The Count of Monte Cristo
“I have but one question to ask you,—what do you intend to do?”
“I was going to ask you,” replied the baroness with a beating heart.
“Ah, then, you wish to ask advice of me?”
“Yes; I do wish to ask your advice,” said Madame Danglars with anxious
expectation.
“Then if you wish to take my advice,” said the young man coldly, “I
would recommend you to travel.”
“To travel!” she murmured.
“Certainly; as M. Danglars says, you are rich, and perfectly free. In
my opinion, a withdrawal from Paris is absolutely necessary after the
double catastrophe of Mademoiselle Danglars’ broken contract and M.
Danglars’ disappearance. The world will think you abandoned and poor,
for the wife of a bankrupt would never be forgiven, were she to keep up
an appearance of opulence. You have only to remain in Paris for about a
fortnight, telling the world you are abandoned, and relating the
details of this desertion to your best friends, who will soon spread
the report. Then you can quit your house, leaving your jewels and
giving up your jointure, and everyone’s mouth will be filled with
praises of your disinterestedness. They will know you are deserted, and
think you also poor, for I alone know your real financial position, and
am quite ready to give up my accounts as an honest partner.”
The dread with which the pale and motionless baroness listened to this,
was equalled by the calm indifference with which Debray had spoken.
“Deserted?” she repeated; “ah, yes, I am, indeed, deserted! You are
right, sir, and no one can doubt my position.”
These were the only words that this proud and violently enamoured woman
could utter in response to Debray.
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“But then you are rich,—very rich, indeed,” continued Debray, taking
out some papers from his pocket-book, which he spread upon the table.
Madame Danglars did not see them; she was engaged in stilling the
beatings of her heart, and restraining the tears which were ready to
gush forth. At length a sense of dignity prevailed, and if she did not
entirely master her agitation, she at least succeeded in preventing the
fall of a single tear.
“Madame,” said Debray, “it is nearly six months since we have been
associated. You furnished a principal of 100,000 francs. Our
partnership began in the month of April. In May we commenced
operations, and in the course of the month gained 450,000 francs. In
June the profit amounted to 900,000. In July we added 1,700,000
francs,—it was, you know, the month of the Spanish bonds. In August we
lost 300,000 francs at the beginning of the month, but on the 13th we
made up for it, and we now find that our accounts, reckoning from the
first day of partnership up to yesterday, when I closed them, showed a
capital of 2,400,000 francs, that is, 1,200,000 for each of us. Now,
madame,” said Debray, delivering up his accounts in the methodical
manner of a stockbroker, “there are still 80,000 francs, the interest
of this money, in my hands.”
“But,” said the baroness, “I thought you never put the money out to
interest.”
“Excuse me, madame,” said Debray coldly, “I had your permission to do
so, and I have made use of it. There are, then, 40,000 francs for your
share, besides the 100,000 you furnished me to begin with, making in
all 1,340,000 francs for your portion. Now, madame, I took the
precaution of drawing out your money the day before yesterday; it is
not long ago, you see, and I was in continual expectation of being
called on to deliver up my accounts. There is your money,—half in
bank-notes, the other half in checks payable to bearer. I say _there_,
for as I did not consider my house safe enough, or lawyers sufficiently
discreet, and as landed property carries evidence with it, and moreover
since you have no right to possess anything independent of your
husband, I have kept this sum, now your whole fortune, in a chest
concealed under that closet, and for greater security I myself
concealed it there.
“Now, madame,” continued Debray, first opening the closet, then the
chest;—“now, madame, here are 800 notes of 1,000 francs each,
resembling, as you see, a large book bound in iron; to this I add a
certificate in the funds of 25,000 francs; then, for the odd cash,
making I think about 110,000 francs, here is a check upon my banker,
who, not being M. Danglars, will pay you the amount, you may rest
assured.”
Madame Danglars mechanically took the check, the bond, and the heap of
bank-notes. This enormous fortune made no great appearance on the
table. Madame Danglars, with tearless eyes, but with her breast heaving
with concealed emotion, placed the bank-notes in her bag, put the
certificate and check into her pocket-book, and then, standing pale and
mute, awaited one kind word of consolation.
But she waited in vain.
“Now, madame,” said Debray, “you have a splendid fortune, an income of
about 60,000 livres a year, which is enormous for a woman who cannot
keep an establishment here for a year, at least. You will be able to
indulge all your fancies; besides, should you find your income
insufficient, you can, for the sake of the past, madame, make use of
mine; and I am ready to offer you all I possess, on loan.”
“Thank you, sir—thank you,” replied the baroness; “you forget that what
you have just paid me is much more than a poor woman requires, who
intends for some time, at least, to retire from the world.”
Debray was, for a moment, surprised, but immediately recovering
himself, he bowed with an air which seemed to say, “As you please,
madame.”
Madame Danglars had until then, perhaps, hoped for something; but when
she saw the careless bow of Debray, and the glance by which it was
accompanied, together with his significant silence, she raised her
head, and without passion or violence or even hesitation, ran
downstairs, disdaining to address a last farewell to one who could thus
part from her.
