The Count of Monte Cristo
fifty—it is the privilege of weakness. But he does wrong to use his
privilege. Follow my advice, swear, and do not insult.” The general,
again daunted by the superiority of the chief, hesitated a moment; then
advancing to the president’s desk,—“What is the form, said he.
“‘“It is this:—‘I swear by my honor not to reveal to anyone what I have
seen and heard on the 5th of February, 1815, between nine and ten
o’clock in the evening; and I plead guilty of death should I ever
violate this oath.’” The general appeared to be affected by a nervous
tremor, which prevented his answering for some moments; then,
overcoming his manifest repugnance, he pronounced the required oath,
but in so low a tone as to be scarcely audible to the majority of the
members, who insisted on his repeating it clearly and distinctly, which
he did.
“‘“Now am I at liberty to retire?” said the general. The president
rose, appointed three members to accompany him, and got into the
carriage with the general after bandaging his eyes. One of those three
members was the coachman who had driven them there. The other members
silently dispersed. “Where do you wish to be taken?” asked the
president.—“Anywhere out of your presence,” replied M. d’Épinay.
“Beware, sir,” replied the president, “you are no longer in the
assembly, and have only to do with individuals; do not insult them
unless you wish to be held responsible.” But instead of listening, M.
d’Épinay went on,—“You are still as brave in your carriage as in your
assembly because you are still four against one.” The president stopped
the coach. They were at that part of the Quai des Ormes where the steps
lead down to the river. “Why do you stop here?” asked d’Épinay.
“‘“Because, sir,” said the president, “you have insulted a man, and
that man will not go one step farther without demanding honorable
reparation.”
“‘“Another method of assassination?” said the general, shrugging his
shoulders.
“‘“Make no noise, sir, unless you wish me to consider you as one of the
men of whom you spoke just now as cowards, who take their weakness for
a shield. You are alone, one alone shall answer you; you have a sword
by your side, I have one in my cane; you have no witness, one of these
gentlemen will serve you. Now, if you please, remove your bandage.” The
general tore the handkerchief from his eyes. “At last,” said he, “I
shall know with whom I have to do.” They opened the door and the four
men alighted.’”
Franz again interrupted himself, and wiped the cold drops from his
brow; there was something awful in hearing the son read aloud in
trembling pallor these details of his father’s death, which had
hitherto been a mystery. Valentine clasped her hands as if in prayer.
Noirtier looked at Villefort with an almost sublime expression of
contempt and pride.
Franz continued:
“‘It was, as we said, the fifth of February. For three days the mercury
had been five or six degrees below freezing and the steps were covered
with ice. The general was stout and tall, the president offered him the
side of the railing to assist him in getting down. The two witnesses
followed. It was a dark night. The ground from the steps to the river
was covered with snow and hoarfrost, the water of the river looked
black and deep. One of the seconds went for a lantern in a coal-barge
near, and by its light they examined the weapons. The president’s
sword, which was simply, as he had said, one he carried in his cane,
was five inches shorter than the general’s, and had no guard. The
general proposed to cast lots for the swords, but the president said it
was he who had given the provocation, and when he had given it he had
supposed each would use his own arms. The witnesses endeavored to
insist, but the president bade them be silent. The lantern was placed
on the ground, the two adversaries took their stations, and the duel
began. The light made the two swords appear like flashes of lightning;
as for the men, they were scarcely perceptible, the darkness was so
great.
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“‘General d’Épinay passed for one of the best swordsmen in the army,
but he was pressed so closely in the onset that he missed his aim and
fell. The witnesses thought he was dead, but his adversary, who knew he
had not struck him, offered him the assistance of his hand to rise. The
circumstance irritated instead of calming the general, and he rushed on
his adversary. But his opponent did not allow his guard to be broken.
He received him on his sword and three times the general drew back on
finding himself too closely engaged, and then returned to the charge.
At the third he fell again. They thought he slipped, as at first, and
the witnesses, seeing he did not move, approached and endeavored to
raise him, but the one who passed his arm around the body found it was
moistened with blood. The general, who had almost fainted, revived.
“Ah,” said he, “they have sent some fencing-master to fight with me.”
The president, without answering, approached the witness who held the
lantern, and raising his sleeve, showed him two wounds he had received
in his arm; then opening his coat, and unbuttoning his waistcoat,
displayed his side, pierced with a third wound. Still he had not even
uttered a sigh. General d’Épinay died five minutes after.’”
Franz read these last words in a voice so choked that they were hardly
audible, and then stopped, passing his hand over his eyes as if to
dispel a cloud; but after a moment’s silence, he continued:
“‘The president went up the steps, after pushing his sword into his
cane; a track of blood on the snow marked his course. He had scarcely
arrived at the top when he heard a heavy splash in the water—it was the
general’s body, which the witnesses had just thrown into the river
after ascertaining that he was dead. The general fell, then, in a loyal
duel, and not in ambush as it might have been reported. In proof of
this we have signed this paper to establish the truth of the facts,
lest the moment should arrive when either of the actors in this
terrible scene should be accused of premeditated murder or of
infringement of the laws of honor.
