Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Alexandre Dumas

  These words were spoken with such vehemence and with such force of truth that everyone looked at the Count’s forehead, and he himself put his hand up as though he felt Ali’s blood still warm upon his forehead.

  “You positively recognize Monsieur de Morcerf as this same officer, Fernand Mondego?”

  “Do I recognize him?” cried Haydee. “Oh, Mother! You said to me: ‘You are free. You had a father whom you loved; you were destined to be almost a queen. Look well at this man who has made you a slave; it is he who has placed your father’s head on the pike, it is he who has sold us, it is he who has betrayed us! Look at his right hand with its large scar. If you forget his face, you will recognize this hand into which El Kobbir’s gold fell, piece by piece!’ Oh, yes, I know him! Let him tell you himself whether he does not recognize me now!”

  Each word cut Morcerf like a knife, and broke down his determination. At the last words he instinctively hid his hand in his bosom, for as a matter of fact it bore the mark of a wound, and once more he sank back into his chair.

  This scene had set the opinions of the assembly in a veritable turmoil, like leaves torn from their branches by the violence of a north wind.

  “Do not lose courage, Count,” said the President. “The justice of this court, like that of God, is supreme and equal to all; it will not permit you to be crushed by your enemies without giving you the means of defending yourself. Do you wish to have further investigations made? Do you wish me to send two members of the Chamber to Janina? Speak!”

  Morcerf made no reply.

  All the members of the Committee looked at one another in horror. They knew the Count’s energetic and violent temper, and realized it must have needed a terrible blow to break down this man’s defence; they could but think that this sleep-like silence would be followed by an awakening resembling thunder in its force.

  “What have you decided?” the President asked.

  “Nothing,” said the Count, in a toneless voice.

  “Then Ali Tebelin’s daughter has spoken the truth? She is indeed the dreaded witness in face of whose evidence the guilty one dares not answer: ‘Not guilty?’ You have actually committed the crimes of which she accuses you?”

  The Count cast around him a look of despair such as would have elicited mercy from a tiger, but it could not disarm his judges; then he raised his eyes toward the roof but instantly turned them away again, as though fearful lest it should open and he should find himself before that other tribunal they call Heaven, and face to face with that other judge whom they call God. He tore at the buttons that fastened the coat which was choking him and walked out of the room like one demented. For an instant his weary steps echoed dolefully, but the sound was soon followed by the rattling of his carriage wheels as he was borne away at a gallop.

  “Messieurs,” said the President when silence was restored, “is the Count of Morcerf guilty of felony, treason, and dishonour?”

  “Yes,” was the unanimous reply of all the members.

  Haydee was present to the end of the meeting; she heard the verdict passed on the Count, but neither pity nor joy was depicted on her features. Covering her face with her veil, she bowed to the councillors and left the room with queenly tread.

  Chapter LV

  THE CHALLENGE

  Albert was resolved to kill the unknown person who had struck this blow at his father. He had discovered that Danglars was making inquiries through his correspondents concerning the surrender of the castle of Janina, and he now proposed to his friend Beauchamp to accompany him to an interview with the banker, since, in his view, it was unfitting that such a solemn occasion should be unmarked by the presence of a witness.

  When they reached Danglars’ house they perceived the phaeton and the servant of M. Andrea Cavalcanti at the door.

  “Ah, that is all the better,” said Albert grimly. “If Monsieur Danglars will not fight with me, I will kill his son-in-law. A Cavalcanti should not shirk a duel.”

  The young man was announced, but, on hearing Albert’s name, the banker, cognizant of what had taken place the previous evening, refused to see him. It was too late, however; he had followed the footman, and, hearing the instructions given, pushed open the door and entered the room, followed by Beauchamp.

  “Pray, monsieur, is one not at liberty to receive whom one chooses?” cried the banker. “You appear to have forgotten yourself sadly.”

