The Count of Monte Cristo
generally played without the slightest attention being paid to it, that
part of the audience already assembled being too much occupied in
observing the fresh arrivals, while nothing is heard but the noise of
opening and shutting doors, and the buzz of conversation.
“Surely,” said Albert, as the door of a box on the first circle opened,
“that must be the Countess G——.”
“And who is the Countess G——?” inquired Château-Renaud.
“What a question! Now, do you know, baron, I have a great mind to pick
a quarrel with you for asking it; as if all the world did not know who
the Countess G—— was.”
“Ah, to be sure,” replied Château-Renaud; “the lovely Venetian, is it
not?”
“Herself.” At this moment the countess perceived Albert, and returned
his salutation with a smile.
“You know her, it seems?” said Château-Renaud.
“Franz introduced me to her at Rome,” replied Albert.
“Well, then, will you do as much for me in Paris as Franz did for you
in Rome?”
“With pleasure.”
There was a cry of “Shut up!” from the audience. This manifestation on
the part of the spectators of their wish to be allowed to hear the
music, produced not the slightest effect on the two young men, who
continued their conversation.
“The countess was present at the races in the Champ-de-Mars,” said
Château-Renaud.
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“Bless me, I quite forgot the races. Did you bet?”
“Oh, merely a paltry fifty louis.”
“And who was the winner?”
“Nautilus. I staked on him.”
“But there were three races, were there not?”
“Yes; there was the prize given by the Jockey Club—a gold cup, you
know—and a very singular circumstance occurred about that race.”
“What was it?”
“Oh, shut up!” again interposed some of the audience.
“Why, it was won by a horse and rider utterly unknown on the course.”
“Is that possible?”
“True as day. The fact was, nobody had observed a horse entered by the
name of Vampa, or that of a jockey styled Job, when, at the last
moment, a splendid roan, mounted by a jockey about as big as your fist,
presented themselves at the starting-post. They were obliged to stuff
at least twenty pounds weight of shot in the small rider’s pockets, to
make him weight; but with all that he outstripped Ariel and Barbare,
against whom he ran, by at least three whole lengths.”
“And was it not found out at last to whom the horse and jockey
belonged?”
“No.”
“You say that the horse was entered under the name of Vampa?”
“Exactly; that was the title.”
“Then,” answered Albert, “I am better informed than you are, and know
who the owner of that horse was.”
“Shut up, there!” cried the pit in chorus. And this time the tone and
manner in which the command was given, betokened such growing hostility
that the two young men perceived, for the first time, that the mandate
was addressed to them. Leisurely turning round, they calmly scrutinized
the various countenances around them, as though demanding some one
person who would take upon himself the responsibility of what they
deemed excessive impertinence; but as no one responded to the
challenge, the friends turned again to the front of the theatre, and
affected to busy themselves with the stage. At this moment the door of
the minister’s box opened, and Madame Danglars, accompanied by her
daughter, entered, escorted by Lucien Debray, who assiduously conducted
them to their seats.
“Ha, ha,” said Château-Renaud, “here come some friends of yours,
viscount! What are you looking at there? don’t you see they are trying
to catch your eye?”
Albert turned round, just in time to receive a gracious wave of the fan
from the baroness; as for Mademoiselle Eugénie, she scarcely vouchsafed
to waste the glances of her large black eyes even upon the business of
the stage.
“I tell you what, my dear fellow,” said Château-Renaud, “I cannot
imagine what objection you can possibly have to Mademoiselle
Danglars—that is, setting aside her want of ancestry and somewhat
inferior rank, which by the way I don’t think you care very much about.
Now, barring all that, I mean to say she is a deuced fine girl!”
“Handsome, certainly,” replied Albert, “but not to my taste, which I
confess, inclines to something softer, gentler, and more feminine.”
“Ah, well,” exclaimed Château-Renaud, who because he had seen his
thirtieth summer fancied himself duly warranted in assuming a sort of
paternal air with his more youthful friend, “you young people are never
satisfied; why, what would you have more? your parents have chosen you
a bride built on the model of Diana, the huntress, and yet you are not
content.”
“No, for that very resemblance affrights me; I should have liked
something more in the manner of the Venus of Milo or Capua; but this
chase-loving Diana, continually surrounded by her nymphs, gives me a
sort of alarm lest she should some day bring on me the fate of Actæon.”
And, indeed, it required but one glance at Mademoiselle Danglars to
comprehend the justness of Morcerf’s remark. She was beautiful, but her
beauty was of too marked and decided a character to please a fastidious
taste; her hair was raven black, but its natural waves seemed somewhat
rebellious; her eyes, of the same color as her hair, were surmounted by
well-arched brows, whose great defect, however, consisted in an almost
habitual frown, while her whole physiognomy wore that expression of
firmness and decision so little in accordance with the gentler
attributes of her sex—her nose was precisely what a sculptor would have
chosen for a chiselled Juno. Her mouth, which might have been found
fault with as too large, displayed teeth of pearly whiteness, rendered
still more conspicuous by the brilliant carmine of her lips,
contrasting vividly with her naturally pale complexion. But that which
completed the almost masculine look Morcerf found so little to his
taste, was a dark mole, of much larger dimensions than these freaks of
nature generally are, placed just at the corner of her mouth; and the
effect tended to increase the expression of self-dependence that
characterized her countenance.