“‘Signed, Beaurepaire, Duchampy, and Lecharpal.’”
When Franz had finished reading this account, so dreadful for a son;
when Valentine, pale with emotion, had wiped away a tear; when
Villefort, trembling, and crouched in a corner, had endeavored to
lessen the storm by supplicating glances at the implacable old man,—
“Sir,” said d’Épinay to Noirtier, “since you are well acquainted with
all these details, which are attested by honorable signatures,—since
you appear to take some interest in me, although you have only
manifested it hitherto by causing me sorrow, refuse me not one final
satisfaction—tell me the name of the president of the club, that I may
at least know who killed my father.”
Villefort mechanically felt for the handle of the door; Valentine, who
understood sooner than anyone her grandfather’s answer, and who had
often seen two scars upon his right arm, drew back a few steps.
“Mademoiselle,” said Franz, turning towards Valentine, “unite your
efforts with mine to find out the name of the man who made me an orphan
at two years of age.” Valentine remained dumb and motionless.
“Hold, sir,” said Villefort, “do not prolong this dreadful scene. The
names have been purposely concealed; my father himself does not know
who this president was, and if he knows, he cannot tell you; proper
names are not in the dictionary.”
“Oh, misery,” cried Franz: “the only hope which sustained me and
enabled me to read to the end was that of knowing, at least, the name
of him who killed my father! Sir, sir,” cried he, turning to Noirtier,
“do what you can—make me understand in some way!”
“Yes,” replied Noirtier.
“Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” cried Franz, “your grandfather says
he can indicate the person. Help me,—lend me your assistance!”
Noirtier looked at the dictionary. Franz took it with a nervous
trembling, and repeated the letters of the alphabet successively, until
he came to M. At that letter the old man signified “Yes.”
“M,” repeated Franz. The young man’s finger, glided over the words, but
at each one Noirtier answered by a negative sign. Valentine hid her
head between her hands. At length, Franz arrived at the word MYSELF.
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“Yes!”
“You!” cried Franz, whose hair stood on end; “you, M. Noirtier—you
killed my father?”
“Yes!” replied Noirtier, fixing a majestic look on the young man. Franz
fell powerless on a chair; Villefort opened the door and escaped, for
the idea had entered his mind to stifle the little remaining life in
the heart of this terrible old man.
Chapter 76. Progress of Cavalcanti the Younger
Meanwhile M. Cavalcanti the elder had returned to his service, not in
the army of his majesty the Emperor of Austria, but at the gaming-table
of the baths of Lucca, of which he was one of the most assiduous
courtiers. He had spent every farthing that had been allowed for his
journey as a reward for the majestic and solemn manner in which he had
maintained his assumed character of father.
M. Andrea at his departure inherited all the papers which proved that
he had indeed the honor of being the son of the Marquis Bartolomeo and
the Marchioness Oliva Corsinari. He was now fairly launched in that
Parisian society which gives such ready access to foreigners, and
treats them, not as they really are, but as they wish to be considered.
Besides, what is required of a young man in Paris? To speak its
language tolerably, to make a good appearance, to be a good gamester,
and to pay in cash. They are certainly less particular with a foreigner
than with a Frenchman. Andrea had, then, in a fortnight, attained a
very fair position. He was called count, he was said to possess 50,000
livres per annum; and his father’s immense riches, buried in the
quarries of Saravezza, were a constant theme. A learned man, before
whom the last circumstance was mentioned as a fact, declared he had
seen the quarries in question, which gave great weight to assertions
hitherto somewhat doubtful, but which now assumed the garb of reality.
Such was the state of society in Paris at the period we bring before
our readers, when Monte Cristo went one evening to pay M. Danglars a
visit. M. Danglars was out, but the count was asked to go and see the
baroness, and he accepted the invitation. It was never without a
nervous shudder, since the dinner at Auteuil, and the events which
followed it, that Madame Danglars heard Monte Cristo’s name announced.
If he did not come, the painful sensation became most intense; if, on
the contrary, he appeared, his noble countenance, his brilliant eyes,
his amiability, his polite attention even towards Madame Danglars, soon
dispelled every impression of fear. It appeared impossible to the
baroness that a man of such delightfully pleasing manners should
entertain evil designs against her; besides, the most corrupt minds
only suspect evil when it would answer some interested end—useless
injury is repugnant to every mind.
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When Monte Cristo entered the boudoir, to which we have already once
introduced our readers, and where the baroness was examining some
drawings, which her daughter passed to her after having looked at them
with M. Cavalcanti, his presence soon produced its usual effect, and it
was with smiles that the baroness received the count, although she had
been a little disconcerted at the announcement of his name. The latter
took in the whole scene at a glance.
The baroness was partially reclining on a sofa, Eugénie sat near her,
and Cavalcanti was standing. Cavalcanti, dressed in black, like one of
Goethe’s heroes, with varnished shoes and white silk open-worked