  “No, monsieur,” said Albert coldly; “there are certain circumstances, such as the present one, when one is compelled to be at home to certain persons, at least if one is not a coward—I offer you that refuge.”

  “Then what do you want of me?”

  “All I want of you,” said Albert, going up to him and pretending not to notice Cavalcanti, who was standing with his back to the fireplace, “is to propose a meeting in some secluded spot where we shall not be disturbed for ten minutes; where, of the two men who meet, one will be left under the leaves.”

  Danglars turned pale. Cavalcanti took a step forward. Albert turned round to the young man and said:

  “Oh, certainly! Come too, if you wish, Count. You have a right to be present since you are almost one of the family. I am willing to give this kind of appointment to as many as will accept.”

  Cavalcanti looked with a stupefied air at Danglars, who rose with an effort and stepped between the two men. This attack on Cavalcanti led him to hope that Albert’s visit was due to a different reason from the one he had at first supposed.

  “If you have come here, monsieur,” said he to Albert, “to pick a quarrel with this gentleman because I preferred him to you, I shall bring the matter before the court.”

  “You are under a misapprehension, monsieur,” said Morcerf with a grim smile. “The appointment I ask for has nothing at all to do with matrimony. I merely addressed Monsieur Cavalcanti, because, for a moment, he appeared inclined to interfere in our discussion.”

  “I warn you, monsieur, that when I have the misfortune to meet a mad dog, I kill it,” said Danglars, white with fear and rage, “and far from thinking myself guilty of a crime, I should consider I had rendered a service to society. Therefore, if you are mad and try to bite me, I shall kill you without mercy. Is it my fault that your father is dishonoured?”

  “Yes, it is your fault, you scoundrel,” replied Morcerf.

  “My fault! Mine?” cried Danglars. “You are mad! Do I know anything about the history of Greece? Have I travelled in those parts? Was it upon my advice that your father sold the castle of Janina and betrayed . . .”

  “Silence!” roared Albert. “You did not bring this calamity on us directly, but you hypocritically led up to it. Who wrote to Janina for information concerning my father?”

  “It seems to me that anyone and every one can write to Janina.”

  “Nevertheless, only one person wrote, and you were that person.”

  “I certainly wrote. If a man’s daughter is about to marry a young man, it is surely permissible for him to make inquiries about the young man’s family. It is not only a right, it is a duty.”

  “You wrote knowing full well what answer you would receive,” said Albert.

  “I assure you,” cried Danglars with a confidence and security which emanated perhaps less from fear than from his feeling for the unhappy young man. “I solemnly declare that I should never have thought of writing to Janina. What do I know of Ali Pasha’s adversities?”

  “Then some one persuaded you to write?”

  “Certainly. I was speaking about your father’s past history to someone and mentioned that the source of his wealth was still a mystery. He asked where your father had made his fortune. I replied: ‘In Greece.’ So he said: ‘Well, write to Janina.’”

  “Who gave you this advice?”

  “Why, none other than your friend, the Count of Monte Cristo. Would you like to see the correspondence? I can show it you.”

  “Does the Count of Monte Cristo know what answer you received?”

  “
Yes, I showed it him.”

  “Did he know that my father’s Christian name was Fernand, and his family name Mondego?”

  “Yes, I told him a long time ago. After all, I have not done more than anyone else would have done in my place, perhaps less. The day after I received the answer, your father, acting on Monte Cristo’s advice, asked me officially for my daughter’s hand for you. I refused him definitely, but without giving any reason. In what way does the honour or dishonour of Monsieur de Morcerf concern me?”

  Albert felt the flush rise to his cheeks. There was no doubt that Danglars was defending himself with the baseness, but at the same time with the assurance, of a man speaking at any rate the partial truth, not for conscience’s sake, it is true, but through fear. Besides, what did Morcerf seek? It certainly was not to know whether Danglars or Monte Cristo was more to blame. What he sought was a man who would acknowledge the charge, whether venial or grave, a man who would fight, and it was evident that Danglars would not do so.

