Chapter 114. Peppino
At the same time that the steamer disappeared behind Cape Morgiou, a mantravelling post on the road from Florence to Rome had just passed thelittle town of Aquapendente. He was travelling fast enough to cover agreat deal of ground without exciting suspicion. This man was dressed ina greatcoat, or rather a surtout, a little worse for the journey, butwhich exhibited the ribbon of the Legion of Honor still fresh andbrilliant, a decoration which also ornamented the under coat. He mightbe recognized, not only by these signs, but also from the accent withwhich he spoke to the postilion, as a Frenchman.
Another proof that he was a native of the universal country was apparentin the fact of his knowing no other Italian words than the terms used inmusic, and which like the “goddam” of Figaro, served all possiblelinguistic requirements. “Allegro!” he called out to the postilions atevery ascent. “Moderato!” he cried as they descended. And heaven knowsthere are hills enough between Rome and Florence by the way ofAquapendente! These two words greatly amused the men to whom they wereaddressed. On reaching La Storta, the point from whence Rome is firstvisible, the traveller evinced none of the enthusiastic curiosity whichusually leads strangers to stand up and endeavor to catch sight of thedome of Saint Peter’s, which may be seen long before any other object isdistinguishable. No, he merely drew a pocketbook from his pocket, andtook from it a paper folded in four, and after having examined it in amanner almost reverential, he said:
“Good! I have it still!”
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The carriage entered by the Porta del Popolo, turned to the left, andstopped at the Hôtel d’Espagne. Old Pastrini, our former acquaintance,received the traveller at the door, hat in hand. The traveller alighted,ordered a good dinner, and inquired the address of the house of Thomson& French, which was immediately given to him, as it was one of the mostcelebrated in Rome. It was situated in the Via dei Banchi, near St.Peter’s.
In Rome, as everywhere else, the arrival of a post-chaise is an event.Ten young descendants of Marius and the Gracchi, barefooted and out atelbows, with one hand resting on the hip and the other gracefully curvedabove the head, stared at the traveller, the post-chaise, and thehorses; to these were added about fifty little vagabonds from the PapalStates, who earned a pittance by diving into the Tiber at high waterfrom the bridge of St. Angelo. Now, as these street Arabs of Rome, morefortunate than those of Paris, understand every language, moreespecially the French, they heard the traveller order an apartment, adinner, and finally inquire the way to the house of Thomson & French.
The result was that when the new-comer left the hotel with the cicerone,a man detached himself from the rest of the idlers, and without havingbeen seen by the traveller, and appearing to excite no attention fromthe guide, followed the stranger with as much skill as a Parisian policeagent would have used.
The Frenchman had been so impatient to reach the house of Thomson &French that he would not wait for the horses to be harnessed, but leftword for the carriage to overtake him on the road, or to wait for him atthe bankers’ door. He reached it before the carriage arrived. TheFrenchman entered, leaving in the anteroom his guide, who immediatelyentered into conversation with two or three of the industrious idlerswho are always to be found in Rome at the doors of banking-houses,churches, museums, or theatres. With the Frenchman, the man who hadfollowed him entered too; the Frenchman knocked at the inner door, andentered the first room; his shadow did the same.
“Messrs. Thomson & French?” inquired the stranger.
An attendant arose at a sign from a confidential clerk at the firstdesk.
“Whom shall I announce?” said the attendant.
“Baron Danglars.”
“Follow me,” said the man.
A door opened, through which the attendant and the baron disappeared.The man who had followed Danglars sat down on a bench. The clerkcontinued to write for the next five minutes; the man preserved profoundsilence, and remained perfectly motionless. Then the pen of the clerkceased to move over the paper; he raised his head, and appearing to beperfectly sure of privacy:
“Ah, ha,” he said, “here you are, Peppino!”
“Yes,” was the laconic reply. “You have found out that there issomething worth having about this large gentleman?”
“There is no great merit due to me, for we were informed of it.”
“You know his business here, then.”
“Pardieu, he has come to draw, but I don’t know how much!”
“You will know presently, my friend.”
“Very well, only do not give me false information as you did the otherday.”
“What do you mean?—of whom do you speak? Was it the Englishman whocarried off 3,000 crowns from here the other day?”
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“No; he really had 3,000 crowns, and we found them. I mean the Russianprince, who you said had 30,000 livres, and we only found 22,000.”
“You must have searched badly.”
“Luigi Vampa himself searched.”
“In that case he must either have paid his debts——”
“A Russian do that?”
“Or spent the money?”
“Possibly, after all.”
“Certainly. But you must let me make my observations, or the Frenchmanwill transact his business without my knowing the sum.”
Peppino nodded, and taking a rosary from his pocket began to mutter afew prayers while the clerk disappeared through the same door by whichDanglars and the attendant had gone out. At the expiration of tenminutes the clerk returned with a beaming countenance.
“Well?” asked Peppino of his friend.
“Joy, joy—the sum is large!”
“Five or six millions, is it not?”
“Yes, you know the amount.”
“On the receipt of the Count of Monte Cristo?”
“Why, how came you to be so well acquainted with all this?”
“I told you we were informed beforehand.”
“Then why do you apply to me?”
“That I may be sure I have the right man.”
“Yes, it is indeed he. Five millions—a pretty sum, eh, Peppino?”
