The Count of Monte Cristo
“Ah,” said Morrel, falling from the height of excitement to the abyss
of despair—“ah, you are playing with me, like those good, or rather
selfish mothers who soothe their children with honeyed words, because
their screams annoy them. No, my friend, I was wrong to caution you; do
not fear, I will bury my grief so deep in my heart, I will disguise it
so, that you shall not even care to sympathize with me. Adieu, my
friend, adieu!”
“On the contrary,” said the count, “after this time you must live with
me—you must not leave me, and in a week we shall have left France
behind us.”
“And you still bid me hope?”
“I tell you to hope, because I have a method of curing you.”
“Count, you render me sadder than before, if it be possible. You think
the result of this blow has been to produce an ordinary grief, and you
would cure it by an ordinary remedy—change of scene.” And Morrel
dropped his head with disdainful incredulity.
“What can I say more?” asked Monte Cristo. “I have confidence in the
remedy I propose, and only ask you to permit me to assure you of its
efficacy.”
“Count, you prolong my agony.”
“Then,” said the count, “your feeble spirit will not even grant me the
trial I request? Come—do you know of what the Count of Monte Cristo is
capable? do you know that he holds terrestrial beings under his
control? nay, that he can almost work a miracle? Well, wait for the
miracle I hope to accomplish, or——”
“Or?” repeated Morrel.
“Or, take care, Morrel, lest I call you ungrateful.”
“Have pity on me, count!”
“I feel so much pity towards you, Maximilian, that—listen to me
attentively—if I do not cure you in a month, to the day, to the very
hour, mark my words, Morrel, I will place loaded pistols before you,
and a cup of the deadliest Italian poison—a poison more sure and prompt
than that which has killed Valentine.”
“Will you promise me?”
“Yes; for I am a man, and have suffered like yourself, and also
contemplated suicide; indeed, often since misfortune has left me I have
longed for the delights of an eternal sleep.”
“But you are sure you will promise me this?” said Morrel, intoxicated.
“I not only promise, but swear it!” said Monte Cristo extending his
hand.
“In a month, then, on your honor, if I am not consoled, you will let me
take my life into my own hands, and whatever may happen you will not
call me ungrateful?”
“In a month, to the day, the very hour and the date is a sacred one,
Maximilian. I do not know whether you remember that this is the 5th of
September; it is ten years today since I saved your father’s life, who
wished to die.”
Morrel seized the count’s hand and kissed it; the count allowed him to
pay the homage he felt due to him.
“In a month you will find on the table, at which we shall be then
sitting, good pistols and a delicious draught; but, on the other hand,
you must promise me not to attempt your life before that time.”
“Oh, I also swear it!”
Monte Cristo drew the young man towards him, and pressed him for some
time to his heart. “And now,” he said, “after today, you will come and
live with me; you can occupy Haydée’s apartment, and my daughter will
at least be replaced by my son.”
“Haydée?” said Morrel, “what has become of her?”
“She departed last night.”
“To leave you?”
“To wait for me. Hold yourself ready then to join me at the
Champs-Élysées, and lead me out of this house without anyone seeing my
departure.”
Maximilian hung his head, and obeyed with childlike reverence.
Chapter 106. Dividing the Proceeds
The apartment on the first floor of the house in the Rue
Saint-Germain-des-Prés, where Albert de Morcerf had selected a home for
his mother, was let to a very mysterious person. This was a man whose
face the concierge himself had never seen, for in the winter his chin
was buried in one of the large red handkerchiefs worn by gentlemen’s
coachmen on a cold night, and in the summer he made a point of always
blowing his nose just as he approached the door. Contrary to custom,
this gentleman had not been watched, for as the report ran that he was
a person of high rank, and one who would allow no impertinent
interference, his _incognito_ was strictly respected.
His visits were tolerably regular, though occasionally he appeared a
little before or after his time, but generally, both in summer and
winter, he took possession of his apartment about four o’clock, though
he never spent the night there. At half-past three in the winter the
fire was lighted by the discreet servant, who had the superintendence
of the little apartment, and in the summer ices were placed on the
table at the same hour. At four o’clock, as we have already stated, the
mysterious personage arrived.
Twenty minutes afterwards a carriage stopped at the house, a lady
alighted in a black or dark blue dress, and always thickly veiled; she
passed like a shadow through the lodge, and ran upstairs without a
sound escaping under the touch of her light foot. No one ever asked her
where she was going. Her face, therefore, like that of the gentleman,
was perfectly unknown to the two concierges, who were perhaps
unequalled throughout the capital for discretion. We need not say she
stopped at the first floor. Then she tapped in a peculiar manner at a
door, which after being opened to admit her was again fastened, and
curiosity penetrated no farther. They used the same precautions in
leaving as in entering the house. The lady always left first, and as
soon as she had stepped into her carriage, it drove away, sometimes
towards the right hand, sometimes to the left; then about twenty
minutes afterwards the gentleman would also leave, buried in his cravat
or concealed by his handkerchief.
