A SUMMER BALL
Scarcely had M. Danglars left the Count of Monte Cristo to write in all haste to his correspondent at Janina when Albert de Morcerf was announced. The Count received him with his habitual smile. It was a strange thing, but nobody ever seemed to advance a step in that man’s favour. Those who attempted to force a way into his heart encountered an impassable wall.
Morcerf ran toward him with open arms, but as soon as he drew near, he dropped them in spite of the Count’s friendly smile, and did no more than put out his hand. The Count merely touched the tips of his fingers as he always did.
“Here I am, Count. What is the news?”
“News! You ask that question of me, a stranger?”
“Of course. I mean have you done anything for me?”
“Did you ask me to do anything for you?” asked the Count, feigning uneasiness.
“Oh, nonsense!” said Albert. “Don’t pretend to be so indifferent. They say that one mind can communicate with another through space. When I was at Tréport I felt that you were either working for me or thinking of me.”
“That is possible,” said Monte Cristo. “As a matter of fact I have been thinking of you. Monsieur Danglars dined with me.”
“I know that. Was it not to avoid meeting him that my mother and I left town for a few days?”
“But Monsieur Cavalcanti also dined with me.”
“Your Italian prince?”
“That is an exaggeration. Monsieur Andrea only styles himself Viscount.”
“Styles himself, do you say?”
“Yes, I said styles himself.”
“Is he not a Viscount then?”
“How do I know? He gives himself the title, I give it him, everybody does, which is the same as if he actually was a Viscount.”
“What a strange man you are! So Monsieur Danglars dined here with your Viscount Andrea Cavalcanti?”
“With Viscount Andrea Cavalcanti, the Marquis his father, Madame Danglars, Monsieur and Madame de Villefort, all charming people, then Monsieur Debray, Maximilian Morrel, and . . . let me see . . . oh yes, and Monsieur de Château-Renaud.”
“Did they speak of me?”
“Not a word.”
“More’s the pity.”
“Why? It seems to me you would prefer them to forget you.”
“My dear Count, if they did not speak of me, it only means that they thought all the more of me. Truly, I am an unlucky fellow.”
“What does that matter since Mademoiselle Danglars was not amongst the number? Ah, it is true enough, she might have been thinking of you at home.”
“I have no fear of that; at any rate, if she was, it was in the same way in which I think of her.”
“What touching sympathy! Do you really hate each other?”
“I think Mademoiselle Danglars would make a charming mistress, but as a wife . . . !”
“Is that the way you think of your future spouse?” said Monte Cristo, laughing.
“It is a little unkind, perhaps, but true none the less. Since this dream cannot be realized, I shrink from the idea of Mademoiselle Danglars becoming my wife; that is to say, living with me, thinking, singing in my company, composing her verses and music by my side, my whole life long! One can always leave a mistress, but a wife . . . Deuce take it! that is a different matter, you must live with her perpetually.”
“You are difficult to please, Viscount.”
“I am, for I so often crave for the impossible.”
“What is that?”
“To find a wife such as my father found.”
“So your father was one of the few fortunate ones?” said he.
“You know my opinion of my mother. She is an angel sent from Heaven. She is still beautiful, quick-witted, sweeter than ever. I have just been to Tréport with her. Most sons would look upon that as an irksome filial duty or an act of condescension on their part, but I assure you, Count, the four days I spent alone with my mother were more restful, more peaceful, and more poetic than if I had been accompanied by Queen Mab or Titania.”
“That is perfection indeed! Anyone hearing you speak thus will take the vow of celibacy!”
“The reason I do not care about marrying Mademoiselle Danglars is that I know a perfect woman. This is the reason why my joy will be indescribable the day she realizes that I am but a piteous atom with scarcely as many hundred thousand francs as she has millions!”
“Let things take their course. Perhaps everything will come as you wish. But tell me, do you seriously wish to break off your engagement?”
“I would give a hundred thousand francs to do so.”
“Then make yourself quite happy. Monsieur Danglars would give twice that much to attain the same end.”
“That is too good to be true,” replied Albert. Yet as he spoke an almost imperceptible cloud passed over his brow, and he asked: “Has Monsieur Danglars any reason?”
“Ah, here comes your proud and selfish nature to the fore! Well, well, I have once again found a man ready to hack at another’s self-respect with a hatchet, but who cries out when his own is pricked with a pin.”
“Not at all, but I think Monsieur Danglars . . .”
“Should be charmed with you! Well, Monsieur Danglars has such execrably bad taste that he is still more charmed with someone else.”
“With whom?”
“How should I know? Look around you, judge for yourself, and profit by the inferences you draw.”
“All right. I think I understand. Listen, my mother . . . no, not my mother, my father is thinking of giving a ball.”
“At this time of the year?”
“Summer balls are fashionable. You see those who remain in Paris in the month of July are the real Parisians. Will you convey our invitation to the Messieurs Cavalcanti?”
“When is the ball to take place?”
“On Saturday.”
“Monsieur Cavalcanti Senior will have left Paris by then.”
