The Count of Monte Cristo
speak in your hearing? and did you catch any of his words?”
“I did; but they were uttered in the Romaic dialect. I knew that from
the mixture of Greek words. I don’t know whether I ever told you that
when I was at college I was rather—rather strong in Greek.”
“He spoke the Romaic language, did he?”
“I think so.”
“That settles it,” murmured Franz. “’Tis he, past all doubt.”
“What do you say?”
“Nothing, nothing. But tell me, what were you thinking about when I
came in?”
“Oh, I was arranging a little surprise for you.”
“Indeed. Of what nature?”
“Why, you know it is quite impossible to procure a carriage.”
“Certainly; and I also know that we have done all that human means
afforded to endeavor to get one.”
“Now, then, in this difficulty a bright idea has flashed across my
brain.”
Franz looked at Albert as though he had not much confidence in the
suggestions of his imagination.
“I tell you what, M. Franz,” cried Albert, “you deserve to be called
out for such a misgiving and incredulous glance as that you were
pleased to bestow on me just now.”
“And I promise to give you the satisfaction of a gentleman if your
scheme turns out as ingenious as you assert.”
“Well, then, hearken to me.”
“I listen.”
“You agree, do you not, that obtaining a carriage is out of the
question?”
“I do.”
“Neither can we procure horses?”
“True; we have offered any sum, but have failed.”
“Well, now, what do you say to a cart? I dare say such a thing might be
had.”
“Very possibly.”
“And a pair of oxen?”
“As easily found as the cart.”
“Then you see, my good fellow, with a cart and a couple of oxen our
business can be managed. The cart must be tastefully ornamented; and if
you and I dress ourselves as Neapolitan reapers, we may get up a
striking tableau, after the manner of that splendid picture by Léopold
Robert. It would add greatly to the effect if the countess would join
us in the costume of a peasant from Puzzoli or Sorrento. Our group
would then be quite complete, more especially as the countess is quite
beautiful enough to represent a Madonna.”
“Well,” said Franz, “this time, M. Albert, I am bound to give you
credit for having hit upon a most capital idea.”
“And quite a national one, too,” replied Albert with gratified pride.
“A mere masque borrowed from our own festivities. Ha, ha, ye Romans!
you thought to make us, unhappy strangers, trot at the heels of your
processions, like so many lazzaroni, because no carriages or horses are
to be had in your beggarly city. But you don’t know us; when we can’t
have one thing we invent another.”
“And have you communicated your triumphant idea to anybody?”
“Only to our host. Upon my return home I sent for him, and I then
explained to him what I wished to procure. He assured me that nothing
would be easier than to furnish all I desired. One thing I was sorry
for; when I bade him have the horns of the oxen gilded, he told me
there would not be time, as it would require three days to do that; so
you see we must do without this little superfluity.”
“And where is he now?”
“Who?”
“Our host.”
“Gone out in search of our equipage, by tomorrow it might be too late.”
“Then he will be able to give us an answer tonight.”
“Oh, I expect him every minute.”
At this instant the door opened, and the head of Signor Pastrini
appeared. “_Permesso_?” inquired he.
“Certainly—certainly,” cried Franz. “Come in, my host.”
“Now, then,” asked Albert eagerly, “have you found the desired cart and
oxen?”
“Better than that!” replied Signor Pastrini, with the air of a man
perfectly well satisfied with himself.
“Take care, my worthy host,” said Albert, “_better_ is a sure enemy to
_well_.”
“Let your excellencies only leave the matter to me,” returned Signor
Pastrini in a tone indicative of unbounded self-confidence.
“But what _have_ you done?” asked Franz. “Speak out, there’s a worthy
fellow.”
“Your excellencies are aware,” responded the landlord, swelling with
importance, “that the Count of Monte Cristo is living on the same floor
with yourselves!”
“I should think we did know it,” exclaimed Albert, “since it is owing
to that circumstance that we are packed into these small rooms, like
two poor students in the back streets of Paris.”
“When, then, the Count of Monte Cristo, hearing of the dilemma in which
you are placed, has sent to offer you seats in his carriage and two
places at his windows in the Palazzo Rospoli.” The friends looked at
each other with unutterable surprise.
“But do you think,” asked Albert, “that we ought to accept such offers
from a perfect stranger?”
“What sort of person is this Count of Monte Cristo?” asked Franz of his
host.
“A very great nobleman, but whether Maltese or Sicilian I cannot
exactly say; but this I know, that he is noble as a Borghese and rich
as a gold mine.”
“It seems to me,” said Franz, speaking in an undertone to Albert, “that
if this person merited the high panegyrics of our landlord, he would
have conveyed his invitation through another channel, and not permitted
it to be brought to us in this unceremonious way. He would have
written—or——”
At this instant someone knocked at the door.
“Come in,” said Franz.
A servant, wearing a livery of considerable style and richness,
appeared at the threshold, and, placing two cards in the landlord’s
hands, who forthwith presented them to the two young men, he said:
“Please to deliver these, from the Count of Monte Cristo to Vicomte
Albert de Morcerf and M. Franz d’Épinay. The Count of Monte Cristo,”
continued the servant, “begs these gentlemen’s permission to wait upon
them as their neighbor, and he will be honored by an intimation of what
time they will please to receive him.”