The day after Monte Cristo had called upon Danglars, the mysterious
lodger entered at ten o’clock in the morning instead of four in the
afternoon. Almost directly afterwards, without the usual interval of
time, a cab arrived, and the veiled lady ran hastily upstairs. The door
opened, but before it could be closed, the lady exclaimed:
“Oh, Lucien—oh, my friend!”
The concierge therefore heard for the first time that the lodger’s name
was Lucien; still, as he was the very perfection of a door-keeper, he
made up his mind not to tell his wife.
“Well, what is the matter, my dear?” asked the gentleman whose name the
lady’s agitation revealed; “tell me what is the matter.”
“Oh, Lucien, can I confide in you?”
“Of course, you know you can do so. But what can be the matter? Your
note of this morning has completely bewildered me. This
precipitation—this unusual appointment. Come, ease me of my anxiety, or
else frighten me at once.”
“Lucien, a great event has happened!” said the lady, glancing
inquiringly at Lucien,—“M. Danglars left last night!”
“Left?—M. Danglars left? Where has he gone?”
“I do not know.”
“What do you mean? Has he gone intending not to return?”
“Undoubtedly;—at ten o’clock at night his horses took him to the
barrier of Charenton; there a post-chaise was waiting for him—he
entered it with his valet de chambre, saying that he was going to
Fontainebleau.”
“Then what did you mean——”
“Stay—he left a letter for me.”
“A letter?”
“Yes; read it.”
And the baroness took from her pocket a letter which she gave to
Debray. Debray paused a moment before reading, as if trying to guess
its contents, or perhaps while making up his mind how to act, whatever
it might contain. No doubt his ideas were arranged in a few minutes,
for he began reading the letter which caused so much uneasiness in the
heart of the baroness, and which ran as follows:
“‘Madame and most faithful wife.’”
Debray mechanically stopped and looked at the baroness, whose face
became covered with blushes.
“Read,” she said.
Debray continued:
“‘When you receive this, you will no longer have a husband. Oh, you
need not be alarmed, you will only have lost him as you have lost your
daughter; I mean that I shall be travelling on one of the thirty or
forty roads leading out of France. I owe you some explanations for my
conduct, and as you are a woman that can perfectly understand me, I
will give them. Listen, then. I received this morning five millions
which I paid away; almost directly afterwards another demand for the
same sum was presented to me; I put this creditor off till tomorrow and
I intend leaving today, to escape that tomorrow, which would be rather
too unpleasant for me to endure. You understand this, do you not, my
most precious wife? I say you understand this, because you are as
conversant with my affairs as I am; indeed, I think you understand them
better, since I am ignorant of what has become of a considerable
portion of my fortune, once very tolerable, while I am sure, madame,
that you know perfectly well. For women have infallible instincts; they
can even explain the marvellous by an algebraic calculation they have
invented; but I, who only understand my own figures, know nothing more
than that one day these figures deceived me. Have you admired the
rapidity of my fall? Have you been slightly dazzled at the sudden
fusion of my ingots? I confess I have seen nothing but the fire; let us
hope you have found some gold among the ashes. With this consoling
idea, I leave you, madame, and most prudent wife, without any
conscientious reproach for abandoning you; you have friends left, and
the ashes I have already mentioned, and above all the liberty I hasten
to restore to you. And here, madame, I must add another word of
explanation. So long as I hoped you were working for the good of our
house and for the fortune of our daughter, I philosophically closed my
eyes; but as you have transformed that house into a vast ruin I will
not be the foundation of another man’s fortune. You were rich when I
married you, but little respected. Excuse me for speaking so very
candidly, but as this is intended only for ourselves, I do not see why
I should weigh my words. I have augmented our fortune, and it has
continued to increase during the last fifteen years, till extraordinary
and unexpected catastrophes have suddenly overturned it,—without any
fault of mine, I can honestly declare. You, madame, have only sought to
increase your own, and I am convinced that you have succeeded. I leave
you, therefore, as I took you,—rich, but little respected. Adieu! I
also intend from this time to work on my own account. Accept my
acknowledgments for the example you have set me, and which I intend
following.
“‘Your very devoted husband,
“‘Baron Danglars.’”
The baroness had watched Debray while he read this long and painful
letter, and saw him, notwithstanding his self-control, change color
once or twice. When he had ended the perusal, he folded the letter and
resumed his pensive attitude.
“Well?” asked Madame Danglars, with an anxiety easy to be understood.
“Well, madame?” unhesitatingly repeated Debray.
“With what ideas does that letter inspire you?”
“Oh, it is simple enough, madame; it inspires me with the idea that M.
Danglars has left suspiciously.”
“Certainly; but is this all you have to say to me?”
“I do not understand you,” said Debray with freezing coldness.
“He is gone! Gone, never to return!”
“Oh, madame, do not think that!”
“I tell you he will never return. I know his character; he is
inflexible in any resolutions formed for his own interests. If he could
have made any use of me, he would have taken me with him; he leaves me
in Paris, as our separation will conduce to his benefit;—therefore he
has gone, and I am free forever,” added Madame Danglars, in the same
supplicating tone.
Debray, instead of answering, allowed her to remain in an attitude of
nervous inquiry.
“Well?” she said at length, “do you not answer me?”