The Count of Monte Cristo
“Stay,” said Monte Cristo, “here, in this very spot” (and he stamped
upon the ground), “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.”
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Monte Cristo felt the arm of Madame Danglars stiffen, while that of
Villefort trembled.
“A newly born infant,” repeated Debray; “this affair becomes serious!”
“Well,” said Château-Renaud, “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?” asked Villefort, with a last effort.
“How? is it not a crime to bury a living child in a garden?” cried
Monte Cristo. “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?” asked Major Cavalcanti
innocently.
“Oh, their heads are soon cut off,” said Danglars.
“Ah, indeed?” said Cavalcanti.
“I think so; am I not right, M. de Villefort?” asked Monte Cristo.
“Yes, count,” replied Villefort, in a voice now scarcely human.
Monte Cristo, seeing that the two persons for whom he had prepared this
scene could scarcely endure it, and not wishing to carry it too far,
said:
“Come, gentlemen,—some coffee, we seem to have forgotten it,” and he
conducted the guests back to the table on the lawn.
“Indeed, count,” said Madame Danglars, “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;” and she fell into a chair.
Monte Cristo bowed, and went to Madame de Villefort.
“I think Madame Danglars again requires your bottle,” he said. But
before Madame de Villefort could reach her friend, the procureur had
found time to whisper to Madame Danglars, “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.”
At this moment Madame de Villefort approached.
“Thanks, my dear friend,” said Madame Danglars, trying to smile; “it is
over now, and I am much better.”
Chapter 64. The Beggar
The evening passed on; Madame de Villefort expressed a desire to return
to Paris, which Madame Danglars had not dared to do, notwithstanding
the uneasiness she experienced. On his wife’s request, M. de Villefort
was the first to give the signal of departure. He offered a seat in his
landau to Madame Danglars, that she might be under the care of his
wife. As for M. Danglars, absorbed in an interesting conversation with
M. Cavalcanti, he paid no attention to anything that was passing. While
Monte Cristo had begged the smelling-bottle of Madame de Villefort, he
had noticed the approach of Villefort to Madame Danglars, and he soon
guessed all that had passed between them, though the words had been
uttered in so low a voice as hardly to be heard by Madame Danglars.
Without opposing their arrangements, he allowed Morrel, Château-Renaud,
and Debray to leave on horseback, and the ladies in M. de Villefort’s
carriage. Danglars, more and more delighted with Major Cavalcanti, had
offered him a seat in his carriage. Andrea Cavalcanti found his tilbury
waiting at the door; the groom, in every respect a caricature of the
English fashion, was standing on tiptoe to hold a large iron-gray
horse.
Andrea had spoken very little during dinner; he was an intelligent lad,
and he feared to utter some absurdity before so many grand people,
amongst whom, with dilating eyes, he saw the king’s attorney. Then he
had been seized upon by Danglars, who, with a rapid glance at the
stiff-necked old major and his modest son, and taking into
consideration the hospitality of the count, made up his mind that he
was in the society of some nabob come to Paris to finish the worldly
education of his heir. He contemplated with unspeakable delight the
large diamond which shone on the major’s little finger; for the major,
like a prudent man, in case of any accident happening to his
bank-notes, had immediately converted them into an available asset.
Then, after dinner, on the pretext of business, he questioned the
father and son upon their mode of living; and the father and son,
previously informed that it was through Danglars the one was to receive
his 48,000 francs and the other 50,000 livres annually, were so full of
affability that they would have shaken hands even with the banker’s
servants, so much did their gratitude need an object to expend itself
upon.
One thing above all the rest heightened the respect, nay almost the
veneration, of Danglars for Cavalcanti. The latter, faithful to the
principle of Horace, _nil admirari_, had contented himself with showing
his knowledge by declaring in what lake the best lampreys were caught.
Then he had eaten some without saying a word more; Danglars, therefore,
concluded that such luxuries were common at the table of the
illustrious descendant of the Cavalcanti, who most likely in Lucca fed
upon trout brought from Switzerland, and lobsters sent from England, by
the same means used by the count to bring the lampreys from Lake
Fusaro, and the sterlet from the Volga. Thus it was with much
politeness of manner that he heard Cavalcanti pronounce these words:
“Tomorrow, sir, I shall have the honor of waiting upon you on
business.”