“Bah,” said Debray, when she had left, “these are fine projects! She
will remain at home, read novels, and speculate at cards, since she can
no longer do so on the Bourse.”
Then taking up his account book, he cancelled with the greatest care
all the entries of the amounts he had just paid away.
“I have 1,060,000 francs remaining,” he said. “What a pity Mademoiselle
de Villefort is dead! She suited me in every respect, and I would have
married her.”
And he calmly waited until the twenty minutes had elapsed after Madame
Danglars’ departure before he left the house. During this time he
occupied himself in making figures, with his watch by his side.
Asmodeus—that diabolical personage, who would have been created by
every fertile imagination if Le Sage had not acquired the priority in
his great masterpiece—would have enjoyed a singular spectacle, if he
had lifted up the roof of the little house in the Rue
Saint-Germain-des-Prés, while Debray was casting up his figures.
Above the room in which Debray had been dividing two millions and a
half with Madame Danglars was another, inhabited by persons who have
played too prominent a part in the incidents we have related for their
appearance not to create some interest.
Mercédès and Albert were in that room.
Mercédès was much changed within the last few days; not that even in
her days of fortune she had ever dressed with the magnificent display
which makes us no longer able to recognize a woman when she appears in
a plain and simple attire; nor indeed, had she fallen into that state
of depression where it is impossible to conceal the garb of misery; no,
the change in Mercédès was that her eye no longer sparkled, her lips no
longer smiled, and there was now a hesitation in uttering the words
which formerly sprang so fluently from her ready wit.
It was not poverty which had broken her spirit; it was not a want of
courage which rendered her poverty burdensome. Mercédès, although
deposed from the exalted position she had occupied, lost in the sphere
she had now chosen, like a person passing from a room splendidly
lighted into utter darkness, appeared like a queen, fallen from her
palace to a hovel, and who, reduced to strict necessity, could neither
become reconciled to the earthen vessels she was herself forced to
place upon the table, nor to the humble pallet which had become her
bed.
The beautiful Catalane and noble countess had lost both her proud
glance and charming smile, because she saw nothing but misery around
her; the walls were hung with one of the gray papers which economical
landlords choose as not likely to show the dirt; the floor was
uncarpeted; the furniture attracted the attention to the poor attempt
at luxury; indeed, everything offended eyes accustomed to refinement
and elegance.
Madame de Morcerf had lived there since leaving her house; the
continual silence of the spot oppressed her; still, seeing that Albert
continually watched her countenance to judge the state of her feelings,
she constrained herself to assume a monotonous smile of the lips alone,
which, contrasted with the sweet and beaming expression that usually
shone from her eyes, seemed like “moonlight on a statue,”—yielding
light without warmth.
Albert, too, was ill at ease; the remains of luxury prevented him from
sinking into his actual position. If he wished to go out without
gloves, his hands appeared too white; if he wished to walk through the
town, his boots seemed too highly polished. Yet these two noble and
intelligent creatures, united by the indissoluble ties of maternal and
filial love, had succeeded in tacitly understanding one another, and
economizing their stores, and Albert had been able to tell his mother
without extorting a change of countenance:
“Mother, we have no more money.”
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Mercédès had never known misery; she had often, in her youth, spoken of
poverty, but between want and necessity, those synonymous words, there
is a wide difference.
Amongst the Catalans, Mercédès wished for a thousand things, but still
she never really wanted any. So long as the nets were good, they caught
fish; and so long as they sold their fish, they were able to buy twine
for new nets. And then, shut out from friendship, having but one
affection, which could not be mixed up with her ordinary pursuits, she
thought of herself—of no one but herself. Upon the little she earned
she lived as well as she could; now there were two to be supported, and
nothing to live upon.
Winter approached. Mercédès had no fire in that cold and naked
room—she, who was accustomed to stoves which heated the house from the
hall to the boudoir; she had not even one little flower—she whose
apartment had been a conservatory of costly exotics. But she had her
son. Hitherto the excitement of fulfilling a duty had sustained them.
Excitement, like enthusiasm, sometimes renders us unconscious to the
things of earth. But the excitement had calmed down, and they felt
themselves obliged to descend from dreams to reality; after having
exhausted the ideal, they found they must talk of the actual.
“Mother,” exclaimed Albert, just as Madame Danglars was descending the
stairs, “let us reckon our riches, if you please; I want capital to
build my plans upon.”
“Capital—nothing!” replied Mercédès with a mournful smile.
“No, mother,—capital 3,000 francs. And I have an idea of our leading a
delightful life upon this 3,000 francs.”
“Child!” sighed Mercédès.
“Alas, dear mother,” said the young man, “I have unhappily spent too
much of your money not to know the value of it. These 3,000 francs are
enormous, and I intend building upon this foundation a miraculous
certainty for the future.”
“You say this, my dear boy; but do you think we ought to accept these
3,000 francs?” said Mercédès, coloring.
“I think so,” answered Albert in a firm tone. “We will accept them the