now contained no hope for me.


Oh, it was enough to drive you mad!


I hoped for a moment that it might, but that happiness was denied me. However, recovering my strength and my ideas, ‘Why,’ said I, ‘should that man have carried away the corpse?’


But you said, he would require it as a proof.


Ah, no, madame, that could not be. Dead bodies are not kept a year; they are shown to a magistrate, and the evidence is taken. Now, nothing of the kind has happened.


What then?


Something more terrible, more fatal, more alarming for us—the child was, perhaps, alive, and the assassin may have saved it!


My child was alive? you buried my child alive? You were not certain my child was dead, and you buried it? Ah——


I know not; I merely suppose so, as I might suppose anything else,


Ah, my child, my poor child!


You understand, then, that if it were so, we are lost. This child lives, and someone knows it lives—someone is in possession of our secret; and since Monte Cristo speaks before us of a child disinterred, when that child could not be found, it is he who is in possession of our secret.


Just God, avenging God!


But the child—the child, sir? How I have searched for him, how I have called him in my long sleepless nights; how I have longed for royal wealth to purchase a million of secrets from a million of men, and to find mine among them! At last, one day, when for the hundredth time I took up my spade, I asked myself again and again what the Corsican could have done with the child. A child encumbers a fugitive; perhaps, on perceiving it was still alive, he had thrown it into the river.


Impossible! a man may murder another out of revenge, but he would not deliberately drown a child.


Perhaps, he had put it in the foundling hospital.


Oh, yes, yes, my child is there!


I ran to the hospital, and learned that the same night—the night of the 20th of September—a child had been brought there, wrapped in part of a fine linen napkin, purposely torn in half. This portion of the napkin was marked with half a baron’s crown, and the letter H.


Truly, truly, all my linen is marked thus; Monsieur de Nargonne was a baron, and my name is Hermine. Thank God, my child was not then dead!


No, it was not dead.


And you can tell me so without fearing to make me die of joy? Where is the child?


Do I know? and do you believe that if I knew I would relate to you all its trials and all its adventures as would a dramatist or a novel writer? Alas, no, I know not. A woman, about six months after, came to claim it with the other half of the napkin. This woman gave all the requisite particulars, and it was intrusted to her.


But you should have inquired for the woman; you should have traced her.


And what do you think I did? I feigned a criminal process, and employed all the most acute bloodhounds and skilful agents in search of her. They traced her to Châlons, and there they lost her.


They lost her?


Yes, forever.


And this is all? and you stopped there?


Oh, no. I never ceased to search and to inquire. However, the last two or three years I had allowed myself some respite. But now I will begin with more perseverance and fury than ever, since fear urges me, not my conscience.


But, the Count of Monte Cristo can know nothing, or he would not seek our society as he does.


Oh, the wickedness of man is very great, since it surpasses the goodness of God. Did you observe that man’s eyes while he was speaking to us?


No.


But have you ever watched him carefully?


Doubtless he is capricious, but that is all; one thing alone struck me,—of all the exquisite things he placed before us, he touched nothing. I might have suspected he was poisoning us.


And you see you would have been deceived.


Yes, doubtless.


But believe me, that man has other projects. For that reason I wished to see you, to speak to you, to warn you against everyone, but especially against him. Tell me, did you ever reveal to anyone our connection?


Never, to anyone.


You understand me, when I say anyone,—pardon my urgency,—to anyone living I mean?


Yes, yes, I understand very well, never, I swear to you.


Were you ever in the habit of writing in the evening what had transpired in the morning? Do you keep a journal?


No, my life has been passed in frivolity; I wish to forget it myself.


Do you talk in your sleep?


I sleep soundly, like a child; do you not remember?


It is true. Well, I understand what I now have to do. In less than one week from this time I will ascertain who this M. de Monte Cristo is, whence he comes, where he goes, and why he speaks in our presence of children that have been disinterred in a garden.


Here I am, dear count. Welcome home again.


I arrived an hour since.


From Dieppe?


No, from Tréport.


Indeed?


And I have come at once to see you.


That is extremely kind of you,


I know it, but in asking for news, I mean, have you done anything for me?


Had you commissioned me?


Come, come, do not assume so much indifference. It is said, sympathy travels rapidly, and when at Tréport, I felt the electric shock; you have either been working for me or thinking of me.


Possibly. I have indeed thought of you, but the magnetic wire I was guiding acted, indeed, without my knowledge.


Indeed! Pray tell me how it happened.


Willingly. M. Danglars dined with me.


I know it; to avoid meeting him, my mother and I left town.


But he met here M. Andrea Cavalcanti.


Your Italian prince?


Not so fast; M. Andrea only calls himself count.


Calls himself, do you say?


Yes, calls himself.


Is he not a count?


What can I know of him? He calls himself so. I, of course, give him the same title, and everyone else does likewise.


What a strange man you are! What next? You say M. Danglars dined here?


Yes, with Count Cavalcanti, the marquis his father, Madame Danglars, M. and Madame de Villefort,—charming people,—M. Debray, Maximilian Morrel, and M. de Château-Renaud.


Did they speak of me?


Not a word.


So much the worse.


Why so? I thought you wished them to forget you?