  Then many a detail forgotten or unobserved presented itself to his mind. Monte Cristo knew all since he had bought Ali Pasha’s daughter, yet, knowing all, he had advised Danglars to write to Janina. After the answer had been received he had yielded to Albert’s desire to be introduced to Haydee; he had allowed the conversation to turn on the death of Ali, and had not opposed the recital of her story (doubtless after giving her instructions in the few Romaic sentences he spoke, not to let Morcerf recognize his father); besides, had he not begged Morcerf not to mention his father’s name before Haydee? There could be no doubt that it was all a premeditated plan that Monte Cristo was in league with his father’s enemies.

  Albert took Beauchamp aside and expounded these views to him.

  “You are right,” his friend said. “In all that has happened Monsieur Danglars has only done the dirty work. You must demand satisfaction of Monsieur de Monte Cristo.”

  Albert turned to Danglars with the words: “You must understand, monsieur, I am not taking definite leave of you. I must first ascertain from the Count of Monte Cristo that your accusations against him are justified.”

  Bowing to the banker, he went out with Beauchamp, without taking any further notice of Cavalcanti. Danglars accompanied them to the door, renewing his assurance that he had not been actuated by any motive of personal hatred against the Count of Morcerf.6

  Chapter LVI

  THE INSULT

  They drove to No. 30, Avenue des Champs-Élysées, but the Count was in his bath and could not see anyone. Albert ascertained from Baptistin, however, that he would be going to the Opera that evening.

  Retracing his steps, he said to Beauchamp: “If you have anything to do, Beauchamp, do it at once. I count upon you to go to the Opera with me this evening and if you can bring Château-Renaud with you, do so.”

  On his return home, Albert sent a message to Franz, Debray, and Morrel that he would like to see them at the Opera that evening. Then he went to his mother, who, since the events of the previous evening, had kept her room and refused to see anyone. He found her in bed overwhelmed at their public humiliation. On seeing Albert, she clasped his hand and burst into tears. For a moment he stood silently looking on. It was evident from his pale face and knit brows that his determination for revenge was gaining in force.

  “Mother, do you know whether Monsieur de Morcerf has any enemies?” Albert asked.

  Mercédès started; she noticed the young man did not say “my father.”

  “My son,” she replied, “people in the Count’s position always have many secret enemies. Furthermore, the enemies one is cognizant of are not always the most dangerous.”

  “I know that, and for that reason, I appeal to your perspicacity. You are so observant that nothing escapes you. You remarked, for instance, that at the ball we gave Monsieur de Monte Cristo refused to partake of anything in our house.”

  Mercédès raised herself on her arm. “What has Monte Cristo to do with the question you asked me?”

  “You know, Mother, Monsieur de Monte Cristo is almost an Oriental, and in order to reserve for themselves the liberty of revenge, Orientals never eat or drink in the house of an enemy.”

  “Do you wish to imply that Monte Cristo is our enemy, Albert?” cried Mercédès. “Who told you so? Why, you are mad, Albert! Monsieur de Monte Cristo has shown us only kindness. He saved your life and you yourself presented him to us. Oh, I entreat you, my son, if you entertain such an idea, dispel it, and I advise you, nay I beg of you, to keep on good terms with him.”

  “Mother, you have some reason for wishing me to be friendly with this man,” replied the young man with a black look.

  “I?” said Mercédès.

  “Yes, you,” replied the young man. “Is it because he has the power to do us some harm?”

  Mercédès shuddered, and, casting on him a searching glance, said: “You speak strangely and appear to have singular prejudices. What has the Count done to you?”

  An ironical smile passed over Albert’s lips. Mercédès saw it with the double instinct of a woman and a mother and guessed all, but, being prudent and strong, she hid both her sorrows and her fears.

  Albert dropped the conversation, but after a moment or two the Countess resumed:

  “You inquired just now after my health. I will tell you frankly that I do not feel at all well. Stay with me and keep me company. I do not wish to be alone.”

