“Has this man any friendship for you, Albert?” she asked with a nervous shudder.
“I believe so, Mother.”
“And you . . . are you fond of him?”
“I like him in spite of Franz d’Épinay, who always tries to convince me that he is a being returned from the other world.”
There was a strange terror in the Countess’s voice as she said:
“Albert, I have always put you on your guard against new acquaintances. Now you are a man and capable of giving me advice. Nevertheless, I repeat to you: be prudent, Albert.”
“Yet, if this advice is to be profitable, Mother, I must know in advance what I am to guard against. The Count does not gamble, he drinks nothing but water coloured with a little Spanish wine; he is said to be so rich that, without making himself a laughing-stock, he could not borrow money from me. What, then, have I to fear from him?”
“You are right,” said the Countess, “my fears are stupid; especially when directed against a man who has saved your life. By the way, did your father receive him nicely, Albert? It is important that we should not receive him like a mere stranger. Your father is sometimes preoccupied, his business worries him, and it may be that unintentionally . . .”
“My father was perfect, Mother,” Albert broke in, “what is more, he seemed greatly flattered by two or three clever and appropriate compliments the Count paid him with such ease that he might have known him for thirty years. They parted the best of friends.”
The Countess did not answer. She was so deeply absorbed in her own thoughts that her eyes gradually closed. The young man stood before her, looking down on her with filial affection, which is more tender and loving in children whose mother is still young and beautiful; then, seeing her close her eyes, he listened for a moment to her peaceful breathing and tiptoed out of the room.
Chapter XXXII
UNLIMITED CREDIT
The next day, toward two o’clock in the afternoon, a carriage drawn by two magnificent English horses drew up before Monte Cristo’s door. In it sat a man dressed in a blue coat with silk buttons of the same colour, a white waistcoat over which passed a heavy gold chain, and brown trousers; his hair was jet black, and descended so far over his forehead that it hardly looked natural, for it formed too great a contrast with the deep furrows left uncovered. In short, he was a man of some fifty to fifty-five years of age who tried to appear forty. He put his head through the door of the carriage, on which a coronet was painted, and sent the groom to ask whether the Count of Monte Cristo was at home.
The groom tapped at the porter’s window and asked: “Does the Count of Monte Cristo live here?”
“His Excellency does live here, but he is engaged,” replied the porter.
“In that case, here is the card of my master, Baron Danglars. Hand it to the Count of Monte Cristo and tell him that my master stopped on his way to the Chamber in order to have the honour of seeing the Count.”
“I never speak to His Excellency,” replied the porter. “The valet will deliver the message.”
The groom returned to the carriage, and, somewhat crestfallen at the rebuke he had just received, gave his master the porter’s answer.
“Oh, the man whom they call Excellency is a prince then, to whom only the valet has the right to speak. Never mind! since he has a credit on my bank, I shall see him when he wants money.”
Then throwing himself back in his carriage, he called out to his coachman in a voice that could be heard at the other side of the street:
“To the Chamber of Deputies!”
The Count had been informed of this visit, and had had time to examine the Baron from behind a window-blind.
“He’s decidedly an ugly brute,” he said with a gesture of disgust. “At the very first sight of the man anyone can recognize in him the snake by his flat forehead, the vulture by his protruding cranium, and the buzzard by his sharp beak!”
“Ali!” he cried, striking once on the copper gong. Ali appeared. “Call Bertuccio!” said he. Bertuccio instantly made his appearance.
“Your Excellency sent for me?” said the steward.
“Yes!” said the Count. “Did you see the horses that just now drew up before my door?”
“Certainly, Excellency, and very beautiful they were too.”
“How comes it,” said Monte Cristo frowning, “that, when I instructed you to obtain for me the best horses to be had in Paris, there are in the town two other horses outside my stables as good as mine?”
“The horses you mention were not for sale, Count,” said Bertuccio.
Monte Cristo shrugged his shoulders.
