The Count of Monte Cristo
“He remained there fourteen years, Morrel,” said the count, placing his
hand on the young man’s shoulder. Maximilian shuddered.
“Fourteen years!” he muttered.
“Fourteen years!” repeated the count. “During that time he had many
moments of despair. He also, Morrel, like you, considered himself the
unhappiest of men.”
“Well?” asked Morrel.
“Well, at the height of his despair God assisted him through human
means. At first, perhaps, he did not recognize the infinite mercy of
the Lord, but at last he took patience and waited. One day he
miraculously left the prison, transformed, rich, powerful. His first
cry was for his father; but that father was dead.”
“My father, too, is dead,” said Morrel.
“Yes; but your father died in your arms, happy, respected, rich, and
full of years; his father died poor, despairing, almost doubtful of
Providence; and when his son sought his grave ten years afterwards, his
tomb had disappeared, and no one could say, ‘There sleeps the father
you so well loved.’”
“Oh!” exclaimed Morrel.
“He was, then, a more unhappy son than you, Morrel, for he could not
even find his father’s grave.”
“But then he had the woman he loved still remaining?”
“You are deceived, Morrel, that woman——”
“She was dead?”
“Worse than that, she was faithless, and had married one of the
persecutors of her betrothed. You see, then, Morrel, that he was a more
unhappy lover than you.”
“And has he found consolation?”
“He has at least found peace.”
“And does he ever expect to be happy?”
“He hopes so, Maximilian.”
The young man’s head fell on his breast.
“You have my promise,” he said, after a minute’s pause, extending his
hand to Monte Cristo. “Only remember——”
“On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall expect you at the Island of
Monte Cristo. On the 4th a yacht will wait for you in the port of
Bastia, it will be called the _Eurus_. You will give your name to the
captain, who will bring you to me. It is understood—is it not?”
“But, count, do you remember that the 5th of October——”
“Child,” replied the count, “not to know the value of a man’s word! I
have told you twenty times that if you wish to die on that day, I will
assist you. Morrel, farewell!”
“Do you leave me?”
“Yes; I have business in Italy. I leave you alone in your struggle with
misfortune—alone with that strong-winged eagle which God sends to bear
aloft the elect to his feet. The story of Ganymede, Maximilian, is not
a fable, but an allegory.”
“When do you leave?”
“Immediately; the steamer waits, and in an hour I shall be far from
you. Will you accompany me to the harbor, Maximilian?”
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“I am entirely yours, count.”
Morrel accompanied the count to the harbor. The white steam was
ascending like a plume of feathers from the black chimney. The steamer
soon disappeared, and in an hour afterwards, as the count had said, was
scarcely distinguishable in the horizon amidst the fogs of the night.
Chapter 114. Peppino
At the same time that the steamer disappeared behind Cape Morgiou, a
man travelling post on the road from Florence to Rome had just passed
the little town of Aquapendente. He was travelling fast enough to cover
a great deal of ground without exciting suspicion. This man was dressed
in a greatcoat, or rather a surtout, a little worse for the journey,
but which exhibited the ribbon of the Legion of Honor still fresh and
brilliant, a decoration which also ornamented the under coat. He might
be recognized, not only by these signs, but also from the accent with
which he spoke to the postilion, as a Frenchman.
Another proof that he was a native of the universal country was
apparent in the fact of his knowing no other Italian words than the
terms used in music, and which like the “goddam” of Figaro, served all
possible linguistic requirements. “_Allegro!_” he called out to the
postilions at every ascent. “_Moderato!_” he cried as they descended.
And heaven knows there are hills enough between Rome and Florence by
the way of Aquapendente! These two words greatly amused the men to whom
they were addressed. On reaching La Storta, the point from whence Rome
is first visible, the traveller evinced none of the enthusiastic
curiosity which usually leads strangers to stand up and endeavor to
catch sight of the dome of Saint Peter’s, which may be seen long before
any other object is distinguishable. No, he merely drew a pocketbook
from his pocket, and took from it a paper folded in four, and after
having examined it in a manner almost reverential, he said:
“Good! I have it still!”
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The carriage entered by the Porta del Popolo, turned to the left, and
stopped at the Hôtel d’Espagne. Old Pastrini, our former acquaintance,
received the traveller at the door, hat in hand. The traveller
alighted, ordered a good dinner, and inquired the address of the house
of Thomson & French, which was immediately given to him, as it was one
of the most celebrated in Rome. It was situated in the Via dei Banchi,
near St. Peter’s.
In Rome, as everywhere else, the arrival of a post-chaise is an event.
Ten young descendants of Marius and the Gracchi, barefooted and out at
elbows, with one hand resting on the hip and the other gracefully
curved above the head, stared at the traveller, the post-chaise, and
the horses; to these were added about fifty little vagabonds from the
Papal States, who earned a pittance by diving into the Tiber at high
water from the bridge of St. Angelo. Now, as these street Arabs of
Rome, more fortunate than those of Paris, understand every language,
more especially the French, they heard the traveller order an
apartment, a dinner, and finally inquire the way to the house of
Thomson & French.
