With one hand Monte Cristo put the notes into his pocket, and with the other presented the receipt to the banker.
Danglars was terror-stricken.
“What!” he stammered. “Do you intend taking that money, Count? Excuse me, it is a deposit I hold for the hospitals, and I promised to pay it this morning.”
“That is a different matter,” said Monte Cristo. “I do not care particularly about these five notes. Pay me in some other way. It was only to satisfy my curiosity that I took these, so that I might tell everyone that, without any advice or even asking for five minutes’ grace, Danglars’ bank had paid me five millions in cash. It would have been so remarkable! Here are your bonds, however. Now give me bills of some other sort.”
He held out the five bonds to Danglars, who, livid to the lips, stretched out his hand as the vulture stretches out its claw through the bars of its cage to seize the piece of meat that is being snatched from it. All of a sudden he changed his mind, and with a great effort restrained himself. A smile passed over his face and gradually his countenance became serene.
“Just as you like,” he said, “your receipt is money.”
“Oh, dear, yes; if you were at Rome, Messrs Thomson and French would make no more difficulty about paying you on my receipt than you have done yourself. I can keep this money, then?”
“Yes,” said Danglars, wiping his forehead. “Yes, yes.”
Monte Cristo put the five bills into his pocket again.
“Yes,” said Danglars. “Certainly keep my signatures. But you know no one sticks to formalities more than a financier does, and as I had destined that money for the hospitals it appeared to me, for a moment, that I should be robbing them by not giving them just those five bonds: as though one franc were not as good as another.” And he began to laugh, loudly but nervously. “But there is still a sum of one hundred thousand francs?”
“Oh, that is a mere trifle. The commission must come to nearly that much. Keep it and we shall be quits.”
“Are you speaking seriously, Count?” asked Danglars.
“I never joke with bankers,” replied Monte Cristo with such a serious air that it was tantamount to impertinence, and he turned toward the door just as the footman announced M. de Boville, Treasurer General of Hospitals.
“Upon my word,” said Monte Cristo, “it appears I was only just in time for your signatures—another minute and I should have had a rival claimant.”
The Count of Monte Cristo exchanged a ceremonious bow with M. de Boville, who was standing in the waiting-room and was at once shown into M. Danglars’ room. The Count’s stern face was illuminated by a fleeting smile as he caught sight of the portfolio the Treasurer General carried in his hand. He found his carriage at the door and drove to the bank.
In the meantime the banker advanced to meet the Treasurer General with a forced smile on his lips.
“Good morning, my dear creditor,” he said, “for I am sure it is the creditor.”
“You are quite right, Baron,” said M. de Boville. “I come in the name of the hospitals; through me the widows and orphans have come to ask you for an alms of five millions!”
“Yet they say orphans are to be pitied!” said Danglars, gaining time by joking. “Poor children!”
“Well, I have come in their name,” said M. de Boville. “Did you receive my letter yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Here is my receipt.”
“My dear Monsieur de Boville,” began Danglars, “if you so permit, your widows and orphans will be good enough to wait twenty-four hours, as Monsieur de Monte Cristo, who has just left me . . . You saw him, I think, did you not?”
“I did. Well?”
“Well, Monsieur de Monte Cristo took with him their five millions.”
“How is that?”
“The Count had unlimited credit upon me opened by Messrs Thomson and French, of Rome. He came to ask me for five millions right away, and I gave him cheques on the bank. You can well understand that if I draw ten millions on one and the same day, the Governor will think it rather strange. Two separate days will be quite a different matter,” he added with a smile.
“What!” cried M. de Boville in an incredulous tone. “You paid five millions to the gentleman who just left the house! Five millions!”
“Yes, here is his receipt.”
M. de Boville took the paper Danglars handed him and read:
Received from Baron Danglars the sum of five million francs, which he will redeem at will from Messrs Thomson and French of Rome.
“It is really true then,” he said. “Why, this Count of Monte Cristo must be a nabob! I must call on him, and get a pious grant from him.”
“You have as good as received it. His alms alone amount to more than twenty thousand francs a month.”
“How magnificent! I shall set before him the example of Madame de Morcerf and her son.”
“What is that?”
“They have given their whole fortune to the hospitals. They say they do not want money obtained by unclean means.”
“What are they to live on?”
“The mother has retired to the provinces, and the son is going to enlist. I registered the deed of gift yesterday.”
“How much did they possess?”
“Oh, not very much. Twelve to thirteen thousand francs. But let us return to our millions.”
“Willingly,” said Danglars, as naturally as possible. “Do you require this money urgently?”
“Yes, our accounts are to be audited to-morrow.”
“To-morrow? Why did you not tell me so at once? To morrow is a long time hence. At what time does the auditing take place?”
“At two o’clock.”
“Send round at midday, then,” said Danglars with a smile.
“I will come myself.”
“Better still, as it will give me the pleasure of seeing you again.” With which they shook hands.
“By the way,” said M. de Boville, “are you not going to the funeral of poor Mademoiselle de Villefort, which I met on the way here?”
“No,” said the banker, “that Cavalcanti affair has made me look rather ridiculous, and when one bears a name as irreproachable as mine, one is rather sensitive. I shall keep out of sight for a while.”