“And I, sir,” said Danglars, “shall be most happy to receive you.”
Upon which he offered to take Cavalcanti in his carriage to the Hôtel
des Princes, if it would not be depriving him of the company of his
son. To this Cavalcanti replied by saying that for some time past his
son had lived independently of him, that he had his own horses and
carriages, and that not having come together, it would not be difficult
for them to leave separately. The major seated himself, therefore, by
the side of Danglars, who was more and more charmed with the ideas of
order and economy which ruled this man, and yet who, being able to
allow his son 60,000 francs a year, might be supposed to possess a
fortune of 500,000 or 600,000 livres.
As for Andrea, he began, by way of showing off, to scold his groom,
who, instead of bringing the tilbury to the steps of the house, had
taken it to the outer door, thus giving him the trouble of walking
thirty steps to reach it. The groom heard him with humility, took the
bit of the impatient animal with his left hand, and with the right held
out the reins to Andrea, who, taking them from him, rested his polished
boot lightly on the step.
At that moment a hand touched his shoulder. The young man turned round,
thinking that Danglars or Monte Cristo had forgotten something they
wished to tell him, and had returned just as they were starting. But
instead of either of these, he saw nothing but a strange face,
sunburnt, and encircled by a beard, with eyes brilliant as carbuncles,
and a smile upon the mouth which displayed a perfect set of white
teeth, pointed and sharp as the wolf’s or jackal’s. A red handkerchief
encircled his gray head; torn and filthy garments covered his large
bony limbs, which seemed as though, like those of a skeleton, they
would rattle as he walked; and the hand with which he leaned upon the
young man’s shoulder, and which was the first thing Andrea saw, seemed
of gigantic size.
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Did the young man recognize that face by the light of the lantern in
his tilbury, or was he merely struck with the horrible appearance of
his interrogator? We cannot say; but only relate the fact that he
shuddered and stepped back suddenly.
“What do you want of me?” he asked.
“Pardon me, my friend, if I disturb you,” said the man with the red
handkerchief, “but I want to speak to you.”
“You have no right to beg at night,” said the groom, endeavoring to rid
his master of the troublesome intruder.
“I am not begging, my fine fellow,” said the unknown to the servant,
with so ironical an expression of the eye, and so frightful a smile,
that he withdrew; “I only wish to say two or three words to your
master, who gave me a commission to execute about a fortnight ago.”
“Come,” said Andrea, with sufficient nerve for his servant not to
perceive his agitation, “what do you want? Speak quickly, friend.”
The man said, in a low voice: “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.”
The young man shuddered at this strange familiarity.
“Tell me,” he said—“tell me what you want?”
“Well, then, I want you to take me up in your fine carriage, and carry
me back.” Andrea turned pale, but said nothing.
“Yes,” said the man, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and looking
impudently at the youth; “I have taken the whim into my head; do you
understand, Master Benedetto?”
At this name, no doubt, the young man reflected a little, for he went
towards his groom, saying:
“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.”
The surprised groom retired.
“Let me at least reach a shady spot,” said Andrea.
“Oh, as for that, I’ll take you to a splendid place,” said the man with
the handkerchief; and taking the horse’s bit he led the tilbury where
it was certainly impossible for anyone to witness the honor that Andrea
conferred upon him.
“Don’t think I want the glory of riding in your fine carriage,” said
he; “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,” said the young man. It was a pity this scene had not
occurred in daylight, for it was curious to see this rascal throwing
himself heavily down on the cushion beside the young and elegant driver
of the tilbury. Andrea drove past the last house in the village without
saying a word to his companion, who smiled complacently, as though
well-pleased to find himself travelling in so comfortable a vehicle.
Once out of Auteuil, Andrea looked around, in order to assure himself
that he could neither be seen nor heard, and then, stopping the horse
and crossing his arms before the man, he asked:
“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,” said Andrea, “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!” exclaimed Andrea; “you