The Count of Monte Cristo
“Bah! Château-Renaud,” returned Debray, “you only know your dull and
gloomy Faubourg Saint-Germain; do not pay any attention to him,
count—live in the Chaussée d’Antin, that’s the real centre of Paris.”
“Boulevard de l’Opéra,” said Beauchamp; “the second floor—a house with
a balcony. The count will have his cushions of silver cloth brought
there, and as he smokes his chibouque, see all Paris pass before him.”
“You have no idea, then, Morrel?” asked Château-Renaud; “you do not
propose anything.”
“Oh, yes,” returned the young man, smiling; “on the contrary, I have
one, but I expected the count would be tempted by one of the brilliant
proposals made him, yet as he has not replied to any of them, I will
venture to offer him a suite of apartments in a charming hotel, in the
Pompadour style, that my sister has inhabited for a year, in the Rue
Meslay.”
“You have a sister?” asked the count.
“Yes, monsieur, a most excellent sister.”
“Married?”
“Nearly nine years.”
“Happy?” asked the count again.
“As happy as it is permitted to a human creature to be,” replied
Maximilian. “She married the man she loved, who remained faithful to us
in our fallen fortunes—Emmanuel Herbaut.”
Monte Cristo smiled imperceptibly.
“I live there during my leave of absence,” continued Maximilian; “and I
shall be, together with my brother-in-law Emmanuel, at the disposition
of the Count, whenever he thinks fit to honor us.”
“One minute,” cried Albert, without giving Monte Cristo the time to
reply. “Take care, you are going to immure a traveller, Sinbad the
Sailor, a man who comes to see Paris; you are going to make a patriarch
of him.”
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“Oh, no,” said Morrel; “my sister is five-and-twenty, my brother-in-law
is thirty, they are gay, young, and happy. Besides, the count will be
in his own house, and only see them when he thinks fit to do so.”
“Thanks, monsieur,” said Monte Cristo; “I shall content myself with
being presented to your sister and her husband, if you will do me the
honor to introduce me; but I cannot accept the offer of anyone of these
gentlemen, since my habitation is already prepared.”
“What,” cried Morcerf; “you are, then, going to a hotel—that will be
very dull for you.”
“Was I so badly lodged at Rome?” said Monte Cristo smiling.
“_Parbleu!_ at Rome you spent fifty thousand piastres in furnishing
your apartments, but I presume that you are not disposed to spend a
similar sum every day.”
“It is not that which deterred me,” replied Monte Cristo; “but as I
determined to have a house to myself, I sent on my valet de chambre,
and he ought by this time to have bought the house and furnished it.”
“But you have, then, a valet de chambre who knows Paris?” said
Beauchamp.
“It is the first time he has ever been in Paris. He is black, and
cannot speak,” returned Monte Cristo.
“It is Ali!” cried Albert, in the midst of the general surprise.
“Yes, Ali himself, my Nubian mute, whom you saw, I think, at Rome.”
“Certainly,” said Morcerf; “I recollect him perfectly. But how could
you charge a Nubian to purchase a house, and a mute to furnish it?—he
will do everything wrong.”
“Undeceive yourself, monsieur,” replied Monte Cristo; “I am quite sure,
that, on the contrary, he will choose everything as I wish. He knows my
tastes, my caprices, my wants. He has been here a week, with the
instinct of a hound, hunting by himself. He will arrange everything for
me. He knew, that I should arrive today at ten o’clock; he was waiting
for me at nine at the Barrière de Fontainebleau. He gave me this paper;
it contains the number of my new abode; read it yourself,” and Monte
Cristo passed a paper to Albert.
“Ah, that is really original,” said Beauchamp.
“And very princely,” added Château-Renaud.
“What, do you not know your house?” asked Debray.
“No,” said Monte Cristo; “I told you I did not wish to be behind my
time; I dressed myself in the carriage, and descended at the viscount’s
door.” The young men looked at each other; they did not know if it was
a comedy Monte Cristo was playing, but every word he uttered had such
an air of simplicity, that it was impossible to suppose what he said
was false—besides, why should he tell a falsehood?
“We must content ourselves, then,” said Beauchamp, “with rendering the
count all the little services in our power. I, in my quality of
journalist, open all the theatres to him.”
“Thanks, monsieur,” returned Monte Cristo, “my steward has orders to
take a box at each theatre.”
“Is your steward also a Nubian?” asked Debray.
“No, he is a countryman of yours, if a Corsican is a countryman of
anyone’s. But you know him, M. de Morcerf.”
“Is it that excellent M. Bertuccio, who understands hiring windows so
well?”
“Yes, you saw him the day I had the honor of receiving you; he has been
a soldier, a smuggler—in fact, everything. I would not be quite sure
that he has not been mixed up with the police for some trifle—a stab
with a knife, for instance.”
“And you have chosen this honest citizen for your steward,” said
Debray. “Of how much does he rob you every year?”
“On my word,” replied the count, “not more than another. I am sure he
answers my purpose, knows no impossibility, and so I keep him.”
“Then,” continued Château-Renaud, “since you have an establishment, a
steward, and a hotel in the Champs-Élysées, you only want a mistress.”
Albert smiled. He thought of the fair Greek he had seen in the count’s
box at the Argentina and Valle theatres.
“I have something better than that,” said Monte Cristo; “I have a
slave. You procure your mistresses from the opera, the Vaudeville, or
the Variétés; I purchased mine at Constantinople; it cost me more, but
I have nothing to fear.”
