“Yes,” Edmond replied. “And now that I have seen you, Father, and assured myself that you are well and want for nothing, I will ask your permission to leave you for a time. I am anxious to see Mercédès.”
“Go, my son, go,” said old Dantès. “And may God bless you in your wife as He has blessed me in my son.”
Edmond took leave of his father, nodded to Caderousse, and went out. Caderousse waited a few minutes, and then he also descended the stairs and joined Danglars, who had been waiting for him at the corner of the Rue Senac.
“Well,” said Danglars, “did you see him?”
“I have just left him,” said Caderousse.
“Did he speak of his hopes of becoming captain?”
“He spoke as if it were quite settled.”
“Patience,” said Danglars; “it seems to me he is in too much of a hurry.”
“But I believe Monsieur Morrel has even promised him the captaincy.”
“Pooh!” said Danglars, “he is not captain yet! Is he still in love with the beautiful Catalan?”
“Head over ears! He has just gone to see her, but if I am not greatly mistaken there is a storm brewing in that direction.”
“What do you mean?”
“I do not know anything for certain, but I have seen things which make me think that the future captain will not have it all his own way up at the Vieilles-Infirmeries.”
“What have you seen?”
“Every time that Mercédès has come to town lately, she has been accompanied by a tall, gay young Catalan with black eyes and red complexion who seems very attentive to her, and whom she addresses as cousin.”
“Really! And do you think he is making love to her?”
“I suppose so. What else would a man of twenty-one be doing with a beautiful young girl of seventeen?”
“And you say Dantès has gone to the Catalans?”
“He left before me.”
“Let us go in the same direction; we can turn in at La Réserve and await events over a glass of wine.”
Chapter III
THE CATALANS
A bout a hundred paces from the spot where the two friends were sitting sipping their wine the village of the Catalans rose behind a bare hill, exposed to the fierce sun and swept by the biting north-west wind.
One day a mysterious colony set out from Spain and landed on the narrow strip of land which they inhabit to this very day. No one knew whence they came or what tongue they spoke. One of their chiefs who could speak a little Provençalh solicited from the commune of Marseilles the bare and barren promontory on which they, like the sailors of ancient times, had run their boats ashore. Their request was granted, and three months later, around the twelve or fifteen boats which had brought these Bohemians from the sea, there arose a little village.
This is the same village that we see to-day constructed in an odd and picturesque fashion, half Moorish and half Spanish, inhabited by the descendants of these people and speaking the language of their fathers. For three or four centuries they remained faithful to the little promontory on which they had settled like a flight of sea-birds. They did not mix with the inhabitants of Marseilles, but intermarried amongst their own folk and preserved the customs and costumes of their original country just as they preserved its language.
We would ask our readers to follow us along the only street of this little hamlet and enter with us one of its tiny houses. A young and beautiful girl, with hair as black as jet and eyes of the velvety softness of the gazelle, was standing leaning against the wall. Three steps away a young man of about twenty years of age was sitting tilting his chair and leaning his elbow on an old worm-eaten piece of furniture. He was looking at the girl with an air which betrayed both vexation and uneasiness; his eyes questioned her, but the girl’s firm and steady gaze checked him.
“Mercédès,” said the young man, “Easter is nearly round again, and it is just the right time for a wedding. Give me an answer, do!”
“I have answered you a hundred times, Fernand. I really think you must be your own enemy that you should ask me again. I have never encouraged you in your hopes, Fernand; you cannot reproach me with one coquettish look. I have always said to you: ‘I am fond of you as a brother, but never ask anything more of me. My heart belongs to another.’ Haven’t I always told you that, Fernand?”
“Yes, I know, Mercédès. I know that you have always been cruelly frank with me.”
“Fernand,” Mercédès answered, shaking her head, “a woman becomes a bad housekeeper and cannot even be sure of remaining a good wife when she loves another than her husband. Be satisfied with my friendship, for, I repeat it once more, this is all I can promise you.”
Fernand rose from his seat, walked round the room, and returned to Mercédès, standing before her with scowling brows.