M. de Boville left expressing great sympathy with the banker in his trouble. He was no sooner outside than Danglars called after him with great force, “Fool!” Then, putting Monte Cristo’s receipt into his pocket, he added: “Yes, yes, come at noon; I shall be far from here.”
Then he double-locked the door, emptied all the cash drawers, collected about fifty thousand francs in bank notes, burnt several papers, placed others in conspicuous parts of the room, and finally wrote a letter which he sealed and addressed to Baroness Danglars.
Taking a passport from his drawer, he looked at it, muttering: “Good! It is valid for another two months!”
Chapter LXVI
CONSOLATION
M. de Boville had indeed met the funeral procession which was accompanying Valentine to her last resting-place in the cemetery of Père-Lachaise. As the cortège was leaving Paris, a carriage drawn by four horses came along at full speed and suddenly stopped. Monte Cristo alighted and mingled in the crowd who were following the hearse on foot. When Château-Renaud and Beauchamp perceived him, they also alighted from their carriages and joined him. The Count’s eager eyes searched the crowd; it was obvious that he was looking for someone. At length he could restrain himself no longer.
“Where is Morrel?” he asked. “Do either of you gentlemen know?”
“We have already asked ourselves that question. No one seems to have seen him.”
The Count remained silent but continued to look around him.
They arrived at the cemetery. Monte Cristo peered into every clump of yew and pine, and was at length relieved of all anxiety: he saw a shadow glide along the dark bushes and recognized him whom he sought. This shadow crossed rapidly but unseen to t
he hearse and walked beside the coffin-bearers to the spot selected for the grave. Everyone’s attention was occupied, but Monte Cristo saw only the shadow, which was otherwise unobserved by all around him. Twice did the Count leave the ranks to see whether the man had not some weapon hidden under his clothes. When the procession stopped, the shadow was recognized as Morrel. His coat was buttoned up to his chin, his cheeks were hollow and livid, and he nervously clasped and unclasped his hands. He took his place against a tree on a hillock overlooking the grave, so that he might not miss one detail of the service.
Everything was conducted in the usual manner, though Monte Cristo heard and saw nothing; or rather, he saw nothing but Morrel, whose calmness and motionlessness were alarming to him, who could read what was passing through the young man’s mind.
The funeral over, the guests returned to Paris. When everyone had gone, Maximilian left his place against the tree and spent a few minutes in silent prayer beside Valentine’s grave; then he got up, and, without looking back once, turned down the Rue de la Roquette. Monte Cristo had been hiding behind a large tomb, watching Morrel’s every movement. Dismissing his carriage, he now followed the young man on foot as he crossed the canal and entered the Rue Meslay by the boulevards.
Five minutes after the door had been closed on Morrel, it was opened again for Monte Cristo. Julie was in the garden watching Penelon, who, taking his position as gardener very seriously, was grafting some Bengal roses.
“Ah, is that you, Count!” she cried with the delight each member of the family generally manifested every time he made his appearance there.
“Maximilian has just come in, has he not?” asked the Count.
“I think I saw him come in,” replied the young woman, “but pray call Emmanuel.”
“Excuse me a minute, madame, I must go up to Maximilian at once. I have something of the greatest importance to tell him.”
“Go along, then,” she said, giving him a charming smile.
Monte Cristo soon ran up the two flights of stairs that separated Maximilian’s room from the ground floor; he stood on the landing for a moment and listened; there was not a sound. As is the case in most old houses, the door of the chamber was panelled with glass. Maximilian had shut himself inside, and it was impossible to see through the glass what was happening in the room, as a red silk curtain was drawn across. The Count’s anxiety was manifested by his high colour, an unusual sign of emotion in this impassive man.
“What am I to do?” he murmured, as he reflected for a moment. “Shall I ring? Oh, no, the sound of a bell announcing a visitor often hastens the resolution of those in the position in which Maximilian must now be; then the tinkling of the bell will be accompanied by another sound.” He was trembling from head to foot, and, with his usual lightning-like rapidity in coming to a decision, he suddenly pushed his elbow through one of the panes of the door, which broke into a thousand pieces. Raising the curtain, he saw Morrel at his desk with a pen in his hand. He started up with a jump when he heard the noise made by the broken glass.
“I am so sorry,” said the Count. “It is nothing; I slipped, and in doing so pushed my elbow through your door. However, I will now take the opportunity of paying you a visit. Pray, do not let me disturb you.” Putting his hand through the broken glass, he opened the door.
Obviously annoyed, Morrel came forward to meet the Count, not so much with the intention of welcoming him as of barring his way.
“It is your servant’s fault,” said Monte Cristo, rubbing his elbow. “Your floors are as slippery as glass.”
“Have you cut yourself ?” Morrel asked coldly.
“I do not know. But what were you doing? Were you writing with those ink-stained fingers?”
“Yes, I was writing,” replied Morrel. “I do sometimes, though I am a soldier.”
Monte Cristo went farther into the room, and Morrel was compelled to let him pass.
“You were writing?” inquired Monte Cristo, with an annoyingly searching look.