  “Mother, you know how happy I should be to comply with your wishes, but important and urgent business compels me to be away from you the whole evening.”

  “Very well,” replied Mercédès, with a sigh. “Go, Albert. I will not make you a slave to your filial affection.”

  Albert feigned not to hear; he took leave of his mother and went to his room to dress. At ten minutes to eight Beauchamp appeared; he had seen Château-Renaud, who promised to be at the Opera before the curtain rose. The two men got into Albert’s brougham, and, having no reason to hide whither he was going, Albert said in a loud voice: “To the Opera!”

  It was not until the end of the second act that Albert sought Monte Cristo in his box. The Count, whose companion was Maximilian Morrel, had been watching the young man all the evening, so that when he turned round on hearing his door open, he was quite prepared to see Albert before him, accompanied by Beauchamp and Château-Renaud.

  “A welcome visit!” said the Count, with that cordiality which distinguished his form of salutation from the ordinary civilities of the social world. “So you have reached your goal at last! Good evening, Monsieur de Morcerf.”

  “We have not come here to exchange banalities or to make false professions of friendship,” returned Albert. “We have come to demand an explanation of you, Count.”

  The quivering voice of the young man was scarcely louder than a whisper.

  “An explanation at the Opera?” said the Count, with the calm tone and penetrating look which characterize the man who has complete confidence in himself. “Unfamiliar as I am with the customs of Paris, I should not have thought this was the place to demand an explanation.”

  “Nevertheless, when people shut themselves up and will not be seen on the pretext that they are in the bath, we must not miss the opportunity when we happen to meet them elsewhere.”

  “I am not difficult of access, monsieur,” said Monte Cristo. “If I mistake not, it was but yesterday that you saw me in my house.”

  “Yesterday I was at your house, monsieur, because I knew not who you were.”

  Albert had raised his voice to such a pitch when saying these last words that every one in the adjoining boxes and in the corridors heard him.

  “Where have you come from, monsieur?” said Monte Cristo, outwardly quite calm. “You do not appear to be in your right senses.”

  “So long as I understand your perfidies and make you realize that I will be revenged, I am reasonable enough,” said Albert in a fury.

  “I do not understand you, and even if I did, there is no reason for you to sp
eak in such a loud voice. I am at home here, and I alone have the right to raise my voice. Leave the box, Monsieur de Morcerf!” said the Count of Monte Cristo, as he pointed toward the door with an admirable gesture of command.

  Albert understood the allusion to his name in a moment, and was about to throw his glove in the Count’s face when Morrel seized his hand. Leaning forward in his chair, Monte Cristo stretched out his hand and took the young man’s glove, saying in a terrible voice:

  “I consider your glove as having been thrown, monsieur, and I will return it wrapt round a bullet. Now leave me, or I shall call my servants to throw you out!”

  Utterly beside himself with anger, and with wild and bloodshot eyes, Albert stepped back; Morrel seized the opportunity to shut the door. Monte Cristo took up his glasses again as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The man had, indeed, a heart of iron and a face of marble.

  “How have you offended him?” whispered Morrel.

  “I? I have not offended him—at least not personally.”

  “But there must be some reason for this strange scene.”

  “The Count of Morcerf’s adventures have exasperated the young man.”

  “What shall you do about it?”

  “What shall I do? As true as you are here I shall have killed him before the clock strikes ten to-morrow morning. That is what I shall do.”

  Morrel took the Count’s hands in his; they were so cold and steady that they sent a shudder through him.

  “Ah, Count,” said he, “his father loves him so.”

  “Tell me not such things!” cried Monte Cristo, with the first signs of anger that he had yet shown. “I would make him suffer!”

  Morrel let Monte Cristo’s hands fall in amazement.

  “Count! Count!” said he.

  “My dear Maximilian,” interrupted the Count, “listen to the charming manner in which Duprez sings this line: