Chapter 82. The Burglary
The day following that on which the conversation we have related tookplace, the Count of Monte Cristo set out for Auteuil, accompanied by Aliand several attendants, and also taking with him some horses whosequalities he was desirous of ascertaining. He was induced to undertakethis journey, of which the day before he had not even thought and whichhad not occurred to Andrea either, by the arrival of Bertuccio fromNormandy with intelligence respecting the house and sloop. The house wasready, and the sloop which had arrived a week before lay at anchor in asmall creek with her crew of six men, who had observed all the requisiteformalities and were ready again to put to sea.
The count praised Bertuccio’s zeal, and ordered him to prepare for aspeedy departure, as his stay in France would not be prolonged more thana month.
“Now,” said he, “I may require to go in one night from Paris to Tréport;let eight fresh horses be in readiness on the road, which will enable meto go fifty leagues in ten hours.”
“Your highness had already expressed that wish,” said Bertuccio, “andthe horses are ready. I have bought them, and stationed them myself atthe most desirable posts, that is, in villages, where no one generallystops.”
“That’s well,” said Monte Cristo; “I remain here a day or two—arrangeaccordingly.”
As Bertuccio was leaving the room to give the requisite orders,Baptistin opened the door: he held a letter on a silver waiter.
“What are you doing here?” asked the count, seeing him covered withdust; “I did not send for you, I think?”
Baptistin, without answering, approached the count, and presented theletter. “Important and urgent,” said he.
The count opened the letter, and read:
“‘M. de Monte Cristo is apprised that this night a man will enter hishouse in the Champs-Élysées with the intention of carrying off somepapers supposed to be in the secretaire in the dressing-room. Thecount’s well-known courage will render unnecessary the aid of thepolice, whose interference might seriously affect him who sends thisadvice. The count, by any opening from the bedroom, or by concealinghimself in the dressing-room, would be able to defend his propertyhimself. Many attendants or apparent precautions would prevent thevillain from the attempt, and M. de Monte Cristo would lose theopportunity of discovering an enemy whom chance has revealed to him whonow sends this warning to the count,—a warning he might not be able tosend another time, if this first attempt should fail and another bemade.’”
The count’s first idea was that this was an artifice—a gross deception,to draw his attention from a minor danger in order to expose him to agreater. He was on the point of sending the letter to the commissary ofpolice, notwithstanding the advice of his anonymous friend, or perhapsbecause of that advice, when suddenly the idea occurred to him that itmight be some personal enemy, whom he alone should recognize and overwhom, if such were the case, he alone would gain any advantage, asFiesco17 had done over the Moor who would have killed him. We know thecount’s vigorous and daring mind, denying anything to be impossible,with that energy which marks the great man.
From his past life, from his resolution to shrink from nothing, thecount had acquired an inconceivable relish for the contests in which hehad engaged, sometimes against nature, that is to say, against God, andsometimes against the world, that is, against the devil.
“They do not want my papers,” said Monte Cristo, “they want to kill me;they are no robbers, but assassins. I will not allow the prefect ofpolice to interfere with my private affairs. I am rich enough, forsooth,to distribute his authority on this occasion.”
The count recalled Baptistin, who had left the room after delivering theletter.
“Return to Paris,” said he; “assemble the servants who remain there. Iwant all my household at Auteuil.”
“But will no one remain in the house, my lord?” asked Baptistin.
“Yes, the porter.”
“My lord will remember that the lodge is at a distance from the house.”
“Well?”
“The house might be stripped without his hearing the least noise.”
“By whom?”
“By thieves.”
“You are a fool, M. Baptistin. Thieves might strip the house—it wouldannoy me less than to be disobeyed.” Baptistin bowed.
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“You understand me?” said the count. “Bring your comrades here, one andall; but let everything remain as usual, only close the shutters of theground floor.”
“And those of the first floor?”
“You know they are never closed. Go!”
The count signified his intention of dining alone, and that no one butAli should attend him. Having dined with his usual tranquillity andmoderation, the count, making a signal to Ali to follow him, went out bythe side-gate and on reaching the Bois de Boulogne turned, apparentlywithout design towards Paris and at twilight; found himself opposite hishouse in the Champs-Élysées. All was dark; one solitary, feeble lightwas burning in the porter’s lodge, about forty paces distant from thehouse, as Baptistin had said.