“Do you not know, steward, that everything is for sale to him who cares to pay the price?”
“Monsieur Danglars paid sixteen thousand francs for them, Count!”
“Well, then, offer him thirty-two thousand; he is a banker, and a banker never loses the opportunity of doubling his capital.”
“Do you mean that seriously?” asked Bertuccio.
Monte Cristo looked at the steward as one astonished that he should dare to ask such a question.
“I have a call to make this evening,” said he. “I wish to have these horses harnessed to my carriage.”
Bertuccio retired bowing. He stopped near the door and said: “At what time does Your Excellency propose paying this call?”
“At five o’clock,” replied the Count.
“May I point out to Your Excellency that it is now two o’clock,” the steward ventured to remark.
“I know,” was Monte Cristo’s sole reply.
At five o’clock the Count sounded his gong three times. One stroke summoned Ali, two Baptistin, and three strokes Bertuccio. The steward entered.
“My horses!” said the Count.
“They’ve been put in, Excellency,” was Bertuccio’s reply.
The Count went down and saw the much-coveted horses of Danglars harnessed to his own carriage.
“They are really beautiful,” he said. “You did well to buy them, though you were late in doing so.”
“Excellency, I had considerable difficulty in getting them,” said Bertuccio. “They have cost a great deal of money.”
“Are the horses less beautiful for that?” asked the Count, shrugging his shoulders.
“If Your Excellency is satisfied, all is well,” said Bertuccio. “Where is Your Excellency going?”
“To Baron Danglars’, Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin.”
Arrived at the Baron’s residence the Count was ushered into that nobleman’s presence.
“Have I the honour of addressing Monsieur de Monte Cristo?”
“And I of addressing Baron Danglars, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour and member of the Chamber of Deputies?” said the Count.
Monte Cristo repeated all the titles he had read on the Baron’s card. Danglars felt the thrust and bit his lips.
“I have received a letter of advice from Messrs Thomson and French,” he said.
“I am delighted to hear it, Baron; I am delighted. It will not be necessary to introduce myself, which is always embarrassing. You say you have received a letter of advice?”
“Yes, but I must confess I do not quite understand its meaning,” said Danglars. “This letter . . . I have it with me, I think . . .” He searched in his pocket. “Yes, here it is. This letter opened credit on my bank to the Count of Monte Cristo for an unlimited sum.”
“Well, Baron, what is there incomprehensible in that?”
“Nothing, monsieur, but the word unlimited.”
“And is that word unknown in France?”
“Oh, no, monsieur, it is quite all right in regard to syntax, but not quite so from a banker’s point of view.”
“Is the banking firm of Thomson and French not sound, do you think, Baron?” asked Monte Cristo as naively as possible. “That would be a nice thing, to be sure. I have some property deposited with them.”
“Oh, they are perfectly sound,” replied Danglars with a
n almost mocking smile, “but the meaning of the word unlimited in connexion with finances is so vague . . . And what is vague is doubtful, and in doubt, says the wise man, there is danger.”
“In other words,” replied Monte Cristo, “if Thomson and French are inclined to commit a folly, Danglars’ bank is not going to follow suit. No doubt Messrs Thomson and French do not need to consider figures in their operations, but Monsieur Danglars has a limit to his. As he said just now, he is a wise man.”
“No one has ever questioned my capital, monsieur,” replied the banker proudly.
“Then obviously I am the first one to do so.”
“How so?”
“The explanations you demand of me, monsieur, which certainly appear to imply hesitation . . .”
“Why, then, monsieur, I will try to make myself clear by asking you to name the amount for which you expect to draw on me,” continued Danglars after a moment’s silence.
“But I have asked for unlimited credit because I am uncertain of the amount I shall require,” replied Monte Cristo, determined not to lose an inch of ground.