“Tell me once more, Mercédès; is this your final answer?”
“I love Edmond Dantès,” the girl answered coldly, “and none other shall be my husband.”
“You will always love him?”
“As long as I live.”
Fernand bowed his head in defeat, heaving a sigh resembling a groan, and then, suddenly raising his head, hissed between his clenched teeth:
“But if he is dead?”
“If he is dead I too shall die.”
“But if he forgets you?”
“Mercédès!” cried a gladsome voice outside the door, “Mercédès!”
“Ah!” the girl exclaimed, blushing with joy and love, “you see he has not forgotten me since here he is!”
And she ran toward the door which she opened, calling:
“Here, Edmond, here I am!”
Fernand, pale and trembling, recoiled like a wayfarer at the sight of a snake, and, finding a chair, sat down on it.
Edmond and Mercédès fell into each other’s arms. The fierce Marseilles sun which penetrated the room through the open door covered them with a flood of light. At first they saw nothing around them. Their intense happiness isolated them from the rest of the world. Suddenly Edmond became aware of the gloomy countenance of Fernand peering out of the shadows, pale and menacing, and instinctively the young man put his hand to the knife at his belt.
“I beg your pardon,” said Dantès, “I did not perceive that there were three of us here.” Then, turning to Mercédès, he asked, “Who is this gentleman?”
“He will be your best friend, Dantès, for he is my friend. He is my cousin Fernand, the man whom, after you, I love best in the world. Don’t you recognize him?”
“Ah, so it is!” Edmond said, and, still keeping Mercédès’ hand clasped in his, he held the other one out in all friendliness to the Catalan. Instead, however, of responding to this show of cordiality Fernand remained mute and motionless as a statue. Edmond cast an inquiring glance at the agitated and trembling Mercédès, and then at Fernand, who stood there gloomy and forbidding.
This glance told him all, and his brow became suffused with anger.
“I did not hasten thus to your side to find an enemy here, Mercédès.”
“An enemy?” Mercédès cried, with an angry look at her cousin. “An enemy in my house, did you say, Edmond? You have no enemy here. Fernand, my brother, is not your enemy. He will grasp your hand in token of devoted friendship.”
So saying, Mercédès fixed the young Catalan with an imperious look, and, as though mesmerized, he slowly approached Edmond and held out his hand. Like a powerless though furious wave his hatred had broken against the ascendancy which this girl exercised over him.
But no sooner had he touched Dantès’ hand than he felt he had done all that was within his power; he turned tail and fled out of the house.
“Oh!” he cried out, running along like one demented and tearing his hair. “How can I get rid of this fellow? Poor, wretched fool that I am!”
“Hey, Fernand, where are you running to?” a voice called out.
The young man suddenly stopped, turned round, and perceived Caderousse sea
ted at a table in an arbour of a tavern with Danglars.
“Why don’t you join us?” said Caderousse. “Are you in such a hurry that you cannot wait to pass the time of the day with your friends?”
“Especially when those friends have got a full bottle before them,” Danglars added.
Fernand looked at the two men as though dazed, and answered not a word. Then he wiped away the perspiration that was coursing down his face, and slowly entered the arbour. The cool shade of the place seemed to restore him to calmness and brought a feeling of relief to his exhausted body. He uttered a groan that was almost a sob, and let his head fall on to his arms crossed on the table.
“Shall I tell you what you look like, Fernand?” said Caderousse, opening the conversation with that frank brutality which the lower classes show when their curiosity gets the upper hand of them. “You look like a rejected lover!” And he accompanied his little jest with a coarse laugh.
“What are you saying?” said Danglars. “A man of his good looks is never unlucky in love. You’ve made a bad shot this time, Caderousse!”
“Not at all. Just listen to his sighs. Come, Fernand, raise your head and give us an answer. It is not polite to give no reply when friends inquire about your health.”
“I am quite well,” said Fernand, without raising his head.