Monte Cristo leaned against a tree, and with that scrutinizing glancewhich was so rarely deceived, looked up and down the avenue, examinedthe passers-by, and carefully looked down the neighboring streets, tosee that no one was concealed. Ten minutes passed thus, and he wasconvinced that no one was watching him. He hastened to the side-doorwith Ali, entered hurriedly, and by the servants’ staircase, of which hehad the key, gained his bedroom without opening or disarranging a singlecurtain, without even the porter having the slightest suspicion that thehouse, which he supposed empty, contained its chief occupant.
Arrived in his bedroom, the count motioned to Ali to stop; then hepassed into the dressing-room, which he examined. Everything appeared asusual—the precious secretaire in its place, and the key in thesecretaire. He double locked it, took the key, returned to the bedroomdoor, removed the double staple of the bolt, and went in. Meanwhile Alihad procured the arms the count required—namely, a short carbine and apair of double-barrelled pistols, with which as sure an aim might betaken as with a single-barrelled one. Thus armed, the count held thelives of five men in his hands. It was about half-past nine.
The count and Ali ate in haste a crust of bread and drank a glass ofSpanish wine; then Monte Cristo slipped aside one of the movable panels,which enabled him to see into the adjoining room. He had within hisreach his pistols and carbine, and Ali, standing near him, held one ofthe small Arabian hatchets, whose form has not varied since theCrusades. Through one of the windows of the bedroom, on a line with thatin the dressing-room, the count could see into the street.
Two hours passed thus. It was intensely dark; still Ali, thanks to hiswild nature, and the count, thanks doubtless to his long confinement,could distinguish in the darkness the slightest movement of the trees.The little light in the lodge had long been extinct. It might beexpected that the attack, if indeed an attack was projected, would bemade from the staircase of the ground floor, and not from a window; inMonte Cristo’s opinion, the villains sought his life, not his money. Itwould be his bedroom they would attack, and they must reach it by theback staircase, or by the window in the dressing-room.
The clock of the Invalides struck a quarter to twelve; the west windbore on its moistened gusts the doleful vibration of the three strokes.
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As the last stroke died away, the count thought he heard a slight noisein the dressing-room; this first sound, or rather this first grinding,was followed by a second, then a third; at the fourth, the count knewwhat to expect. A firm and well-practised hand was engaged in cuttingthe four sides of a pane of glass with a diamond. The count felt hisheart beat more rapidly.
Inured as men may be to danger, forewarned as they may be of peril, theyunderstand, by the fluttering of the heart and the shuddering of theframe, the enormous difference between a dream and a reality, betweenthe project and the execution. However, Monte Cristo only made a sign toapprise Ali, wh
o, understanding that danger was approaching from theother side, drew nearer to his master. Monte Cristo was eager toascertain the strength and number of his enemies.
The window whence the noise proceeded was opposite the opening by whichthe count could see into the dressing-room. He fixed his eyes on thatwindow—he distinguished a shadow in the darkness; then one of the panesbecame quite opaque, as if a sheet of paper were stuck on the outside,then the square cracked without falling. Through the opening an arm waspassed to find the fastening, then a second; the window turned on itshinges, and a man entered. He was alone.
“That’s a daring rascal,” whispered the count.
At that moment Ali touched him slightly on the shoulder. He turned; Alipointed to the window of the room in which they were, facing the street.
“I see!” said he, “there are two of them; one does the work while theother stands guard.” He made a sign to Ali not to lose sight of the manin the street, and turned to the one in the dressing-room.
The glass-cutter had entered, and was feeling his way, his armsstretched out before him. At last he appeared to have made himselffamiliar with his surroundings. There were two doors; he bolted themboth.
When he drew near to the bedroom door, Monte Cristo expected that he wascoming in, and raised one of his pistols; but he simply heard the soundof the bolts sliding in their copper rings. It was only a precaution.The nocturnal visitor, ignorant of the fact that the count had removedthe staples, might now think himself at home, and pursue his purposewith full security. Alone and free to act as he wished, the man thendrew from his pocket something which the count could not discern, placedit on a stand, then went straight to the secretaire, felt the lock, andcontrary to his expectation found that the key was missing. But theglass-cutter was a prudent man who had provided for all emergencies. Thecount soon heard the rattling of a bunch of skeleton keys, such as thelocksmith brings when called to force a lock, and which thieves callnightingales, doubtless from the music of their nightly song when theygrind against the bolt.
“Ah, ha,” whispered Monte Cristo with a smile of disappointment, “he isonly a thief.”
But the man in the dark could not find the right key. He reached theinstrument he had placed on the stand, touched a spring, and immediatelya pale light, just bright enough to render objects distinct, wasreflected on his hands and countenance.
“By heavens,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, starting back, “it is——”
Ali raised his hatchet.