The banker thought the moment had come for him to take the upper hand; he flung himself back in the armchair and with a slow, arrogant smile on his lips, said: “Do not fear to ask, monsieur; you will then be convinced that the resources of the firm of Danglars, limited though they may be, are sufficient to meet the highest demands, even though you asked for a million . . .”
“What did you say?”
“I said a million,” repeated Danglars with the audacity of stupidity.
“What should I do with a million?” said the Count. “Good heavens! I should not have opened an account for such a trifling sum. Why, I always carry a million in my pocket-book or my suit-case.” And he took from his small card-case two Treasury bills of five hundred thousand francs each.
A man of Danglars’ type requires to be overwhelmed, not merely pinpricked, and this blow had its effect. The banker was simply stunned. He stared at Monte Cristo in a stupefied manner, his eyes starting out of his head.
“Come, now, own that you mistrust Messrs Thomson and French. I expected this, and, though I am not very busi nesslike, I came fore-armed. Here are two other letters of credit similar to the one addressed to you; one is from Arstein and Eskeles of Vienna on Baron Rothschild, the other is from Baring Bros. of London on Monsieur Lafitte. You have only to say the word, and I will relieve you of all anxiety by presenting my letter of credit to one or the other of these two firms.”
That was enough; Danglars was vanquished. Trembling visibly, he took the letters from London and Germany that the Count held out to him, opened them, verified the authenticity of the signatures with a care that would have been insulting to Monte Cristo had they not served to mislead the banker.
“Here are three signatures which are worth many millions,” said Danglars, rising as though to pay homage to the power of gold personified in the man before him. “Three unlimited credits on our banking firms. Excuse me, Count, though I am no longer mistrustful, I cannot help being astonished.”
“But nothing can astonish a banking establishment like yours,” said Monte Cristo with a great show of politeness. “You can send me some money, then, I suppose?”
“Speak, Count, I am at your service.”
“Well, since we understand each other and you no longer mistrust me . . . I am not presuming too much in saying this, am I? Let us fix on a general sum for the first year; six millions for example.”
“Very well, let it be six millions,” replied Danglars hoarsely.
“If I require more,” said Monte Cristo carelessly, “we can add to it, but I do not expect to stay in Paris more than a year and I don’t suppose I shall exceed that sum in a year. Anyway we shall see. To begin with, will you please send me to-morrow five hundred thousand francs, half in gold and half in notes? I shall be at home until noon, but should I have to go out, I will leave the receipt with my steward.”
“You shall have the money at ten o’clock in the morning, Count.”
The Count rose.
“I must confess to you, Count,” said Danglars, “I thought I was well informed on all the large fortunes of Europe, and yet I must own, that though yours appears to be very considerable I had no knowledge of it. Is it of recent date?”
“No, monsieur; on the contrary, it is of very long standing,” replied Monte Cristo. “It is a kind of family treasure which it was forbidden to touch. The interest has gone on accumulating and has trebled the capital. The period fixed by the testator expired only a few years ago, so your ignorance of the matter was quite natural. You will know more about it, though, in a short time.”
The Count accompanied his words with one of those pale smiles that struck such terror into the heart of Franz d’Épinay.
“If you would allow me, Count, I should like to introduce you to Baroness Danglars. Excuse my haste, but a client like you almost forms part of the family.”
Monte Cristo bowed as a sign that he accepted the preferred honour. The financier rang the bell, and a footman in a brilliant livery appeared.
“Is the Baroness at home?” asked Danglars.
“Yes, Monsieur le Baron,” replied the footman.
“Is she alone?”
“No, Monsieur le Baron, Monsieur Debray is with her.”
Danglars nodded his head, then turning to the Count, he said: “Monsieur Debray is an old friend of ours and private secretary to the Minister of the Interior. As for my wife, she belongs to an ancient family and lowered herself in marrying me. She was Mademoiselle de Sevières, and when I married her she was a widow after the death of her first husband, Colonel the Marquis de Nargonne.”