“Ah, you see, Danglars,” Caderousse said, winking at his friend. “This is how the land lies. Fernand, whom you see here and who is one of the bravest and best of the Catalans, to say nothing of being one of the best fishermen in Marseilles, is in love with a pretty girl called Mercédès; unfortunately, however, this fair damsel appears to be in love with the mate of the Pharaon, and as the Pharaon put into port to-day . . . well, you understand.”
“No, I don’t understand.”
“Poor Fernand has been given his congé, that’s all.”
“And what about it?” said Fernand, raising his head and looking at Caderousse as if he would vent his anger on him. “Mercédès is tied to no man, and is free to love anyone she likes, isn’t she?”
“Of course, if you take it like that, it is quite a different matter, but I thought you were a Catalan, and I have always been told that a Catalan is not a man to be supplanted by a rival; it has even been said that Fernand is terrible in his vengeance.”
“Poor fellow!” Danglars exclaimed, pretending to feel a great pity for the young man. “You see, he did not expect Dantès to return in this way without giving any warning. Perhaps he thought him dead or even faithless.”
“When is the wedding to take place?” asked Caderousse, on whom the fumes of the wine were beginning to take effect.
“The date is not yet fixed,” Fernand mumbled.
“No, but it will be, as surely as Dantès will be captain of the Pharaon, eh, Danglars?”
Danglars started at this unexpected attack, and, turning toward Caderousse, scrutinized his face to try to detect whether this blow had been premeditated; he could read nothing, however, but envy on that drink-besotted face.
“Ah, well,” said he, filling the glasses, “let us drink to Captain Edmond Dantès, husband of the beautiful Catalan!”
Caderousse raised his glass to his mouth with a trembling hand and emptied it at one gulp. Fernand took his glass and dashed it to the ground.
“Look there!” hiccoughed Caderousse. “What do I see on the top of the hill yonder near the Catalans? You have better sight than I, Fernand, come and look. I believe my sight is beginning to fail me, and you know wine is treacherous. I seem to see two lovers walking side by side and clasping hands. Heaven forgive us! They have no idea we can see them, for they are actually kissing!”
Danglars did not lose one agonized expression on Fernand’s face.
“Do you know them, Monsieur Fernand?” he asked.
“Yes,” the latter answered in a husky voice. “It is Monsieur Edmond and Mademoiselle Mercédès.”
“You don’t mean to say so!” said Caderousse. “Fancy my not recognizing them! Hallo, Dantès! hello, fair damsel! Come here and tell us when the wedding is to be, for Monsieur Fernand is so obstinate that he won’t say a word.”
“Be quiet!” said Danglars, pretending to restrain Caderousse, who, with the tenacity of a drunkard, was leaning out of the arbour. “Try to stand up straight and leave the lovers to their love-making. Now, look at Fernand, he at any rate has got some sense.”
Danglars looked first at the one and then at the other of the two men: the one intoxicated with drink, the other mad with love.
“I shall not get any further with these two fools,” he murmured. “Dantès will certainly carry the day; he will marry that fair damsel, become captain, and have the laugh over us, unless . . .”—a livid smile was seen to pass over his lips—“unless I set to work.”
“Hallo,” Caderousse continued to call out, half out of his seat and banging on the table, “hi, there! Edmond, don’t you recognize your friends, or are you too proud to speak to them?”
“No, my dear fellow, I am not proud, but I am in love, and I believe love is more apt to make one blind than pride is.”
“Bravo! a good excuse!” Caderousse said. “Good day, Madame Dantès!”
Mercédès curtsied gravely and said: “That is not yet my name, and in my country it is looked upon as bringing bad luck when a girl is given her sweetheart’s name before he has become her husband. Call me Mercédès, if you please.”
“I suppose your wedding will take place at once, Monsieur Dantès?” said Danglars, bowing to the young couple.
“As soon as possible, Monsieur Danglars. All the preliminaries will be arranged with my father to-day, and to-morrow or the day after at the latest we shall give the betrothal feast at La Réserve here, at which we hope to see all our friends. You are invited, Monsieur Danglars, as also you, Caderousse, and you, of course, Fernand.”
Fernand opened his mouth in answer, but his voice died in his throat and he could not say a single word.
“The preliminaries to-day . . . to-morrow the betrothal feast . . . to be sure, you are in a great hurry, captain.”
“Danglars,” Edmond said smiling, “I repeat what Mercédès said to Caderousse just now. Do not give me the title that does not yet belong to me. It brings bad luck.”
“I beg your pardon. I simply said that you seemed to be in a great hurry. Why, there’s plenty of time. The Pharaon won’t put out to sea for another three months.”
“One is always in a hurry to be happy, Monsieur Danglars, for when one has been suffering for a long time it is difficult to believe in one’s good fortune. But it is not selfishness alone that prompts me to press this matter. I have to go to Paris.”
“You are going on business?”
“Not on my own account. I have a last commission of Captain Leclère’s to execute. You understand, Danglars, it is sacred. But you can put your mind at rest. I shall go straight there and back again.”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” said Danglars aloud. Then to himself he said: “To Paris? No doubt to deliver the letter the Maréchal gave him. Better and better! This letter has given me an excellent idea. Ah, Dantès, my friend, you are not yet entered in the Pharaon’s log book as number one.” Then, turning to Edmond, who was moving away, he called out, “Bon voyage!”
“Thank you,” Edmond replied, turning round and giving him a friendly nod.
Then the two lovers went on their way, peaceful and happy, like two of the elect on their way to Heaven, while the three men continued their interesting conversation.
Chapter IV
THE BETROTHAL FEAST
The next day was gloriously fine. The sun rose red and resplendent, its first rays tinting the fleecy clouds with many delicate and brilliant hues. The festive board had been prepared in a large room at La Réserve, with whose arbour we are already acquainted. Although the meal was fixed for noon, the tavern had been filled with impatient guests since eleven o’clock. They consisted chiefly of some of the favoured sailors of
the Pharaon, and several soldier friends of Dantès’. In order to do honour to the happy couple they had all donned their finest clothes. To crown all, M. Morrel had determined to favour the occasion with his presence, and on his arrival he was greeted with hearty cheers from the sailors of the Pharaon. Their owner’s presence was to them a confirmation of the report that Dantès was to be their captain, and, as he was popular with them all, they wished to show their owner, by this means, their appreciation of the fact that by a stroke of good luck his choice coincided with their wishes on the subject. Danglars and Caderousse were immediately dispatched to inform the bridegroom of the arrival of this important personage whose entrance had caused such a sensation, and to bid him make haste.
They had barely gone a hundred yards when they perceived the small bridal party approaching. It was composed of the betrothed pair, four maids in attendance on the bride, and Dantès’ father, who walked beside Mercédès. Fernand walked behind, wearing an evil smile.
Neither Edmond nor Mercédès noticed this evil smile. They were so happy that they had eyes only for each other, and for the beautiful blue sky whence they hoped would come a blessing on their union.
Having acquitted themselves of their errand, the two ambassadors shook hands amicably with Edmond; and while Danglars took his place beside Fernand, Caderousse joined old Dantès, who was the object of general attention as he walked along, supporting himself on his curiously carved stick. He was attired in his best black suit, adorned with large steel buttons beautifully cut in facets. His thin but still vigorous legs were arrayed in a pair of beautifully embroidered stockings, which had obviously been smuggled from England. Long blue and white streamers flowed from his three-cornered hat.
Dantès himself was simply clad. As he belonged to the mercantile marine his uniform was half military and half civilian, and, with his good-looking face radiant with joy and happiness, a more perfect specimen of manly beauty could scarcely be imagined.
As the bridal party came in sight of La Réserve M. Morrel advanced to meet them, followed by the soldiers and sailors and other guests. Dantès at once withdrew his arm from that of his betrothed and placed Mercédès’ arm respectfully in that of his patron. The shipowner and the blushing girl then led the way up the wooden steps to the room where the feast was prepared. For fully five minutes the boards creaked and groaned under the unwonted pressure of the many steps.
Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 5