“But you forget,” replied Debray, laughing, “that we are Franks by name
and franks by nature, as King Charles said, and that the moment she
puts her foot in France your slave becomes free.”
“Who will tell her?”
“The first person who sees her.”
“She only speaks Romaic.”
“That is different.”
“But at least we shall see her,” said Beauchamp, “or do you keep
eunuchs as well as mutes?”
“Oh, no,” replied Monte Cristo; “I do not carry brutalism so far.
Everyone who surrounds me is free to quit me, and when they leave me
will no longer have any need of me or anyone else; it is for that
reason, perhaps, that they do not quit me.”
They had long since passed to dessert and cigars.
“My dear Albert,” said Debray, rising, “it is half-past two. Your guest
is charming, but you leave the best company to go into the worst
sometimes. I must return to the minister’s. I will tell him of the
count, and we shall soon know who he is.”
“Take care,” returned Albert; “no one has been able to accomplish
that.”
“Oh, we have three millions for our police; it is true they are almost
always spent beforehand, but, no matter, we shall still have fifty
thousand francs to spend for this purpose.”
“And when you know, will you tell me?”
“I promise you. _Au revoir_, Albert. Gentlemen, good morning.”
As he left the room, Debray called out loudly, “My carriage.”
“Bravo,” said Beauchamp to Albert; “I shall not go to the Chamber, but
I have something better to offer my readers than a speech of M.
Danglars.”
“For heaven’s sake, Beauchamp,” returned Morcerf, “do not deprive me of
the merit of introducing him everywhere. Is he not peculiar?”
“He is more than that,” replied Château-Renaud; “he is one of the most
extraordinary men I ever saw in my life. Are you coming, Morrel?”
“Directly I have given my card to the count, who has promised to pay us
a visit at Rue Meslay, No. 14.”
“Be sure I shall not fail to do so,” returned the count, bowing.
And Maximilian Morrel left the room with the Baron de Château-Renaud,
leaving Monte Cristo alone with Morcerf.
Chapter 41. The Presentation
When Albert found himself alone with Monte Cristo, “My dear count,”
said he, “allow me to commence my services as _cicerone_ by showing you
a specimen of a bachelor’s apartment. You, who are accustomed to the
palaces of Italy, can amuse yourself by calculating in how many square
feet a young man who is not the worst lodged in Paris can live. As we
pass from one room to another, I will open the windows to let you
breathe.”
Monte Cristo had already seen the breakfast-room and the salon on the
ground floor. Albert led him first to his _atelier_, which was, as we
have said, his favorite apartment. Monte Cristo quickly appreciated all
that Albert had collected here—old cabinets, Japanese porcelain,
Oriental stuffs, Venetian glass, arms from all parts of the
world—everything was familiar to him; and at the first glance he
recognized their date, their country, and their origin.
Morcerf had expected he should be the guide; on the contrary, it was he
who, under the count’s guidance, followed a course of archæology,
mineralogy, and natural history.
They descended to the first floor; Albert led his guest into the salon.
The salon was filled with the works of modern artists; there were
landscapes by Dupré, with their long reeds and tall trees, their lowing
oxen and marvellous skies; Delacroix’s Arabian cavaliers, with their
long white burnouses, their shining belts, their damasked arms, their
horses, who tore each other with their teeth while their riders
contended fiercely with their maces; _aquarelles_ of Boulanger,
representing Notre Dame de Paris with that vigor that makes the artist
the rival of the poet; there were paintings by Diaz, who makes his
flowers more beautiful than flowers, his suns more brilliant than the
sun; designs by Decamp, as vividly colored as those of Salvator Rosa,
but more poetic; _pastels_ by Giraud and Müller, representing children
like angels and women with the features of a virgin; sketches torn from
the album of Dauzats’ “Travels in the East,” that had been made in a
few seconds on the saddle of a camel, or beneath the dome of a
mosque—in a word, all that modern art can give in exchange and as
recompense for the art lost and gone with ages long since past.
Albert expected to have something new this time to show to the
traveller, but, to his great surprise, the latter, without seeking for
the signatures, many of which, indeed, were only initials, named
instantly the author of every picture in such a manner that it was easy
to see that each name was not only known to him, but that each style
associated with it had been appreciated and studied by him. From the
salon they passed into the bedchamber; it was a model of taste and
simple elegance. A single portrait, signed by Léopold Robert, shone in
its carved and gilded frame. This portrait attracted the Count of Monte
Cristo’s attention, for he made three rapid steps in the chamber, and
stopped suddenly before it.
It was the portrait of a young woman of five or six-and-twenty, with a
dark complexion, and light and lustrous eyes, veiled beneath long
lashes. She wore the picturesque costume of the Catalan fisherwomen, a
red and black bodice, and golden pins in her hair. She was looking at
the sea, and her form was outlined on the blue ocean and sky. The light
was so faint in the room that Albert did not perceive the pallor that
spread itself over the count’s visage, or the nervous heaving of his
chest and shoulders. Silence prevailed for an instant, during which
Monte Cristo gazed intently on the picture.
“You have there a most charming mistress, viscount,” said the count in
a perfectly calm tone; “and this costume—a ball costume,
doubtless—becomes her admirably.”
“Ah, monsieur,” returned Albert, “I would never forgive you this
mistake if you had seen another picture beside this. You do not know my
mother; she it is whom you see here. She had her portrait painted thus