“But Monsieur Cavalcanti Junior will be here. Will you bring him along with you?”
“I do not know him. I never saw him till two or three days ago, and I cannot hold myself responsible for him.”
“But you receive him at your house.”
“That is quite a different matter. He was recommended to me by a worthy abbé who may himself be mistaken in him. Invite him yourself, if you like, but do not ask me to introduce him. If he marries Mademoiselle Danglars later on, you will accuse me of interfering and challenge me to a duel. Besides, I do not know whether I shall go to your ball myself.”
“Why not?”
“In the first place because you have not yet invited me.”
“I have come for that express purpose.”
“That is very kind of you. I may, however, still be compelled to refuse.”
“When I tell you that my mother especially asks you to come, I am sure you will brush aside all obstacles.”
“The Countess of Morcerf asks me?” inquired Monte Cristo with a start.
“I can assure you, Count, Madame de Morcerf speaks freely to me, and if you have not been stirred by a sympathetic impulse during the last four days, it must be that you have no response in you, for we have talked incessantly of you. May we expect you on Saturday?”
“You may, since Madame de Morcerf expressly invites me.”
“You are very kind.”
“Will Monsieur Danglars be there?”
“Oh, yes, he has been invited. My father has seen to that. We shall also try to persuade Monsieur de Villefort to come, but have not much hope of success. Do you dance, Count?”
“No, I do not, but I enjoy watching others. Does your mother dance?”
“No, never. You can entertain her. She is very anxious to have a talk with you.”
“Really?”
“On my word of honour. Do you know, you are the first person in whom my mother has manifested such curiosity.”
Albert rose and took his hat; the Count accompanied him
to the door.
“I have to reproach myself with having been somewhat indiscreet,” he said, stopping at the top of the steps. “I should not have spoken to you about Monsieur Danglars.”
“On the contrary, continue speaking about him, now and always, so long as it is in the same strain.”
“That’s all right then. By the way, when does Monsieur d’Épinay arrive?”
“In five or six days at the latest.”
“And when is he to be married?”
“As soon as Monsieur and Madame de Saint-Méran arrive.”
“Bring him to see me when he comes. Though you always say I do not like him, I shall be very glad to see him.”
“Your orders shall be obeyed, Count.”
“Good-bye!”
“Until Saturday. That is quite certain?”
“I have given you my promise.”
It was in the warmest days of June when, in due course of time, the Saturday arrived on which M. de Morcerf’s ball was to take place. It was ten o’clock in the evening. From the rooms on the ground floor might be heard the sounds of music and the whirl of the waltz and galop, while brilliant light streamed through the interstices of the venetian blinds. At that moment the garden was occupied only by some ten servants, who were preparing the supper-tables. The paths had already been illuminated by brilliant coloured lanterns, and a mass of choice flowers and numberless candles helped to decorate the sumptuous supper-tables.
No sooner had the Countess returned to the salon after giving her final orders than the guests began to arrive, drawn thither by the charming hospitality of the Countess more than by the distinguished position of the Count. Mme Danglars came, not only beautiful in person, but radiantly splendid. Albert went up to her and, paying her well-merited compliments on her toilette, offered her his arm and conducted her to a seat. Albert looked around him.
“You are looking for my daughter?” said the Baroness with a smile.
“I confess I am,” responded Albert. “Could you have been so cruel as not to bring her?”
“Now don’t get excited; she met Mademoiselle de Villefort and will be here presently. Look, there they come, both of them wearing white, one with a bouquet of roses and the other with myosotis. But tell me . . .”
“What do you wish to know, madame?”
“Is the Count of Monte Cristo not coming this evening?”
“Seventeen!” said Albert.
“What do you mean?”
“Only that you are the seventeenth person who has put that same question to me,” replied Albert laughing. “He is doing well . . . I congratulate him.”
“Have you answered everyone as you have answered me?”
“Oh, to be sure, I have not yet replied to your question. Do not fear, madame, we shall have the privilege of enjoying the company of the lion of the day.”
“Were you at the Opera yesterday? He was there.”
“No, I did not go. Did the eccentric man do anything original?”
“Does he ever do anything else? Elssler was dancing in le Diable Boiteux, and the Greek Princess was in raptures. After the cachucha, he threw the dancer a bouquet in between the flowers of which there was a magnificent ring; when she appeared again in the third act, she did honour to the gift by wearing it on her little finger. But leave me here now and go and pay your respects to Madame de Villefort. I can see she is longing to have a talk with you.”
Albert bowed and went toward Mme de Villefort, who was about to say something when Albert interrupted her.
“I am sure I know what you are going to ask me,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Whether the Count of Monte Cristo is coming.”
“Not at all. I was not even thinking of him just then. I wanted to ask you whether you had received news of Franz.”
“I had a letter from him yesterday. He was then leaving for Paris.”
“That’s good. Now what about the Count?”
“The Count is coming right enough.”
Just then a handsome young man with keen eyes, black hair, and a glossy moustache bowed respectfully to Mme de Villefort. Albert held out his hand to him.