“Faith, Franz,” whispered Albert, “there is not much to find fault with
here.”
“Tell the count,” replied Franz, “that we will do ourselves the
pleasure of calling on him.”
The servant bowed and retired.
“That is what I call an elegant mode of attack,” said Albert, “You were
quite correct in what you said, Signor Pastrini. The Count of Monte
Cristo is unquestionably a man of first-rate breeding and knowledge of
the world.”
“Then you accept his offer?” said the host.
“Of course we do,” replied Albert. “Still, I must own I am sorry to be
obliged to give up the cart and the group of reapers—it would have
produced such an effect! And were it not for the windows at the Palazzo
Rospoli, by way of recompense for the loss of our beautiful scheme, I
don’t know but what I should have held on by my original plan. What say
you, Franz?”
“Oh, I agree with you; the windows in the Palazzo Rospoli alone decided
me.”
The truth was, that the mention of two places in the Palazzo Rospoli
had recalled to Franz the conversation he had overheard the preceding
evening in the ruins of the Colosseum between the mysterious unknown
and the Transteverin, in which the stranger in the cloak had undertaken
to obtain the freedom of a condemned criminal; and if this muffled-up
individual proved (as Franz felt sure he would) the same as the person
he had just seen in the Teatro Argentina, then he should be able to
establish his identity, and also to prosecute his researches respecting
him with perfect facility and freedom.
Franz passed the night in confused dreams respecting the two meetings
he had already had with his mysterious tormentor, and in waking
speculations as to what the morrow would produce. The next day must
clear up every doubt; and unless his near neighbor and would-be friend,
the Count of Monte Cristo, possessed the ring of Gyges, and by its
power was able to render himself invisible, it was very certain he
could not escape this time.
Eight o’clock found Franz up and dressed, while Albert, who had not the
same motives for early rising, was still soundly asleep. The first act
of Franz was to summon his landlord, who presented himself with his
accustomed obsequiousness.
“Pray, Signor Pastrini,” asked Franz, “is not some execution appointed
to take place today?”
“Yes, your excellency; but if your reason for inquiry is that you may
procure a window to view it from, you are much too late.”
“Oh, no,” answered Franz, “I had no such intention; and even if I had
felt a wish to witness the spectacle, I might have done so from Monte
Pincio; could I not?”
“Ah!” exclaimed mine host, “I did not think it likely your excellency
would have chosen to mingle with such a rabble as are always collected
on that hill, which, indeed, they consider as exclusively belonging to
themselves.”
“Very possibly I may not go,” answered Franz; “but in case I feel
disposed, give me some particulars of today’s executions.”
“What particulars would your excellency like to hear?”
“Why, the number of persons condemned to suffer, their names, and
description of the death they are to die.”
“That happens just lucky, your excellency! Only a few minutes ago they
brought me the _tavolettas_.”
“What are they?”
“Sort of wooden tablets hung up at the corners of streets the evening
before an execution, on which is pasted up a paper containing the names
of the condemned persons, their crimes, and mode of punishment. The
reason for so publicly announcing all this is, that all good and
faithful Catholics may offer up their prayers for the unfortunate
culprits, and, above all, beseech of Heaven to grant them a sincere
repentance.”
“And these tablets are brought to you that you may add your prayers to
those of the faithful, are they?” asked Franz somewhat incredulously.
“Oh, dear, no, your excellency! I have not time for anybody’s affairs
but my own and those of my honorable guests; but I make an agreement
with the man who pastes up the papers, and he brings them to me as he
would the playbills, that in case any person staying at my hotel should
like to witness an execution, he may obtain every requisite information
concerning the time and place etc.”
“Upon my word, that is a most delicate attention on your part, Signor
Pastrini,” cried Franz.
“Why, your excellency,” returned the landlord, chuckling and rubbing
his hands with infinite complacency, “I think I may take upon myself to
say I neglect nothing to deserve the support and patronage of the noble
visitors to this poor hotel.”
“I see that plainly enough, my most excellent host, and you may rely
upon me to proclaim so striking a proof of your attention to your
guests wherever I go. Meanwhile, oblige me by a sight of one of these
_tavolettas_.”
“Nothing can be easier than to comply with your excellency’s wish,”
said the landlord, opening the door of the chamber; “I have caused one
to be placed on the landing, close by your apartment.”
Then, taking the tablet from the wall, he handed it to Franz, who read
as follows:
“‘The public is informed that on Wednesday, February 23rd, being the
first day of the Carnival, executions will take place in the Piazza del
Popolo, by order of the Tribunal of the Rota, of two persons, named
Andrea Rondolo, and Peppino, otherwise called Rocca Priori; the former
found guilty of the murder of a venerable and exemplary priest, named
Don César Torlini, canon of the church of St. John Lateran; and the
latter convicted of being an accomplice of the atrocious and sanguinary
bandit, Luigi Vampa, and his band. The first-named malefactor will be
_mazzolato_, the second culprit _decapitato_.
“‘The prayers of all good Christians are entreated for these
unfortunate men, that it may please God to awaken them to a sense of
their guilt, and to grant them a hearty and sincere repentance for
their crimes.’”
This was precisely what Franz had heard the evening before in the ruins
of the Colosseum. No part of the programme differed,—the names of the