“Don’t stir,” whispered Monte Cristo, “and put down your hatchet; weshall require no arms.”
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Then he added some words in a low tone, for the exclamation whichsurprise had drawn from the count, faint as it had been, had startledthe man who remained in the pose of the old knife-grinder.
It was an order the count had just given, for immediately Ali wentnoiselessly, and returned, bearing a black dress and a three-corneredhat. Meanwhile Monte Cristo had rapidly taken off his greatcoat,waistcoat, and shirt, and one might distinguish by the glimmeringthrough the open panel that he wore a pliant tunic of steel mail, ofwhich the last in France, where daggers are no longer dreaded, was wornby King Louis XVI., who feared the dagger at his breast, and whose headwas cleft with a hatchet. The tunic soon disappeared under a longcassock, as did his hair under a priest’s wig; the three-cornered hatover this effectually transformed the count into an abbé.
The man, hearing nothing more, stood erect, and while Monte Cristo wascompleting his disguise had advanced straight to the secretaire, whoselock was beginning to crack under his nightingale.
“Try again,” whispered the count, who depended on the secret spring,which was unknown to the picklock, clever as he might be—“try again, youhave a few minutes’ work there.”
And he advanced to the window. The man whom he had seen seated on afence had got down, and was still pacing the street; but, strange as itappeared, he cared not for those who might pass from the avenue of theChamps-Élysées or by the Faubourg Saint-Honoré; his attention wasengrossed with what was passing at the count’s, and his only aimappeared to be to discern every movement in the dressing-room.
Monte Cristo suddenly struck his finger on his forehead and a smilepassed over his lips; then drawing near to Ali, he whispered:
“Remain here, concealed in the dark, and whatever noise you hear,whatever passes, only come in or show yourself if I call you.”
Ali bowed in token of strict obedience. Monte Cristo then drew a lightedtaper from a closet, and when the thief was deeply engaged with hislock, silently opened the door, taking care that the light should shinedirectly on his face. The door opened so quietly that the thief heard nosound; but, to his astonishment, the room was suddenly illuminated. Heturned.
“Ah, good-evening, my dear M. Caderousse,” said Monte Cristo; “what areyou doing here, at such an hour?”
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“The Abbé Busoni!” exclaimed Caderousse; and, not knowing how thisstrange apparition could have entered when he had bolted the doors, helet fall his bunch of keys, and remained motionless and stupefied. Thecount placed himself between Caderousse and the window, thus cutting offfrom the thief his only chance of retreat.
“The Abbé Busoni!” repeated Caderousse, fixing his haggard gaze on thecount.
“Yes, undoubtedly, the Abbé Busoni himself,” replied Monte Cristo. “AndI am very glad you recognize me, dear M. Caderousse; it proves you havea good memory, for it must be about ten years since we last met.”
This calmness of Busoni, combined with his irony and boldness, staggeredCaderousse.
“The abbé, the abbé!” murmured he, clenching his fists, and his teethchattering.
“So you would rob the Count of Monte Cristo?” continued the false abbé.
“Reverend sir,” murmured Caderousse, seeking to regain the window, whichthe count pitilessly blocked—“reverend sir, I don’t know—believe me—Itake my oath——”
“A pane of glass out,” continued the count, “a dark lantern, a bunch offalse keys, a secretaire half forced—it is tolerably evident——”
Caderousse was choking; he looked around for some corner to hide in,some way of escape.
“Come, come,” continued the count, “I see you are still the same,—anassassin.”
“Reverend sir, since you know everything, you know it was not I—it wasLa Carconte; that was proved at the trial, since I was only condemned tothe galleys.”
“Is your time, then, expired, since I find you in a fair way to returnthere?”
“No, reverend sir; I have been liberated by someone.”
“That someone has done society a great kindness.”
“Ah,” said Caderousse, “I had promised——”
“And you are breaking your promise!” interrupted Monte Cristo.
“Alas, yes!” said Caderousse very uneasily.
“A bad relapse, that will lead you, if I mistake not, to the Place deGrève. So much the worse, so much the worse—diavolo! as they say in mycountry.”
“Reverend sir, I am impelled——”
“Every criminal says the same thing.”
“Poverty——”
“Pshaw!” said Busoni disdainfully; “poverty may make a man beg, steal aloaf of bread at a baker’s door, but not cause him to open a secretairein a house supposed to be inhabited. And when the jeweller Johannes hadjust paid you 45,000 francs for the diamond I had given you, and youkilled him to get the diamond and the money both, was that alsopoverty?”
