The Count of Monte Cristo
progress they have made towards the proposed end. My father and M.
Danglars served together in Spain, my father in the army and M.
Danglars in the commissariat department. It was there that my father,
ruined by the revolution, and M. Danglars, who never had possessed any
patrimony, both laid the foundations of their different fortunes.”
“Yes,” said Monte Cristo “I think M. Danglars mentioned that in a visit
which I paid him; and,” continued he, casting a side-glance at Lucien,
who was turning over the leaves of an album, “Mademoiselle Eugénie is
pretty—I think I remember that to be her name.”
“Very pretty, or rather, very beautiful,” replied Albert, “but of that
style of beauty which I do not appreciate; I am an ungrateful fellow.”
“You speak as if you were already her husband.”
“Ah,” returned Albert, in his turn looking around to see what Lucien
was doing.
“Really,” said Monte Cristo, lowering his voice, “you do not appear to
me to be very enthusiastic on the subject of this marriage.”
“Mademoiselle Danglars is too rich for me,” replied Morcerf, “and that
frightens me.”
“Bah,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, “that’s a fine reason to give. Are you
not rich yourself?”
“My father’s income is about 50,000 francs per annum; and he will give
me, perhaps, ten or twelve thousand when I marry.”
“That, perhaps, might not be considered a large sum, in Paris
especially,” said the count; “but everything does not depend on wealth,
and it is a fine thing to have a good name, and to occupy a high
station in society. Your name is celebrated, your position magnificent;
and then the Comte de Morcerf is a soldier, and it is pleasing to see
the integrity of a Bayard united to the poverty of a Duguesclin;
disinterestedness is the brightest ray in which a noble sword can
shine. As for me, I consider the union with Mademoiselle Danglars a
most suitable one; she will enrich you, and you will ennoble her.”
Albert shook his head, and looked thoughtful.
“There is still something else,” said he.
“I confess,” observed Monte Cristo, “that I have some difficulty in
comprehending your objection to a young lady who is both rich and
beautiful.”
“Oh,” said Morcerf, “this repugnance, if repugnance it may be called,
is not all on my side.”
“Whence can it arise, then? for you told me your father desired the
marriage.”
“It is my mother who dissents; she has a clear and penetrating
judgment, and does not smile on the proposed union. I cannot account
for it, but she seems to entertain some prejudice against the
Danglars.”
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“Ah,” said the count, in a somewhat forced tone, “that may be easily
explained; the Comtesse de Morcerf, who is aristocracy and refinement
itself, does not relish the idea of being allied by your marriage with
one of ignoble birth; that is natural enough.”
“I do not know if that is her reason,” said Albert, “but one thing I do
know, that if this marriage be consummated, it will render her quite
miserable. There was to have been a meeting six weeks ago in order to
talk over and settle the affair; but I had such a sudden attack of
indisposition——”
“Real?” interrupted the count, smiling.
“Oh, real enough, from anxiety doubtless,—at any rate they postponed
the matter for two months. There is no hurry, you know. I am not yet
twenty-one, and Eugénie is only seventeen; but the two months expire
next week. It must be done. My dear count, you cannot imagine how my
mind is harassed. How happy you are in being exempt from all this!”
“Well, and why should not you be free, too? What prevents you from
being so?”
“Oh, it will be too great a disappointment to my father if I do not
marry Mademoiselle Danglars.”
“Marry her then,” said the count, with a significant shrug of the
shoulders.
“Yes,” replied Morcerf, “but that will plunge my mother into positive
grief.”
“Then do not marry her,” said the count.
“Well, I shall see. I will try and think over what is the best thing to
be done; you will give me your advice, will you not, and if possible
extricate me from my unpleasant position? I think, rather than give
pain to my dear mother, I would run the risk of offending the count.”
Monte Cristo turned away; he seemed moved by this last remark.
“Ah,” said he to Debray, who had thrown himself into an easy-chair at
the farthest extremity of the salon, and who held a pencil in his right
hand and an account book in his left, “what are you doing there? Are
you making a sketch after Poussin?”
“Oh, no,” was the tranquil response; “I am too fond of art to attempt
anything of that sort. I am doing a little sum in arithmetic.”
“In arithmetic?”
“Yes; I am calculating—by the way, Morcerf, that indirectly concerns
you—I am calculating what the house of Danglars must have gained by the
last rise in Haiti bonds; from 206 they have risen to 409 in three
days, and the prudent banker had purchased at 206; therefore he must
have made 300,000 livres.”
“That is not his biggest scoop,” said Morcerf; “did he not make a
million in Spaniards this last year?”
“My dear fellow,” said Lucien, “here is the Count of Monte Cristo, who
will say to you, as the Italians do,—
“‘Denaro e santità,
Metà della metà.’9
“When they tell me such things, I only shrug my shoulders and say
nothing.”
“But you were speaking of Haitians?” said Monte Cristo.
“Ah, Haitians,—that is quite another thing! Haitians are the _écarté_
of French stock-jobbing. We may like bouillotte, delight in whist, be
enraptured with boston, and yet grow tired of them all; but we always
come back to _écarté_—it is not only a game, it is a _hors-d’œuvre_! M.
Danglars sold yesterday at 405, and pockets 300,000 francs. Had he but
waited till today, the price would have fallen to 205, and instead of
gaining 300,000 francs, he would have lost 20 or 25,000.”
