The Count of Monte Cristo
“The truth, my dear count. Oh, how happy you must be in not having
either wife or children!”
“Do you think so?”
“Indeed I do.”
“And so Mademoiselle Danglars——”
“She could not endure the insult offered to us by that wretch, so she
asked permission to travel.”
“And is she gone?”
“The other night she left.”
“With Madame Danglars?”
“No, with a relation. But still, we have quite lost our dear Eugénie;
for I doubt whether her pride will ever allow her to return to France.”
“Still, baron,” said Monte Cristo, “family griefs, or indeed any other
affliction which would crush a man whose child was his only treasure,
are endurable to a millionaire. Philosophers may well say, and
practical men will always support the opinion, that money mitigates
many trials; and if you admit the efficacy of this sovereign balm, you
ought to be very easily consoled—you, the king of finance, the focus of
immeasurable power.”
Danglars looked at him askance, as though to ascertain whether he spoke
seriously.
“Yes,” he answered, “if a fortune brings consolation, I ought to be
consoled; I am rich.”
“So rich, dear sir, that your fortune resembles the pyramids; if you
wished to demolish them you could not, and if it were possible, you
would not dare!”
Danglars smiled at the good-natured pleasantry of the count. “That
reminds me,” he said, “that when you entered I was on the point of
signing five little bonds; I have already signed two: will you allow me
to do the same to the others?”
“Pray do so.”
There was a moment’s silence, during which the noise of the banker’s
pen was alone heard, while Monte Cristo examined the gilt mouldings on
the ceiling.
“Are they Spanish, Haitian, or Neapolitan bonds?” said Monte Cristo.
“No,” said Danglars, smiling, “they are bonds on the bank of France,
payable to bearer. Stay, count,” he added, “you, who may be called the
emperor, if I claim the title of king of finance, have you many pieces
of paper of this size, each worth a million?”
The count took into his hands the papers, which Danglars had so proudly
presented to him, and read:—
“‘To the Governor of the Bank. Please pay to my order, from the fund
deposited by me, the sum of a million, and charge the same to my
account.
“Baron Danglars.’”
“One, two, three, four, five,” said Monte Cristo; “five millions—why
what a Crœsus you are!”
“This is how I transact business,” said Danglars.
“It is really wonderful,” said the count; “above all, if, as I suppose,
it is payable at sight.”
“It is, indeed,” said Danglars.
“It is a fine thing to have such credit; really, it is only in France
these things are done. Five millions on five little scraps of paper!—it
must be seen to be believed.”
“You do not doubt it?”
“No!”
“You say so with an accent—stay, you shall be convinced; take my clerk
to the bank, and you will see him leave it with an order on the
Treasury for the same sum.”
“No,” said Monte Cristo folding the five notes, “most decidedly not;
the thing is so curious, I will make the experiment myself. I am
credited on you for six millions. I have drawn nine hundred thousand
francs, you therefore still owe me five millions and a hundred thousand
francs. I will take the five scraps of paper that I now hold as bonds,
with your signature alone, and here is a receipt in full for the six
millions between us. I had prepared it beforehand, for I am much in
want of money today.”
And Monte Cristo placed the bonds in his pocket with one hand, while
with the other he held out the receipt to Danglars. If a thunderbolt
had fallen at the banker’s feet, he could not have experienced greater
terror.
“What,” he stammered, “do you mean to keep that money? Excuse me,
excuse me, but I owe this money to the charity fund,—a deposit which I
promised to pay this morning.”
“Oh, well, then,” said Monte Cristo, “I am not particular about these
five notes, pay me in a different form; I wished, from curiosity, to
take these, that I might be able to say that without any advice or
preparation the house of Danglars had paid me five millions without a
minute’s delay; it would have been remarkable. But here are your bonds;
pay me differently;” and he held the bonds towards Danglars, who seized
them like a vulture extending its claws to withhold the food that is
being wrested from its grasp.
Suddenly he rallied, made a violent effort to restrain himself, and
then a smile gradually widened the features of his disturbed
countenance.
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“Certainly,” he said, “your receipt is money.”
“Oh dear, yes; and if you were at Rome, the house of Thomson & French
would make no more difficulty about paying the money on my receipt than
you have just done.”
“Pardon me, count, pardon me.”
“Then I may keep this money?”
“Yes,” said Danglars, while the perspiration started from the roots of
his hair. “Yes, keep it—keep it.”
Monte Cristo replaced the notes in his pocket with that indescribable
expression which seemed to say, “Come, reflect; if you repent there is
still time.”
“No,” said Danglars, “no, decidedly no; keep my signatures. But you
know none are so formal as bankers in transacting business; I intended
this money for the charity fund, and I seemed to be robbing them if I
did not pay them with these precise bonds. How absurd—as if one crown
were not as good as another. Excuse me;” and he began to laugh loudly,
but nervously.
“Certainly, I excuse you,” said Monte Cristo graciously, “and pocket
them.” And he placed the bonds in his pocket-book.
“But,” said Danglars, “there is still a sum of one hundred thousand
francs?”
“Oh, a mere nothing,” said Monte Cristo. “The balance would come to
about that sum; but keep it, and we shall be quits.”
“Count,” said Danglars, “are you speaking seriously?”
“I never joke with bankers,” said Monte Cristo in a freezing manner,
which repelled impertinence; and he turned to the door, just as the
valet de chambre announced:
“M. de Boville, Receiver-General of the charities.”