“I have already had the honour of telling you that I was.”
The Count looked around him.
“Your pistols on your desk beside you?” said he, pointing to the two weapons.
“I am going on a journey.”
“My friend!” said Monte Cristo with infinite tenderness, “my good friend, make no hasty resolution, I beg of you!”
“I make a hasty resolution!” exclaimed Morrel. “In what way can a journey be deemed a hasty resolution?”
“Maximilian,” resumed Monte Cristo, “let us lay aside our masks. You can no more deceive me with your exterior calmness than I can mislead you with my frivolous solicitude. You no doubt understand that to have acted as I have done, to have broken a pane of glass, intruded on the privacy of a friend, I must have been actuated by a terrible conviction. Morrel, you intend to take your life!”
Morrel started. “Whence do you get that idea, Count?” he said.
“I declare that you intend taking your life. Here is my proof!” said Monte Cristo, in the same tone of voice; going to the desk, he removed the blank piece of paper with which the young man had covered a half-finished letter and picked it up. Morrel reached forward to wrest it from him, but Monte Cristo had anticipated this and forestalled him by seizing his wrist.
“You must confess that you intended to kill yourself, for it is written here,” said the Count.
“Well, and if I have decided to turn this pistol against myself, who shall prevent me?” cried Morrel, passing from his momentary appearance of calmness to an expression of violence. “When I say that all my hopes are frustrated, my heart broken, and my life worthless, since the world holds no more charms for me, nothing but grief and mourning; when I say that it would be a mercy to let me die, for, if you do not, I shall lose my reason and become mad; when I tell you all this with tears of heartfelt anguish, who can say to me: ‘You are wrong?’ Who would prevent me from putting an end to such a miserable existence? Tell me, Count, would you have the courage?”
“Yes, Morrel,” said Monte Cristo, in a voice which contrasted strangely with the young man’s excitement. “Yes, I would.”
“You!” cried Morrel with an angry and reproachful expression. “You who deceived me with absurd hopes! You who cheered me, solaced and soothed me with vain promises when I could have saved her life by some swift and drastic step, or at least could have seen her die in my arms! You who pretended to have all the resources of science at your disposal and all power over matter, yet could not administer an antidote to a poisoned girl! In truth, Count, if it were not that you inspire me with horror, I should feel pity for you!”
“Morrel . . . !”
“You told me to lay aside my mask, and rest assured I will do so. When you followed me here, I allowed you to enter, for I am softhearted, but since you abuse my confidence and defy me in my own room, where I had enclosed myself as in my tomb, since you bring me new tortures when I thought all were exhausted, then, Count of Monte Cristo, my false benefactor, the universal saviour, be satisfied, you shall see your friend die . . .”
With a maniacal laugh, he rushed toward the pistols again. Pale as a ghost, his eyes darting fire, Monte Cristo put his hand over the weapons saying: “And I repeat once more that you shall not take your life!”
“And who are you that you should take upon yourself such an authority over a free and rational being?”
“Who am I?” repeated Monte Cristo. “I will tell you. I am the only man who has the right to say to you: ‘Morrel, I do not wish your father’s son to die to-day!’”
Morrel, involuntarily acknowledging the Count’s ascendancy over him, gave way a step.
“Why do you speak of my father?” he stammered. “Why bring my father’s memory into what I am going to do to-day?”
“Because I am the man who saved your father’s life when he wanted to take it as you do to-day! Because I am the man who sent the purse to your sister and the Pharaon to old Monsieur Morrel! Because I am
Edmond Dantès!”
Morrel staggered, choking and crushed; his strength failed him, and with a cry he fell prostrate at Monte Cristo’s feet. Then all of a sudden his true nature completely reasserted itself; he rose and flew out of the room, calling out at the top of his voice:
“Julie! Julie! Emmanuel! Emmanuel!”
Monte Cristo also attempted to rush out, but Maximilian would sooner have let himself be killed than let go of the handle of the door, which he shut against him. Upon hearing Maximilian’s shouts, Julie, Emmanuel, Penelon, and several servants came running up the stairs in alarm. Morrel seized Julie by the hand, and, opening the door, called out in a voice stifled with sobs: “On your knees! on your knees! This is our benefactor, this is the man who saved our father, this is . . .” He was going to say “Edmond Dantès,” but the Count restrained him. Julie threw herself into the Count’s arms, Emmanuel embraced him, and Morrel once more fell on to his knees. Then this man of iron felt his heart swelling within him, a burning flame seemed to rise in his throat, and from thence rush to his eyes; he bowed his head and wept. For a while nothing was heard in the room but weeping and sobbing; a sound that must have been sweet to the angels in Heaven!
Julie had scarcely recovered from the deep emotion that had overcome her when she rushed down to the salon and, with a childlike joy, raised the glass case that protected the purse given by the unknown man of the Allés de Meilhan. Meanwhile, Emmanuel said to the Count in a broken voice:
“Oh, Count, when you heard us speak so often of our unknown benefactor and perceived with what gratitude and homage we clothed his memory, how could you wait until to day to make yourself known to us? It was cruel to us, and, I almost venture to say, to yourself too, Count!”
Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 55