“Pardon, reverend sir,” said Caderousse; “you have saved my life once,save me again!”
“That is but poor encouragement.”
“Are you alone, reverend sir, or have you there soldiers ready to seizeme?”
“I am alone,” said the abbé, “and I will again have pity on you, andwill let you escape, at the risk of the fresh miseries my weakness maylead to, if you tell me the truth.”
“Ah, reverend sir,” cried Caderousse, clasping
his hands, and drawingnearer to Monte Cristo, “I may indeed say you are my deliverer!”
“You mean to say you have been freed from confinement?”
“Yes, that is true, reverend sir.”
“Who was your liberator?”
“An Englishman.”
“What was his name?”
“Lord Wilmore.”
“I know him; I shall know if you lie.”
“Ah, reverend sir, I tell you the simple truth.”
“Was this Englishman protecting you?”
“No, not me, but a young Corsican, my companion.”
“What was this young Corsican’s name?”
“Benedetto.”
“Is that his Christian name?”
“He had no other; he was a foundling.”
“Then this young man escaped with you?”
“He did.”
“In what way?”
“We were working at Saint-Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know Saint-Mandrier?”
“I do.”
“In the hour of rest, between noon and one o’clock——”
“Galley-slaves having a nap after dinner! We may well pity the poorfellows!” said the abbé.
“Nay,” said Caderousse, “one can’t always work—one is not a dog.”
“So much the better for the dogs,” said Monte Cristo.
“While the rest slept, then, we went away a short distance; we severedour fetters with a file the Englishman had given us, and swam away.”
“And what is become of this Benedetto?”
“I don’t know.”
“You ought to know.”
“No, in truth; we parted at Hyères.” And, to give more weight to hisprotestation, Caderousse advanced another step towards the abbé, whoremained motionless in his place, as calm as ever, and pursuing hisinterrogation.
“You lie,” said the Abbé Busoni, with a tone of irresistible authority.
“Reverend sir!”
“You lie! This man is still your friend, and you, perhaps, make use ofhim as your accomplice.”
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“Oh, reverend sir!”
“Since you left Toulon what have you lived on? Answer me!”
“On what I could get.”
“You lie,” repeated the abbé a third time, with a still more imperativetone. Caderousse, terrified, looked at the count. “You have lived on themoney he has given you.”
“True,” said Caderousse; “Benedetto has become the son of a great lord.”
“How can he be the son of a great lord?”
“A natural son.”
“And what is that great lord’s name?”
“The Count of Monte Cristo, the very same in whose house we are.”
“Benedetto the count’s son?” replied Monte Cristo, astonished in histurn.
“Well, I should think so, since the count has found him a falsefather—since the count gives him four thousand francs a month, andleaves him 500,000 francs in his will.”
“Ah, yes,” said the factitious abbé, who began to understand; “and whatname does the young man bear meanwhile?”
“Andrea Cavalcanti.”
“Is it, then, that young man whom my friend the Count of Monte Cristohas received into his house, and who is going to marry MademoiselleDanglars?”
“Exactly.”
“And you suffer that, you wretch!—you, who know his life and his crime?”
“Why should I stand in a comrade’s way?” said Caderousse.
“You are right; it is not you who should apprise M. Danglars, it is I.”
“Do not do so, reverend sir.”
“Why not?”
“Because you would bring us to ruin.”
“And you think that to save such villains as you I will become anabettor of their plot, an accomplice in their crimes?”
“Reverend sir,” said Caderousse, drawing still nearer.
“I will expose all.”
“To whom?”
“To M. Danglars.”
“By Heaven!” cried Caderousse, drawing from his waistcoat an open knife,and striking the count in the breast, “you shall disclose nothing,reverend sir!”
To Caderousse’s great astonishment, the knife, instead of piercing thecount’s breast, flew back blunted. At the same moment the count seizedwith his left hand the assassin’s wrist, and wrung it with such strengththat the knife fell from his stiffened fingers, and Caderousse uttered acry of pain. But the count, disregarding his cry, continued to wring thebandit’s wrist, until, his arm being dislocated, he fell first on hisknees, then flat on the floor.
The count then placed his foot on his head, saying, “I know not whatrestrains me from crushing thy skull, rascal.”
“Ah, mercy—mercy!” cried Caderousse.
The count withdrew his foot.
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“Rise!” said he. Caderousse rose.
“What a wrist you have, reverend sir!” said Caderousse, stroking hisarm, all bruised by the fleshy pincers which had held it; “what awrist!”
