The Count of Monte Cristo
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,” said the baroness humbly, “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,” said Hermine suddenly, “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——”
Danglars shrugged his shoulders. “Foolish creature,” he exclaimed.
“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.”
Madame Danglars was rooted to the spot; she made a violent effort to
reply to this last attack, but she fell upon a chair thinking of
Villefort, of the dinner scene, of the strange series of misfortunes
which had taken place in her house during the last few days, and
changed the usual calm of her establishment to a scene of scandalous
debate.
Danglars did not even look at her, though she did her best to faint. He
shut the bedroom door after him, without adding another word, and
returned to his apartments; and when Madame Danglars recovered from her
half-fainting condition, she could almost believe that she had had a
disagreeable dream.
Chapter 66. Matrimonial Projects
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,” said he, “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,” said Danglars, “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,” said Danglars, “and I have
heard nothing but bad news.”
“Ah, indeed?” said Monte Cristo. “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.”
30251m
“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,” replied Danglars; “the news of the
return of Don Carlos was brought by telegraph.”
“So that,” said Monte Cristo, “you have lost nearly 1,700,000 francs
this month.”
“Not nearly, indeed; that is exactly my loss.”
“_Diable!_” said Monte Cristo compassionately, “it is a hard blow for a
third-rate fortune.”
“Third-rate,” said Danglars, rather humble, “what do you mean by that?”
“Certainly,” continued Monte Cristo, “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!” replied Danglars.
“The result, then, of six more such months as this would be to reduce
the third-rate house to despair.”
“Oh,” said Danglars, becoming very pale, how you are running on!”
“Let us imagine seven such months,” continued Monte Cristo, in the same
tone. “Tell me, have you ever thought that seven times 1,700,000 francs
make nearly twelve millions? No, you have not;—well, you are right, for
if you indulged in such reflections, you would never risk your
principal, which is to the speculator what the skin is to civilized
man. We have our clothes, some more splendid than others,—this is our
credit; but when a man dies he has only his skin; in the same way, on
retiring from business, you have nothing but your real principal of
about five or six millions, at the most; for third-rate fortunes are
never more than a fourth of what they appear to be, like the locomotive
on a railway, the size of which is magnified by the smoke and steam
surrounding it. Well, out of the five or six millions which form your
real capital, you have just lost nearly two millions, which must, of
course, in the same degree diminish your credit and fictitious fortune;
to follow out my simile, your skin has been opened by bleeding, and