“I have not the honour of knowing Madame Danglars, but I have already met Monsieur Lucien Debray.”
“Really? Where?”
“At the house of Monsieur de Morcerf.”
“Ah, you know the little Viscount then?”
“We were together at Rome during the Carnival.”
“It is true,” said Danglars. “Have I not heard something about a strange adventure with bandits in the ruins? He had a most miraculous escape! I believe he told my daughter and wife something about it when he returned from Italy.”
“The Baroness awaits your pleasure, messieurs!” said the footman, who had been to inquire of his mistress whether she would receive visitors.
“I will go on in front to show you the way,” said Danglars, bowing.
“And I will follow you!”
Chapter XXXIII
THE PAIR OF DAPPLED GREYS
Mme Danglars, whose beauty was quite remarkable in spite of her thirty-six years, was at the piano, a little masterpiece of inlay, while Lucien Debray was seated at a work-table turning over the pages of an album. Before the Count’s arrival, Lucien had had time to relate many particu lars regarding him to Mme Danglars, and her curiosity, being aroused by the old stories related by Morcerf, was brought to its highest pitch by the details told her by Lucien. In consequence she received the Baron with a smile, which was not her custom, while the Count received a ceremonious but at the same time graceful curtsey in acknowledgment of his bow.
“Baroness, permit me to present to you the Count of Monte Cristo, who has been most warmly recommended to me by my correspondents at Rome,” said Danglars. “I will only add one fact which will make him a favourite among the ladies: he intends staying in Paris for a year and during that time he proposes spending six millions; that sounds promising for a series of balls, dinners, and supper parties, and I hope the Count will not forget us, as we shall not forget him in the small parties we give.”
Though the introduction was so vulgar in its flattery, it is such a rare event that a man comes to Paris to spend a princely fortune that Mme Danglars gave the Count a look which was not devoid of interest.
“You have come at a very bad season,” said she. “Paris is detestable in summer. There are no more balls, receptions, or parties. The Italian opera
is at London, the French opera is everywhere except at Paris; there remain for our sole entertainment a third-rate race-meeting or two on the Champs de Mars or at Satory.”
At this moment Baroness Danglars’ confidential maid entered and, approaching her mistress, whispered something into her ear.
Madame Danglars turned pale.
“Impossible!” said she.
“It is nevertheless the truth, madame,” replied the maid.
Madame turned to her husband: “Is this true, monsieur, what my maid tells me?”
“What has she told you, madame?” asked Danglars, visibly agitated.
“She tells me that when my coachman went to put my horses to the carriage, they were gone from the stables. What does this signify, may I ask?”
“Madame, listen to me,” said Danglars.
“I will certainly listen to you, for I am curious to know what you have to tell me. I will ask these gentlemen to be our judge. Messieurs,” continued she, “Danglars has ten horses in his stables, two of these, the handsomest in Paris, belong to me. You know my dappled greys, Monsieur Debray. I have promised to lend Madame de Villefort my carriage to go to the Bois to morrow, and now my horses are gone! I suppose monsieur has found some means of making a few thousands of francs on them and has sold them. What a money-grasping lot speculators are!”
Just then Debray, who was looking out of the window, suddenly exclaimed: “By Jove! surely those are your very horses in the Count’s carriage!”
“My dappled greys?” cried out Madame Danglars, rushing to the window. “Yes, those are mine indeed!”
Danglars was astounded.
“Is it possible?” said Monte Cristo, affecting astonishment.
“It is incredible!” said the banker.
Danglars looked so pale and discomfited that the Count almost had pity on him. The banker foresaw a disastrous scene in the near future; the Baroness’s frowning brow predicted a storm. Debray saw the gathering clouds and, on pretext of an appointment, took his leave, while Monte Cristo, not wishing to mar the advantages he hoped he had gained by staying any longer, bowed to Mme Danglars and withdrew, leaving the Baron to his wife’s anger.
Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 28