“Madame, I have the honour of presenting to you Monsieur Maximilian Morrel, Captain of Spahis, one of our best and bravest officers.”
“I had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman at Auteuil, at the Count of Monte Cristo’s,” replied Mme de Villefort, turning away with marked coldness.
This remark, and above all the tone in which it was said, chilled the heart of poor Morrel. There was a recompense in store for him, however. Turning round he perceived near the door a beautiful figure all in white, whose large blue eyes were fixed on him without any apparent expression, whilst the bouquet of myosotis slowly rose to her lips.
Morrel understood the salutation so well that, with the same expressionless look in his eyes, he raised his handkerchief to his mouth. These two living statues, whose hearts beat so violently under their apparently marble-like forms yet were separated from one another by the whole length of the room, forgot themselves for a moment, or rather for a moment forgot everybody and everything in their mute contemplation of one another. They might have remained lost in one another much longer without anyone noticing their obliviousness to all things around them had not the Count of Monte Cristo just entered. As we have already remarked, the Count seemed to exercise a fascination, whether artificial or natural, which attracted general attention wherever he went; it was certainly not his black coat, irreproachable in cut but perfectly plain and devoid of all trimmings, that attracted attention; nor was it his white unembroidered waistcoat, nor his trousers displaying a perfectly shaped foot. It was rather his pale face and black wavy hair, his calm and serene expression, his deep-set, melancholy eyes and his delicately chiselled mouth, which so easily expressed excessive disdain, that drew all eyes toward him.
There may have been men who were more handsome than he, but there were certainly none who were more significant, if we may use the expression. Everything about the Count seemed to have its meaning and value, for the habit of profitable thinking had given an incomparable ease and firmness to his features, to the expression of his face, and to his slightest gesture. Yet the world is so strange that all this would have been passed by unheeded, if it had not been complemented by a mysterious story gilded over by an immense fortune.
However that may be, the Count was the cynosure of every eye as he advanced, exchanging bows on his way, to where Mme de Morcerf was standing before a flower-laden mantelshelf. She had seen his entrance in a mirror placed opposite the door and was prepared to receive him. She turned toward him with a serene smile just as he was bowing to her. No doubt she thought the Count would speak to her, while he on the other hand thought she was about to address him. They both remained silent, therefore, apparently feeling that banalities were out of place between them, so after exchanging salutations, Monte Cristo went in search of Albert.
“Have you seen my mother?” was Albert’s first remark.
“I have just had the pleasure,” said the Count, “but I have not yet seen your father.”
“He is talking politics with a small group of great celebrities.”
Just then the Count felt his arm pressed; he turned round to find himself face to face with Danglars.
“Ah, it is you, Baron,” said he.
“Why do you call me Baron?” returned Danglars. “You know quite well I care nothing for my title. I am not like you in that respect, Viscount; you lay great value on your title, do you not?”
“Certainly I do,” replied Albert, “for if I were not a viscount, I should be nothing at all, whereas, while sacrificing your title of Baron, you would still be a millionaire.”
“Which appears to me the finest title in existence,” replied Danglars.
“Unfortunately,” said Monte Cristo, “the title of millionaire does not always last one’s lifetime as does that of Baron, Peer of France, or Academician: as a proof
you have only to consider the case of the millionaires Francke and Poulmann, of Frankfort, who have just become bankrupt.”
“Is that really the case?” asked Danglars, turning pale.
“Indeed it is. I received the news this evening by courier. I had about a million deposited with them, but, having been warned in time, I demanded its withdrawal some four weeks ago.”
“Good heavens! They have drawn on me for two hundred thousand francs!”
“Well, you are warned.”
“But the warning has come too late,” said Danglars. “I have honoured their signature.”
“Ah, well,” said the Count, “that’s another two hundred thousand francs gone to join . . .”
“Hush, do not mention such things before Monsieur Cavalcanti,” added the banker, turning his head toward the young man with a smile.
In the meantime the heat in the room had become excessive. Footmen went round with trays laden with fruit and ices. Monte Cristo wiped with his handkerchief the perspiration that had gathered on his forehead, nevertheless he stepped back when the tray passed before him and would not take refreshment.
Mme de Morcerf did not lose sight of Monte Cristo. She saw him refuse to take anything from the tray and even noticed his movement as he withdrew from it.
“Albert,” said she, “have you noticed that the Count will not accept an invitation to dine with your father?”
“But he breakfasted with me,” said Albert, “in fact it was at that breakfast that he was first introduced into our society.”
“That is not your father’s house. I have been watching him to-night, he has not taken anything.”
“The Count is very temperate.”
Mercédès smiled sadly.
“Go to him, Albert,” said she, “and, the next time a waiter goes round, persuade him to take something.”
“Why, Mother?”
“Because I ask you, Albert.”
Albert kissed his mother’s hand, and went to do her bidding. Another tray was handed round; Mercédès saw how Albert tried to persuade the Count, how he himself took an ice from the tray and presented it to him, only to meet with an obstinate refusal.
Albert rejoined his mother; she was very pale.
“Well, you see he refused?” said she.
Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 37