If they did not speak of me, I am sure they thought about me, and I am in despair.


How will that affect you, since Mademoiselle Danglars was not among the number here who thought of you? Truly, she might have thought of you at home.


I have no fear of that; or, if she did, it was only in the same way in which I think of her.


Touching sympathy! So you hate each other?


Listen, if Mademoiselle Danglars were disposed to take pity on my supposed martyrdom on her account, and would dispense with all matrimonial formalities between our two families, I am ready to agree to the arrangement. In a word, Mademoiselle Danglars would make a charming mistress—but a wife—diable!


And this, is your opinion of your intended spouse?


Yes; it is rather unkind, I acknowledge, but it is true. But as this dream cannot be realized, since Mademoiselle Danglars must become my lawful wife, live perpetually with me, sing to me, compose verses and music within ten paces of me, and that for my whole life, it frightens me. One may forsake a mistress, but a wife,—good heavens! There she must always be; and to marry Mademoiselle Danglars would be awful.


You are difficult to please, viscount.


Yes, for I often wish for what is impossible.


What is that?


To find such a wife as my father found.


Your father was fortunate, then?


You know my opinion of my mother, count; look at her,—still beautiful, witty, more charming than ever. For any other son to have stayed with his mother for four days at Tréport, it would have been a condescension or a martyrdom, while I return, more contented, more peaceful—shall I say more poetic!—than if I had taken Queen Mab or Titania as my companion.


That is an overwhelming demonstration, and you would make everyone vow to live a single life.


Such are my reasons for not liking to marry Mademoiselle Danglars. Have you ever noticed how much a thing is heightened in value when we obtain possession of it? The diamond which glittered in the window at Marlé’s or Fossin’s shines with more splendor when it is our own; but if we are compelled to acknowledge the superiority of another, and still must retain the one that is inferior, do you not know what we have to endure?


Worldling,


Thus I shall rejoice when Mademoiselle Eugénie perceives I am but a pitiful atom, with scarcely as many hundred thousand francs as she has millions. One plan occurred to me. Franz likes all that is eccentric; I tried to make him fall in love with Mademoiselle Danglars; but in spite of four letters, written in the most alluring style, he invariably answered: ‘My eccentricity may be great, but it will not make me break my promise.’ My eccentricity may be great, but it will not make me break my promise.


That is what I call devoted friendship, to recommend to another one whom you would not marry yourself.


Apropos. Franz is coming soon, but it will not interest you; you dislike him, I think?


I? my dear viscount, how have you discovered that I did not like M. Franz! I like everyone.


And you include me in the expression everyone—many thanks!


Let us not mistake. I love everyone as God commands us to love our neighbor, as Christians; but I thoroughly hate but a few. Let us return to M. Franz d’Épinay. Did you say he was coming?


Yes; summoned by M. de Villefort, who is apparently as anxious to get Mademoiselle Valentine married as M. Danglars is to see Mademoiselle Eugénie settled. It must be a very irksome office to be the father of a grown-up daughter; it seems to make one feverish, and to raise one’s pulse to ninety beats a minute until the deed is done.


But M. d’Épinay, unlike you, bears his misfortune patiently.


Still more, he talks seriously about the matter, puts on a white tie, and speaks of his family. He entertains a very high opinion of M. and Madame de Villefort.


Which they deserve, do they not?


I believe they do. M. de Villefort has always passed for a severe but a just man.


There is, then, one, whom you do not condemn like poor Danglars?


Because I am not compelled to marry his daughter perhaps,


Indeed, my dear sir, you are revoltingly foppish.


I foppish? how do you mean?


Yes; pray take a cigar, and cease to defend yourself, and to struggle to escape marrying Mademoiselle Danglars. Let things take their course; perhaps you may not have to retract.


Bah!


Doubtless, my dear viscount, you will not be taken by force; and seriously, do you wish to break off your engagement?


I would give a hundred thousand francs to be able to do so.


Then make yourself quite easy. M. Danglars would give double that sum to attain the same end.


Am I, indeed, so happy? But, my dear count, has M. Danglars any reason?


Ah! there is your proud and selfish nature. You would expose the self-love of another with a hatchet, but you shrink if your own is attacked with a needle.


But yet, M. Danglars appeared——


Delighted with you, was he not? Well, he is a man of bad taste, and is still more enchanted with another. I know not whom; look and judge for yourself.


Thank you, I understand. But my mother—no, not my mother; I mistake—my father intends giving a ball.


A ball at this season?


Summer balls are fashionable.


If they were not, the countess has only to wish it, and they would become so.


You are right; You know they are select affairs; those who remain in Paris in July must be true Parisians. Will you take charge of our invitation to Messieurs Cavalcanti?


When will it take place?


On Saturday.


M. Cavalcanti’s father will be gone.


But the son will be here; will you invite young M. Cavalcanti?


I do not know him, viscount.


You do not know him?


No, I never saw him until a few days since, and am not responsible for him.


But you receive him at your house?


That is another thing: he was recommended to me by a good abbé, who may be deceived. Give him a direct invitation, but do not ask me to present him. If he were afterwards to marry Mademoiselle Danglars, you would accuse me of intrigue, and would be challenging me,—besides, I may not be there myself.


Where?