The rest of Mademoiselle Eugénie’s person was in perfect keeping with
the head just described; she, indeed, reminded one of Diana, as
Château-Renaud observed, but her bearing was more haughty and resolute.
As regarded her attainments, the only fault to be found with them was
the same that a fastidious connoisseur might have found with her
beauty, that they were somewhat too erudite and masculine for so young
a person. She was a perfect linguist, a first-rate artist, wrote
poetry, and composed music; to the study of the latter she professed to
be entirely devoted, following it with an indefatigable perseverance,
assisted by a schoolfellow,—a young woman without fortune whose talent
promised to develop into remarkable powers as a singer. It was rumored
that she was an object of almost paternal interest to one of the
principal composers of the day, who excited her to spare no pains in
the cultivation of her voice, which might hereafter prove a source of
wealth and independence. But this counsel effectually decided
Mademoiselle Danglars never to commit herself by being seen in public
with one destined for a theatrical life; and acting upon this
principle, the banker’s daughter, though perfectly willing to allow
Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly (that was the name of the young virtuosa)
to practice with her through the day, took especial care not to be seen
in her company. Still, though not actually received at the Hôtel
Danglars in the light of an acknowledged friend, Louise was treated
with far more kindness and consideration than is usually bestowed on a
governess.
The curtain fell almost immediately after the entrance of Madame
Danglars into her box, the band quitted the orchestra for the
accustomed half-hour’s interval allowed between the acts, and the
audience were left at liberty to promenade the salon or lobbies, or to
pay and receive visits in their respective boxes.
Morcerf and Château-Renaud were amongst the first to avail themselves
of this permission. For an instant the idea struck Madame Danglars that
this eagerness on the part of the young viscount arose from his
impatience to join her party, and she whispered her expectations to her
daughter, that Albert was hurrying to pay his respects to them.
Mademoiselle Eugénie, however, merely returned a dissenting movement of
the head, while, with a cold smile, she directed the attention of her
mother to an opposite box on the first circle, in which sat the
Countess G——, and where Morcerf had just made his appearance.
30087m
“So we meet again, my travelling friend, do we?” cried the countess,
extending her hand to him with all the warmth and cordiality of an old
acquaintance; “it was really very good of you to recognize me so
quickly, and still more so to bestow your first visit on me.”
“Be assured,” replied Albert, “that if I had been aware of your arrival
in Paris, and had known your address, I should have paid my respects to
you before this. Allow me to introduce my friend, Baron de
Château-Renaud, one of the few true gentlemen now to be found in
France, and from whom I have just learned that you were a spectator of
the races in the Champ-de-Mars, yesterday.”
Château-Renaud bowed to the countess.
“So you were at the races, baron?” inquired the countess eagerly.
“Yes, madame.”
“Well, then,” pursued Madame G—— with considerable animation, “you can
probably tell me who won the Jockey Club stakes?”
“I am sorry to say I cannot,” replied the baron; “and I was just asking
the same question of Albert.”
“Are you very anxious to know, countess?” asked Albert.
“To know what?”
“The name of the owner of the winning horse?”
“Excessively; only imagine—but do tell me, viscount, whether you really
are acquainted with it or no?”
“I beg your pardon, madame, but you were about to relate some story,
were you not? You said, ‘only imagine,’—and then paused. Pray
continue.”
“Well, then, listen. You must know I felt so interested in the splendid
roan horse, with his elegant little rider, so tastefully dressed in a
pink satin jacket and cap, that I could not help praying for their
success with as much earnestness as though the half of my fortune were
at stake; and when I saw them outstrip all the others, and come to the
winning-post in such gallant style, I actually clapped my hands with
joy. Imagine my surprise, when, upon returning home, the first object I
met on the staircase was the identical jockey in the pink jacket! I
concluded that, by some singular chance, the owner of the winning horse
must live in the same hotel as myself; but, as I entered my apartments,
I beheld the very gold cup awarded as a prize to the unknown horse and
rider. Inside the cup was a small piece of paper, on which were written
these words—‘From Lord Ruthven to Countess G——.’”
“Precisely; I was sure of it,” said Morcerf.
“Sure of what?”
“That the owner of the horse was Lord Ruthven himself.”
“What Lord Ruthven do you mean?”
“Why, our Lord Ruthven—the Vampire of the Salle Argentina!”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed the countess; “is he here in Paris?”
“To be sure,—why not?”
“And you visit him?—meet him at your own house and elsewhere?”
“I assure you he is my most intimate friend, and M. de Château-Renaud
has also the honor of his acquaintance.”
“But why are you so sure of his being the winner of the Jockey Club
prize?”
“Was not the winning horse entered by the name of Vampa?”
“What of that?”
“Why, do you not recollect the name of the celebrated bandit by whom I
was made prisoner?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And from whose hands the count extricated me in so wonderful a
manner?”
“To be sure, I remember it all now.”