“_Ma foi_,” said Monte Cristo; “I think I arrived just in time to
obtain your signatures, or they would have been disputed with me.”
Danglars again became pale, and hastened to conduct the count out.
Monte Cristo exchanged a ceremonious bow with M. de Boville, who was
standing in the waiting-room, and who was introduced into Danglars’
room as soon as the count had left.
The count’s serious face was illumined by a faint smile, as he noticed
the portfolio which the receiver-general held in his hand. At the door
he found his carriage, and was immediately driven to the bank.
Meanwhile Danglars, repressing all emotion, advanced to meet the
receiver-general. We need not say that a smile of condescension was
stamped upon his lips.
“Good-morning, creditor,” said he; “for I wager anything it is the
creditor who visits me.”
“You are right, baron,” answered M. de Boville; “the charities present
themselves to you through me; the widows and orphans depute me to
receive alms to the amount of five millions from you.”
“And yet they say orphans are to be pitied,” said Danglars, wishing to
prolong the jest. “Poor things!”
“Here I am in their name,” said M. de Boville; “but did you receive my
letter yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“I have brought my receipt.”
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“My dear M. de Boville, your widows and orphans must oblige me by
waiting twenty-four hours, since M. de Monte Cristo whom you just saw
leaving here—you did see him, I think?”
“Yes; well?”
“Well, M. de Monte Cristo has just carried off their five millions.”
“How so?”
“The count has an unlimited credit upon me; a credit opened by Thomson
& French, of Rome; he came to demand five millions at once, which I
paid him with checks on the bank. My funds are deposited there, and you
can understand that if I draw out ten millions on the same day it will
appear rather strange to the governor. Two days will be a different
thing,” said Danglars, smiling.
“Come,” said Boville, with a tone of entire incredulity, “five millions
to that gentleman who just left, and who bowed to me as though he knew
me?”
“Perhaps he knows you, though you do not know him; M. de Monte Cristo
knows everybody.”
“Five millions!”
“Here is his receipt. Believe your own eyes.” M. de Boville took the
paper Danglars presented him, and read:
“Received of Baron Danglars the sum of five million one hundred
thousand francs, to be repaid on demand by the house of Thomson &
French of Rome.”
“It is really true,” said M. de Boville.
“Do you know the house of Thomson & French?”
“Yes, I once had business to transact with it to the amount of 200,000
francs; but since then I have not heard it mentioned.”
“It is one of the best houses in Europe,” said Danglars, carelessly
throwing down the receipt on his desk.
“And he had five millions in your hands alone! Why, this Count of Monte
Cristo must be a nabob?”
“Indeed I do not know what he is; he has three unlimited credits—one on
me, one on Rothschild, one on Lafitte; and, you see,” he added
carelessly, “he has given me the preference, by leaving a balance of
100,000 francs.”
M. de Boville manifested signs of extraordinary admiration.
“I must visit him,” he said, “and obtain some pious grant from him.”
“Oh, you may make sure of him; his charities alone amount to 20,000
francs a month.”
“It is magnificent! I will set before him the example of Madame de
Morcerf and her son.”
“What example?”
“They gave all their fortune to the hospitals.”
“What fortune?”
“Their own—M. de Morcerf’s, who is deceased.”
“For what reason?”
“Because they would not spend money so guiltily acquired.”
“And what are they to live upon?”
“The mother retires into the country, and the son enters the army.”
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“Well, I must confess, these are scruples.”
“I registered their deed of gift yesterday.”
“And how much did they possess?”
“Oh, not much—from twelve to thirteen hundred thousand francs. But to
return to our millions.”
“Certainly,” said Danglars, in the most natural tone in the world. “Are
you then pressed for this money?”
“Yes; for the examination of our cash takes place tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Why did you not tell me so before? Why, it is as good as a
century! At what hour does the examination take place?”
“At two o’clock.”
“Send at twelve,” said Danglars, smiling.
M. de Boville said nothing, but nodded his head, and took up the
portfolio.
“Now I think of it, you can do better,” said Danglars.
“How do you mean?”
“The receipt of M. de Monte Cristo is as good as money; take it to
Rothschild’s or Lafitte’s, and they will take it off your hands at
once.”
“What, though payable at Rome?”
“Certainly; it will only cost you a discount of 5,000 or 6,000 francs.”
The receiver started back.
“_Ma foi!_” he said, “I prefer waiting till tomorrow. What a
proposition!”
“I thought, perhaps,” said Danglars with supreme impertinence, “that
you had a deficiency to make up?”
“Indeed,” said the receiver.
“And if that were the case it would be worth while to make some
sacrifice.”
“Thank you, no, sir.”
“Then it will be tomorrow.”
“Yes; but without fail.”
“Ah, you are laughing at me; send tomorrow at twelve, and the bank
shall be notified.”
“I will come myself.”
“Better still, since it will afford me the pleasure of seeing you.”
They shook hands.
“By the way,” said M. de Boville, “are you not going to the funeral of
poor Mademoiselle de Villefort, which I met on my road here?”
“No,” said the banker; “I have appeared rather ridiculous since that
affair of Benedetto, so I remain in the background.”
“Bah, you are wrong. How were you to blame in that affair?”
“Listen—when one bears an irreproachable name, as I do, one is rather
sensitive.”