The result was that when the new-comer left the hotel with the
_cicerone_, a man detached himself from the rest of the idlers, and
without having been seen by the traveller, and appearing to excite no
attention from the guide, followed the stranger with as much skill as a
Parisian police agent would have used.
The Frenchman had been so impatient to reach the house of Thomson &
French that he would not wait for the horses to be harnessed, but left
word for the carriage to overtake him on the road, or to wait for him
at the bankers’ door. He reached it before the carriage arrived. The
Frenchman entered, leaving in the anteroom his guide, who immediately
entered into conversation with two or three of the industrious idlers
who are always to be found in Rome at the doors of banking-houses,
churches, museums, or theatres. With the Frenchman, the man who had
followed him entered too; the Frenchman knocked at the inner door, and
entered the first room; his shadow did the same.
“Messrs. Thomson & French?” inquired the stranger.
An attendant arose at a sign from a confidential clerk at the first
desk.
“Whom shall I announce?” said the attendant.
“Baron Danglars.”
“Follow me,” said the man.
A door opened, through which the attendant and the baron disappeared.
The man who had followed Danglars sat down on a bench. The clerk
continued to write for the next five minutes; the man preserved
profound silence, and remained perfectly motionless. Then the pen of
the clerk ceased to move over the paper; he raised his head, and
appearing to be perfectly sure of privacy:
“Ah, ha,” he said, “here you are, Peppino!”
“Yes,” was the laconic reply. “You have found out that there is
something worth having about this large gentleman?”
“There is no great merit due to me, for we were informed of it.”
“You know his business here, then.”
“_Pardieu_, he has come to draw, but I don’t know how much!”
“You will know presently, my friend.”
“Very well, only do not give me false information as you did the other
day.”
“What do you mean?—of whom do you speak? Was it the Englishman who
carried off 3,000 crowns from here the other day?”
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“No; he really had 3,000 crowns, and we found them. I mean the Russian
prince, who you said had 30,000 livres, and we only found 22,000.”
“You must have searched badly.”
“Luigi Vampa himself searched.”
“In that case he must either have paid his debts——”
“A Russian do that?”
“Or spent the money?”
“Possibly, after all.”
“Certainly. But you must let me make my observations, or the Frenchman
will transact his business without my knowing the sum.”
Peppino nodded, and taking a rosary from his pocket began to mutter a
few prayers while the clerk disappeared through the same door by which
Danglars and the attendant had gone out. At the expiration of ten
minutes the clerk returned with a beaming countenance.
“Well?” asked Peppino of his friend.
“Joy, joy—the sum is large!”
“Five or six millions, is it not?”
“Yes, you know the amount.”
“On the receipt of the Count of Monte Cristo?”
“Why, how came you to be so well acquainted with all this?”
“I told you we were informed beforehand.”
“Then why do you apply to me?”
“That I may be sure I have the right man.”
“Yes, it is indeed he. Five millions—a pretty sum, eh, Peppino?”
“Hush—here is our man!” The clerk seized his pen, and Peppino his
beads; one was writing and the other praying when the door opened.
Danglars looked radiant with joy; the banker accompanied him to the
door. Peppino followed Danglars.
According to the arrangements, the carriage was waiting at the door.
The guide held the door open. Guides are useful people, who will turn
their hands to anything. Danglars leaped into the carriage like a young
man of twenty. The _cicerone_ reclosed the door, and sprang up by the
side of the coachman. Peppino mounted the seat behind.
“Will your excellency visit Saint Peter’s?” asked the _cicerone_.
“I did not come to Rome to see,” said Danglars aloud; then he added
softly, with an avaricious smile, “I came to touch!” and he rapped his
pocket-book, in which he had just placed a letter.
“Then your excellency is going——”
“To the hotel.”
“Casa Pastrini!” said the _cicerone_ to the coachman, and the carriage
drove rapidly on.
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Ten minutes afterwards the baron entered his apartment, and Peppino
stationed himself on the bench outside the door of the hotel, after
having whispered something in the ear of one of the descendants of
Marius and the Gracchi whom we noticed at the beginning of the chapter,
who immediately ran down the road leading to the Capitol at his fullest
speed. Danglars was tired and sleepy; he therefore went to bed, placing
his pocketbook under his pillow. Peppino had a little spare time, so he
had a game of _morra_ with the facchini, lost three crowns, and then to
console himself drank a bottle of Orvieto.
The next morning Danglars awoke late, though he went to bed so early;
he had not slept well for five or six nights, even if he had slept at
all. He breakfasted heartily, and caring little, as he said, for the
beauties of the Eternal City, ordered post-horses at noon. But Danglars
had not reckoned upon the formalities of the police and the idleness of
the posting-master. The horses only arrived at two o’clock, and the
_cicerone_ did not bring the passport till three.
All these preparations had collected a number of idlers round the door
of Signor Pastrini’s; the descendants of Marius and the Gracchi were
also not wanting. The baron walked triumphantly through the crowd, who
for the sake of gain styled him “your excellency.” As Danglars had
hitherto contented himself with being called a baron, he felt rather
flattered at the title of excellency, and distributed a dozen silver
coins among the beggars, who were ready, for twelve more, to call him
“your highness.”
“Which road?” asked the postilion in Italian.
“The Ancona road,” replied the baron. Signor Pastrini interpreted the