The Count of Monte Cristo
“When such resolutions are made, Albert, they should be promptly
executed. Do you wish to go to M. Danglars? Let us go immediately.”
They sent for a cabriolet. On entering the banker’s mansion, they
perceived the phaeton and servant of M. Andrea Cavalcanti.
“Ah! _parbleu!_ that’s good,” said Albert, with a gloomy tone. “If M.
Danglars will not fight with me, I will kill his son-in-law; Cavalcanti
will certainly fight.”
The servant announced the young man; but the banker, recollecting what
had transpired the day before, did not wish him admitted. It was,
however, too late; Albert had followed the footman, and, hearing the
order given, forced the door open, and followed by Beauchamp found
himself in the banker’s study.
“Sir,” cried the latter, “am I no longer at liberty to receive whom I
choose in my house? You appear to forget yourself sadly.”
“No, sir,” said Albert, coldly; “there are circumstances in which one
cannot, except through cowardice,—I offer you that refuge,—refuse to
admit certain persons at least.”
“What is your errand, then, with me, sir?”
“I mean,” said Albert, drawing near, and without apparently noticing
Cavalcanti, who stood with his back towards the fireplace—“I mean to
propose a meeting in some retired corner where no one will interrupt us
for ten minutes; that will be sufficient—where two men having met, one
of them will remain on the ground.”
Danglars turned pale; Cavalcanti moved a step forward, and Albert
turned towards him.
“And you, too,” said he, “come, if you like, monsieur; you have a
claim, being almost one of the family, and I will give as many
rendezvous of that kind as I can find persons willing to accept them.”
Cavalcanti looked at Danglars with a stupefied air, and the latter,
making an effort, arose and stepped between the two young men. Albert’s
attack on Andrea had placed him on a different footing, and he hoped
this visit had another cause than that he had at first supposed.
“Indeed, sir,” said he to Albert, “if you are come to quarrel with this
gentleman because I have preferred him to you, I shall resign the case
to the king’s attorney.”
“You mistake, sir,” said Morcerf with a gloomy smile; “I am not
referring in the least to matrimony, and I only addressed myself to M.
Cavalcanti because he appeared disposed to interfere between us. In one
respect you are right, for I am ready to quarrel with everyone today;
but you have the first claim, M. Danglars.”
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“Sir,” replied Danglars, pale with anger and fear, “I warn you, when I
have the misfortune to meet with a mad dog, I kill it; and far from
thinking myself guilty of a crime, I believe I do society a kindness.
Now, if you are mad and try to bite me, I will kill you without pity.
Is it my fault that your father has dishonored himself?”
“Yes, miserable wretch!” cried Morcerf, “it is your fault.”
Danglars retreated a few steps. “My fault?” said he; “you must be mad!
What do I know of the Grecian affair? Have I travelled in that country?
Did I advise your father to sell the castle of Yanina—to betray——”
“Silence!” said Albert, with a thundering voice. “No; it is not you who
have directly made this exposure and brought this sorrow on us, but you
hypocritically provoked it.”
“I?”
“Yes; you! How came it known?”
“I suppose you read it in the paper in the account from Yanina?”
“Who wrote to Yanina?”
“To Yanina?”
“Yes. Who wrote for particulars concerning my father?”
“I imagine anyone may write to Yanina.”
“But one person only wrote!”
“One only?”
“Yes; and that was you!”
“I, doubtless, wrote. It appears to me that when about to marry your
daughter to a young man, it is right to make some inquiries respecting
his family; it is not only a right, but a duty.”
“You wrote, sir, knowing what answer you would receive.”
“I, indeed? I assure you,” cried Danglars, with a confidence and
security proceeding less from fear than from the interest he really
felt for the young man, “I solemnly declare to you, that I should never
have thought of writing to Yanina, did I know anything of Ali Pasha’s
misfortunes.”
“Who, then, urged you to write? Tell me.”
“_Pardieu!_ it was the most simple thing in the world. I was speaking
of your father’s past history. I said the origin of his fortune
remained obscure. The person to whom I addressed my scruples asked me
where your father had acquired his property? I answered, ‘In
Greece.’—‘Then,’ said he, ‘write to Yanina.’”
“And who thus advised you?”
“No other than your friend, Monte Cristo.”
“The Count of Monte Cristo told you to write to Yanina?”
“Yes; and I wrote, and will show you my correspondence, if you like.”
Albert and Beauchamp looked at each other.
“Sir,” said Beauchamp, who had not yet spoken, “you appear to accuse
the count, who is absent from Paris at this moment, and cannot justify
himself.”
“I accuse no one, sir,” said Danglars; “I relate, and I will repeat
before the count what I have said to you.”
“Does the count know what answer you received?”
“Yes; I showed it to him.”
“Did he know my father’s Christian name was Fernand, and his family
name Mondego?”
“Yes, I had told him that long since, and I did only what any other
would have done in my circumstances, and perhaps less. When, the day
after the arrival of this answer, your father came by the advice of
Monte Cristo to ask my daughter’s hand for you, I decidedly refused
him, but without any explanation or exposure. In short, why should I
have any more to do with the affair? How did the honor or disgrace of
M. de Morcerf affect me? It neither increased nor decreased my income.”
Albert felt the blood mounting to his brow; there was no doubt upon the
subject. Danglars defended himself with the baseness, but at the same
time with the assurance, of a man who speaks the truth, at least in
part, if not wholly—not for conscience’ sake, but through fear.