“Silence! God gives me strength to overcome a wild beast like you; inthe name of that God I act,—remember that, wretch,—and to spare thee atthis moment is still serving him.”
“Oh!” said Caderousse, groaning with pain.
“Take this pen and paper, and write what I dictate.”
“I don’t know how to write, reverend sir.”
“You lie! Take this pen, and write!”
Caderousse, awed by the superior power of the abbé, sat down and wrote:
“Sir,—The man whom you are receiving at your house, and to whom youintend to marry your daughter, is a felon who escaped with me fromconfinement at Toulon. He was No. 59, and I No. 58. He was calledBenedetto, but he is ignorant of his real name, having never known hisparents.”
“Sign it!” continued the count.
“But would you ruin me?”
“If I sought your ruin, fool, I should drag you to the first guard-house; besides, when that note is delivered, in all probability you willhave no more to fear. Sign it, then!”
Caderousse signed it.
“The address, ‘To monsieur the Baron Danglars, banker, Rue de laChaussée d’Antin.’”
Caderousse wrote the address. The abbé took the note.
“Now,” said he, “that suffices—begone!”
“Which way?”
“The way you came.”
“You wish me to get out at that window?”
“You got in very well.”
“Oh, you have some design against me, reverend sir.”
“Idiot! what design can I have?”
“Why, then, not let me out by the door?”
“What would be the advantage of waking the porter?”
“Ah, reverend sir, tell me, do you wish me dead?”
“I wish what God wills.”
“But swear that you will not strike me as I go down.”
“Cowardly fool!”
“What do you intend doing with me?”
“I ask you what can I do? I have tried to make you a happy man, and youhave turned out a murderer.”
“Oh, monsieur,” said Caderousse, “make one more attempt—try me oncemore!”
“I will,” said the count. “Listen—you know if I may be relied on.”
“Yes,” said Caderousse.
“If you arrive safely at home——”
“What have I to fear, except from you?”
“If you reach your home safely, leave Paris, leave France, and whereveryou may be, so long as you conduct yourself well, I will send you asmall annuity; for, if you return home safely, then——”
“Then?” asked Caderousse, shuddering.
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“Then I shall believe God has forgiven you, and I will forgive you too.”
“As true as I am a Christian,” stammered Caderousse, “you will make medie of fright!”
“Now begone,” said the count, pointing to the window.
Caderousse, scarcely yet relying on this promise, put his legs out ofthe window and stood on the ladder.
“Now go down,” said the abbé, folding his arms. Understanding he hadnothing more to fear from him, Caderousse began to go down. Then thecount brought the taper to the window, that it might be seen in theChamps-Élysées that a man was getting out of the window while anotherheld a light.
“What are you doing, reverend sir? Suppose a watchman should pass?” Andhe blew out the light. He then descended, but it was only when he felthis foot touch the ground that he was satisfied of his safety.
Monte Cristo returned to his bedroom, and, glancing rapidly from thegarden to the street, he saw first Caderousse, who after walking to theend of the garden, fixed his ladder against the wall at a different partfrom where he came in. The count then looking over into the street, sawthe man who appeared to be waiting run in the same direction, and placehimself against the angle of the wall where Caderousse would come over.Caderousse climbed the ladder slowly, and looked over the coping to seeif the street was quiet. No one could be seen or heard. The clock of theInvalides struck one. Then Caderousse sat astride the coping, anddrawing up his ladder passed it over the wall; then he began to descend,or rather to slide down by the two stanchions, which he did with an easewhich proved how accustomed he was to the exercise. But, once started,he could not stop. In vain did he see a man start from the shadow whenhe was halfway down—in vain did he see an arm raised as he touched theground.
Before he could defend himself that arm struck him so violently in theback that he let go the ladder, crying, “Help!” A second blow struck himalmost immediately in the side, and he fell, calling, “Help, murder!”Then, as he rolled on the ground, his adversary seized him by the hair,and struck him a third blow in the chest.
This time Caderousse endeavored to call again, but he could only utter agroan, and he shuddered as the blood flowed from his three wounds. Theassassin, finding that he no longer cried out, lifted his head up by thehair; his eyes were closed, and the mouth was distorted. The murderer,supposing him dead, let fall his head and disappeared.
Then Caderousse, feeling that he was leaving him, raised himself on hiselbow, and with a dying voice cried with great effort:
“Murder! I am dying! Help, reverend sir,—help!”
This mournful appeal pierced the darkness. The door of the back-staircase opened, then the side-gate of the garden, and Ali and hismaster were on the spot with lights.
The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated Page 83