The Count of Monte Cristo
promise you, that a Frenchman might show himself in public, either in
Tunis, Constantinople, Bagdad, or Cairo, without being treated in that
way.”
“That shows that the Eastern nations have too much good sense to waste
their time and attention on objects undeserving of either. However, as
far as Ali is concerned, I can assure you, the interest he excites is
merely from the circumstance of his being your attendant—you, who are
at this moment the most celebrated and fashionable person in Paris.”
“Really? and what has procured me so flattering a distinction?”
“What? why, yourself, to be sure! You give away horses worth a thousand
louis; you save the lives of ladies of high rank and beauty; under the
name of Major Black you run thoroughbreds ridden by tiny urchins not
larger than marmots; then, when you have carried off the golden trophy
of victory, instead of setting any value on it, you give it to the
first handsome woman you think of!”
“And who has filled your head with all this nonsense?”
“Why, in the first place, I heard it from Madame Danglars, who, by the
by, is dying to see you in her box, or to have you seen there by
others; secondly, I learned it from Beauchamp’s journal; and thirdly,
from my own imagination. Why, if you sought concealment, did you call
your horse Vampa?”
“That was an oversight, certainly,” replied the count; “but tell me,
does the Count of Morcerf never visit the Opera? I have been looking
for him, but without success.”
“He will be here tonight.”
“In what part of the house?”
“In the baroness’s box, I believe.”
“That charming young woman with her is her daughter?”
“Yes.”
“I congratulate you.”
Morcerf smiled.
“We will discuss that subject at length some future time,” said he.
“But what do you think of the music?”
“What music?”
“Why, the music you have been listening to.”
“Oh, it is well enough as the production of a human composer, sung by
featherless bipeds, to quote the late Diogenes.”
“From which it would seem, my dear count, that you can at pleasure
enjoy the seraphic strains that proceed from the seven choirs of
paradise?”
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“You are right, in some degree; when I wish to listen to sounds more
exquisitely attuned to melody than mortal ear ever yet listened to, I
go to sleep.”
“Then sleep here, my dear count. The conditions are favorable; what
else was opera invented for?”
“No, thank you. Your orchestra is too noisy. To sleep after the manner
I speak of, absolute calm and silence are necessary, and then a certain
preparation——”
“I know—the famous hashish!”
“Precisely. So, my dear viscount, whenever you wish to be regaled with
music come and sup with me.”
“I have already enjoyed that treat when breakfasting with you,” said
Morcerf.
“Do you mean at Rome?”
“I do.”
“Ah, then, I suppose you heard Haydée’s guzla; the poor exile
frequently beguiles a weary hour in playing over to me the airs of her
native land.”
Morcerf did not pursue the subject, and Monte Cristo himself fell into
a silent reverie.
The bell rang at this moment for the rising of the curtain.
“You will excuse my leaving you,” said the count, turning in the
direction of his box.
“What? Are you going?”
“Pray, say everything that is kind to Countess G—— on the part of her
friend the vampire.”
“And what message shall I convey to the baroness!”
“That, with her permission, I shall do myself the honor of paying my
respects in the course of the evening.”
The third act had begun; and during its progress the Count of Morcerf,
according to his promise, made his appearance in the box of Madame
Danglars. The Count of Morcerf was not a person to excite either
interest or curiosity in a place of public amusement; his presence,
therefore, was wholly unnoticed, save by the occupants of the box in
which he had just seated himself.
The quick eye of Monte Cristo however, marked his coming; and a slight
though meaning smile passed over his lips. Haydée, whose soul seemed
centred in the business of the stage, like all unsophisticated natures,
delighted in whatever addressed itself to the eye or ear.
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The third act passed off as usual. Mesdemoiselles Noblet, Julia, and
Leroux executed the customary pirouettes; Robert duly challenged the
Prince of Granada; and the royal father of the princess Isabella,
taking his daughter by the hand, swept round the stage with majestic
strides, the better to display the rich folds of his velvet robe and
mantle. After which the curtain again fell, and the spectators poured
forth from the theatre into the lobbies and salon.
The count left his box, and a moment later was saluting the Baronne
Danglars, who could not restrain a cry of mingled pleasure and
surprise.
“You are welcome, count!” she exclaimed, as he entered. “I have been
most anxious to see you, that I might repeat orally the thanks writing
can so ill express.”
“Surely so trifling a circumstance cannot deserve a place in your
remembrance. Believe me, madame, I had entirely forgotten it.”
“But it is not so easy to forget, monsieur, that the very next day
after your princely gift you saved the life of my dear friend, Madame
de Villefort, which was endangered by the very animals your generosity
restored to me.”
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“This time, at least, I do not deserve your thanks. It was Ali, my
Nubian slave, who rendered this service to Madame de Villefort.”
“Was it Ali,” asked the Count of Morcerf, “who rescued my son from the
hands of bandits?”
“No, count,” replied Monte Cristo taking the hand held out to him by
the general; “in this instance I may fairly and freely accept your
thanks; but you have already tendered them, and fully discharged your
debt—if indeed there existed one—and I feel almost mortified to find
you still reverting to the subject. May I beg of you, baroness, to
honor me with an introduction to your daughter?”