Besides, what was Morcerf seeking? It was not whether Danglars or Monte
Cristo was more or less guilty; it was a man who would answer for the
offence, whether trifling or serious; it was a man who would fight, and
it was evident Danglars would not fight.
In addition to this, everything forgotten or unperceived before
presented itself now to his recollection. Monte Cristo knew everything,
as he had bought the daughter of Ali Pasha; and, knowing everything, he
had advised Danglars to write to Yanina. The answer known, he had
yielded to Albert’s wish to be introduced to Haydée, and allowed the
conversation to turn on the death of Ali, and had not opposed Haydée’s
recital (but having, doubtless, warned the young girl, in the few
Romaic words he spoke to her, not to implicate Morcerf’s father).
Besides, had he not begged of Morcerf not to mention his father’s name
before Haydée? Lastly, he had taken Albert to Normandy when he knew the
final blow was near. There could be no doubt that all had been
calculated and previously arranged; Monte Cristo then was in league
with his father’s enemies. Albert took Beauchamp aside, and
communicated these ideas to him.
“You are right,” said the latter; “M. Danglars has only been a
secondary agent in this sad affair, and it is of M. de Monte Cristo
that you must demand an explanation.”
Albert turned.
“Sir,” said he to Danglars, “understand that I do not take a final
leave of you; I must ascertain if your insinuations are just, and am
going now to inquire of the Count of Monte Cristo.”
He bowed to the banker, and went out with Beauchamp, without appearing
to notice Cavalcanti. Danglars accompanied him to the door, where he
again assured Albert that no motive of personal hatred had influenced
him against the Count of Morcerf.
Chapter 88. The Insult
At the banker’s door Beauchamp stopped Morcerf.
“Listen,” said he; “just now I told you it was of M. de Monte Cristo
you must demand an explanation.”
“Yes; and we are going to his house.”
“Reflect, Morcerf, one moment before you go.”
“On what shall I reflect?”
“On the importance of the step you are taking.”
“Is it more serious than going to M. Danglars?”
“Yes; M. Danglars is a money-lover, and those who love money, you know,
think too much of what they risk to be easily induced to fight a duel.
The other is, on the contrary, to all appearance a true nobleman; but
do you not fear to find him a bully?”
“I only fear one thing; namely, to find a man who will not fight.”
“Do not be alarmed,” said Beauchamp; “he will meet you. My only fear is
that he will be too strong for you.”
“My friend,” said Morcerf, with a sweet smile, “that is what I wish.
The happiest thing that could occur to me, would be to die in my
father’s stead; that would save us all.”
“Your mother would die of grief.”
“My poor mother!” said Albert, passing his hand across his eyes, “I
know she would; but better so than die of shame.”
“Are you quite decided, Albert?”
“Yes; let us go.”
“But do you think we shall find the count at home?”
“He intended returning some hours after me, and doubtless he is now at
home.”
They ordered the driver to take them to No. 30 Champs-Élysées.
Beauchamp wished to go in alone, but Albert observed that as this was
an unusual circumstance he might be allowed to deviate from the usual
etiquette of duels. The cause which the young man espoused was one so
sacred that Beauchamp had only to comply with all his wishes; he
yielded and contented himself with following Morcerf. Albert sprang
from the porter’s lodge to the steps. He was received by Baptistin. The
count had, indeed, just arrived, but he was in his bath, and had
forbidden that anyone should be admitted.
“But after his bath?” asked Morcerf.
“My master will go to dinner.”
“And after dinner?”
“He will sleep an hour.”
“Then?”
“He is going to the Opera.”
“Are you sure of it?” asked Albert.
“Quite, sir; my master has ordered his horses at eight o’clock
precisely.”
“Very good,” replied Albert; “that is all I wished to know.”
Then, turning towards Beauchamp, “If you have anything to attend to,
Beauchamp, do it directly; if you have any appointment for this
evening, defer it till tomorrow. I depend on you to accompany me to the
Opera; and if you can, bring Château-Renaud with you.”
Beauchamp availed himself of Albert’s permission, and left him,
promising to call for him at a quarter before eight. On his return
home, Albert expressed his wish to Franz Debray, and Morrel, to see
them at the Opera that evening. Then he went to see his mother, who
since the events of the day before had refused to see anyone, and had
kept her room. He found her in bed, overwhelmed with grief at this
public humiliation.
The sight of Albert produced the effect which might naturally be
expected on Mercédès; she pressed her son’s hand and sobbed aloud, but
her tears relieved her. Albert stood one moment speechless by the side
of his mother’s bed. It was evident from his pale face and knit brows
that his resolution to revenge himself was growing weaker.
“My dear mother,” said he, “do you know if M. de Morcerf has any
enemy?”
Mercédès started; she noticed that the young man did not say “my
father.”
“My son,” she said, “persons in the count’s situation have many secret
enemies. Those who are known are not the most dangerous.”
“I know it, and appeal to your penetration. You are of so superior a
mind, nothing escapes you.”
“Why do you say so?”
“Because, for instance, you noticed on the evening of the ball we gave,
that M. de Monte Cristo would eat nothing in our house.”
Mercédès raised herself on her feverish arm.
“M. de Monte Cristo!” she exclaimed; “and how is he connected with the
question you asked me?”
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“You know, mother, M. de Monte Cristo is almost an Oriental, and it is