“And what has caused the sudden fall from 409 to 206?” asked Monte
Cristo. “I am profoundly ignorant of all these stock-jobbing
intrigues.”
“Because,” said Albert, laughing, “one piece of news follows another,
and there is often great dissimilarity between them.”
“Ah,” said the count, “I see that M. Danglars is accustomed to play at
gaining or losing 300,000 francs in a day; he must be enormously rich.”
“It is not he who plays!” exclaimed Lucien; “it is Madame Danglars; she
is indeed daring.”
“But you who are a reasonable being, Lucien, and who knows how little
dependence is to be placed on the news, since you are at the
fountain-head, surely you ought to prevent it,” said Morcerf, with a
smile.
“How can I, if her husband fails in controlling her?” asked Lucien;
“you know the character of the baroness—no one has any influence with
her, and she does precisely what she pleases.”
“Ah, if I were in your place——” said Albert.
“Well?”
“I would reform her; it would be rendering a service to her future
son-in-law.”
“How would you set about it?”
“Ah, that would be easy enough—I would give her a lesson.”
“A lesson?”
“Yes. Your position as secretary to the minister renders your authority
great on the subject of political news; you never open your mouth but
the stockbrokers immediately stenograph your words. Cause her to lose a
hundred thousand francs, and that would teach her prudence.”
“I do not understand,” stammered Lucien.
“It is very clear, notwithstanding,” replied the young man, with an
artlessness wholly free from affectation; “tell her some fine morning
an unheard-of piece of intelligence—some telegraphic despatch, of which
you alone are in possession; for instance, that Henri IV. was seen
yesterday at Gabrielle’s. That would boom the market; she will buy
heavily, and she will certainly lose when Beauchamp announces the
following day, in his gazette, ‘The report circulated by some usually
well-informed persons that the king was seen yesterday at Gabrielle’s
house, is totally without foundation. We can positively assert that his
majesty did not quit the Pont-Neuf.’”
Lucien half smiled. Monte Cristo, although apparently indifferent, had
not lost one word of this conversation, and his penetrating eye had
even read a hidden secret in the embarrassed manner of the secretary.
This embarrassment had completely escaped Albert, but it caused Lucien
to shorten his visit; he was evidently ill at ease. The count, in
taking leave of him, said something in a low voice, to which he
answered, “Willingly, count; I accept.” The count returned to young
Morcerf.
“Do you not think, on reflection,” said he to him, “that you have done
wrong in thus speaking of your mother-in-law in the presence of M.
Debray?”
“My dear count,” said Morcerf, “I beg of you not to apply that title so
prematurely.”
“Now, speaking without any exaggeration, is your mother really so very
much averse to this marriage?”
“So much so that the baroness very rarely comes to the house, and my
mother, has not, I think, visited Madame Danglars twice in her whole
life.”
“Then,” said the count, “I am emboldened to speak openly to you. M.
Danglars is my banker; M. de Villefort has overwhelmed me with
politeness in return for a service which a casual piece of good fortune
enabled me to render him. I predict from all this an avalanche of
dinners and routs. Now, in order not to presume on this, and also to be
beforehand with them, I have, if agreeable to you, thought of inviting
M. and Madame Danglars, and M. and Madame de Villefort, to my
country-house at Auteuil. If I were to invite you and the Count and
Countess of Morcerf to this dinner, I should give it the appearance of
being a matrimonial meeting, or at least Madame de Morcerf would look
upon the affair in that light, especially if Baron Danglars did me the
honor to bring his daughter. In that case your mother would hold me in
aversion, and I do not at all wish that; on the contrary, I desire to
stand high in her esteem.”
“Indeed, count,” said Morcerf, “I thank you sincerely for having used
so much candor towards me, and I gratefully accept the exclusion which
you propose. You say you desire my mother’s good opinion; I assure you
it is already yours to a very unusual extent.”
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“Do you think so?” said Monte Cristo, with interest.
“Oh, I am sure of it; we talked of you an hour after you left us the
other day. But to return to what we were saying. If my mother could
know of this attention on your part—and I will venture to tell her—I am
sure that she will be most grateful to you; it is true that my father
will be equally angry.” The count laughed.
“Well,” said he to Morcerf, “but I think your father will not be the
only angry one; M. and Madame Danglars will think me a very
ill-mannered person. They know that I am intimate with you—that you
are, in fact; one of the oldest of my Parisian acquaintances—and they
will not find you at my house; they will certainly ask me why I did not
invite you. Be sure to provide yourself with some previous engagement
which shall have a semblance of probability, and communicate the fact
to me by a line in writing. You know that with bankers nothing but a
written document will be valid.”
“I will do better than that,” said Albert; “my mother is wishing to go
to the sea-side—what day is fixed for your dinner?”
“Saturday.”
“This is Tuesday—well, tomorrow evening we leave, and the day after we
shall be at Tréport. Really, count, you have a delightful way of
setting people at their ease.”
“Indeed, you give me more credit than I deserve; I only wish to do what
will be agreeable to you, that is all.”
“When shall you send your invitations?”
“This very day.”
“Well, I will immediately call on M. Danglars, and tell him that my
mother and myself must leave Paris tomorrow. I have not seen you,
consequently I know nothing of your dinner.”