“Oh, you are no stranger—at least not by name,” replied Madame
Danglars, “and the last two or three days we have really talked of
nothing but you. Eugénie,” continued the baroness, turning towards her
daughter, “this is the Count of Monte Cristo.”
The count bowed, while Mademoiselle Danglars bent her head slightly.
“You have a charming young person with you tonight, count,” said
Eugénie. “Is she your daughter?”
“No, mademoiselle,” said Monte Cristo, astonished at the coolness and
freedom of the question. “She is a poor unfortunate Greek left under my
care.”
“And what is her name?”
“Haydée,” replied Monte Cristo.
“A Greek?” murmured the Count of Morcerf.
“Yes, indeed, count,” said Madame Danglars; “and tell me, did you ever
see at the court of Ali Tepelini, whom you so gloriously and valiantly
served, a more exquisite beauty or richer costume?”
“Did I hear rightly, monsieur,” said Monte Cristo “that you served at
Yanina?”
“I was inspector-general of the pasha’s troops,” replied Morcerf; “and
it is no secret that I owe my fortune, such as it is, to the liberality
of the illustrious Albanese chief.”
“But look!” exclaimed Madame Danglars.
“Where?” stammered Morcerf.
“There,” said Monte Cristo placing his arms around the count, and
leaning with him over the front of the box, just as Haydée, whose eyes
were occupied in examining the theatre in search of her guardian,
perceived his pale features close to Morcerf’s face. It was as if the
young girl beheld the head of Medusa. She bent forwards as though to
assure herself of the reality of what she saw, then, uttering a faint
cry, threw herself back in her seat. The sound was heard by the people
about Ali, who instantly opened the box-door.
“Why, count,” exclaimed Eugénie, “what has happened to your ward? she
seems to have been taken suddenly ill.
“Very probably,” answered the count. “But do not be alarmed on her
account. Haydée’s nervous system is delicately organized, and she is
peculiarly susceptible to the odors even of flowers—nay, there are some
which cause her to faint if brought into her presence. However,”
continued Monte Cristo, drawing a small phial from his pocket, “I have
an infallible remedy.”
So saying, he bowed to the baroness and her daughter, exchanged a
parting shake of the hand with Debray and the count, and left Madame
Danglars’ box. Upon his return to Haydée he found her still very pale.
As soon as she saw him she seized his hand; her own hands were moist
and icy cold.
“Who was it you were talking with over there?” she asked.
“With the Count of Morcerf,” answered Monte Cristo. “He tells me he
served your illustrious father, and that he owes his fortune to him.”
“Wretch!” exclaimed Haydée, her eyes flashing with rage; “he sold my
father to the Turks, and the fortune he boasts of was the price of his
treachery! Did not you know that, my dear lord?”
“Something of this I heard in Epirus,” said Monte Cristo; “but the
particulars are still unknown to me. You shall relate them to me, my
child. They are, no doubt, both curious and interesting.”
“Yes, yes; but let us go. I feel as though it would kill me to remain
long near that dreadful man.”
So saying, Haydée arose, and wrapping herself in her burnouse of white
cashmere embroidered with pearls and coral, she hastily quitted the box
at the moment when the curtain was rising upon the fourth act.
“Do you observe,” said the Countess G—— to Albert, who had returned to
her side, “that man does nothing like other people; he listens most
devoutly to the third act of _Robert le Diable_, and when the fourth
begins, takes his departure.”
Chapter 54. A Flurry in Stocks
Some days after this meeting, Albert de Morcerf visited the Count of
Monte Cristo at his house in the Champs-Élysées, which had already
assumed that palace-like appearance which the count’s princely fortune
enabled him to give even to his most temporary residences. He came to
renew the thanks of Madame Danglars which had been already conveyed to
the count through the medium of a letter, signed “Baronne Danglars,
_née_ Hermine de Servieux.”
Albert was accompanied by Lucien Debray, who, joining in his friend’s
conversation, added some passing compliments, the source of which the
count’s talent for finesse easily enabled him to guess. He was
convinced that Lucien’s visit was due to a double feeling of curiosity,
the larger half of which sentiment emanated from the Rue de la Chaussée
d’Antin. In short, Madame Danglars, not being able personally to
examine in detail the domestic economy and household arrangements of a
man who gave away horses worth 30,000 francs and who went to the opera
with a Greek slave wearing diamonds to the amount of a million of
money, had deputed those eyes, by which she was accustomed to see, to
give her a faithful account of the mode of life of this
incomprehensible person. But the count did not appear to suspect that
there could be the slightest connection between Lucien’s visit and the
curiosity of the baroness.
“You are in constant communication with the Baron Danglars?” the count
inquired of Albert de Morcerf.
“Yes, count, you know what I told you?”
“All remains the same, then, in that quarter?”
“It is more than ever a settled thing,” said Lucien,—and, considering
that this remark was all that he was at that time called upon to make,
he adjusted the glass to his eye, and biting the top of his gold headed
cane, began to make the tour of the apartment, examining the arms and
the pictures.
“Ah,” said Monte Cristo “I did not expect that the affair would be so
promptly concluded.”
“Oh, things take their course without our assistance. While we are
forgetting them, they are falling into their appointed order; and when,
again, our attention is directed to them, we are surprised at the