“Hush—here is our man!” The clerk seized his pen, and Peppino his beads;one was writing and the other praying when the door opened. Danglarslooked radiant with joy; the banker accompanied him to the door. Peppinofollowed Danglars.
According to the arrangements, the carriage was waiting at the door. Theguide held the door open. Guides are useful people, who will turn theirhands to anything. Danglars leaped into the carriage like a young man oftwenty. The cicerone reclosed the door, and sprang up by the side of thecoachman. Peppino mounted the seat behind.
“Will your excellency visit Saint Peter’s?” asked the cicerone.
“I did not come to Rome to see,” said Danglars aloud; then he addedsoftly, with an avaricious smile, “I came to touch!” and he rapped hispocket-book, in which he had just placed a letter.
“Then your excellency is going——”
“To the hotel.”
“Casa Pastrini!” said the cicerone to the coachman, and the carriagedrove rapidly on.
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Ten minutes afterwards the baron entered his apartment, and Peppinostationed himself on the bench outside the door of the hotel, afterhaving whispered something in the ear of one of the descendants ofMarius and the Gracchi whom we noticed at the beginning of the chapter,who immediately ran down the road leading to the Capitol at his fullestspeed. Danglars was tired and sleepy; he therefore went to bed, placinghis pocketbook under his pillow. Peppino had a little spare time, so hehad a game of morra with the facchini, lost three crowns, and then toconsole himself drank a bottle of Orvieto.
The next morning Danglars awoke late, though he went to bed so early; hehad not slept well for five or six nights, even if he had slept at all.He breakfasted heartily, and caring little, as he said, for the beautiesof the Eternal City, ordered post-horses at noon. But Danglars had notreckoned
upon the formalities of the police and the idleness of theposting-master. The horses only arrived at two o’clock, and the ciceronedid not bring the passport till three.
All these preparations had collected a number of idlers round the doorof Signor Pastrini’s; the descendants of Marius and the Gracchi werealso not wanting. The baron walked triumphantly through the crowd, whofor the sake of gain styled him “your excellency.” As Danglars hadhitherto contented himself with being called a baron, he felt ratherflattered at the title of excellency, and distributed a dozen silvercoins among the beggars, who were ready, for twelve more, to call him“your highness.”
“Which road?” asked the postilion in Italian.
“The Ancona road,” replied the baron. Signor Pastrini interpreted thequestion and answer, and the horses galloped off.
Danglars intended travelling to Venice, where he would receive one partof his fortune, and then proceeding to Vienna, where he would find therest, he meant to take up his residence in the latter town, which he hadbeen told was a city of pleasure.
He had scarcely advanced three leagues out of Rome when daylight beganto disappear. Danglars had not intended starting so late, or he wouldhave remained; he put his head out and asked the postilion how long itwould be before they reached the next town. “Non capisco” (do notunderstand), was the reply. Danglars bent his head, which he meant toimply, “Very well.” The carriage again moved on.
“I will stop at the first posting-house,” said Danglars to himself.
He still felt the same self-satisfaction which he had experienced theprevious evening, and which had procured him so good a night’s rest. Hewas luxuriously stretched in a good English calash, with double springs;he was drawn by four good horses, at full gallop; he knew the relay tobe at a distance of seven leagues. What subject of meditation couldpresent itself to the banker, so fortunately become bankrupt?
Danglars thought for ten minutes about his wife in Paris; another tenminutes about his daughter travelling with Mademoiselle d’Armilly; thesame period was given to his creditors, and the manner in which heintended spending their money; and then, having no subject left forcontemplation, he shut his eyes, and fell asleep. Now and then a joltmore violent than the rest caused him to open his eyes; then he feltthat he was still being carried with great rapidity over the samecountry, thickly strewn with broken aqueducts, which looked like granitegiants petrified while running a race. But the night was cold, dull, andrainy, and it was much more pleasant for a traveller to remain in thewarm carriage than to put his head out of the window to make inquiriesof a postilion whose only answer was “Non capisco.”
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Danglars therefore continued to sleep, saying to himself that he wouldbe sure to awake at the posting-house. The carriage stopped. Danglarsfancied that they had reached the long-desired point; he opened his eyesand looked through the window, expecting to find himself in the midst ofsome town, or at least village; but he saw nothing except what seemedlike a ruin, where three or four men went and came like shadows.
Danglars waited a moment, expecting the postilion to come and demandpayment with the termination of his stage. He intended taking advantageof the opportunity to make fresh inquiries of the new conductor; but thehorses were unharnessed, and others put in their places, without anyoneclaiming money from the traveller. Danglars, astonished, opened thedoor; but a strong hand pushed him back, and the carriage rolled on. Thebaron was completely roused.
“Eh?” he said to the postilion, “eh, mio caro?”
This was another little piece of Italian the baron had learned fromhearing his daughter sing Italian duets with Cavalcanti. But mio carodid not reply. Danglars then opened the window.
“Come, my friend,” he said, thrusting his hand through the opening,“where are we going?”
“Dentro la testa!” answered a solemn and imperious voice, accompanied bya menacing gesture.
Danglars thought dentro la testa meant, “Put in your head!” He wasmaking rapid progress in Italian. He obeyed, not without someuneasiness, which, momentarily increasing, caused his mind, instead ofbeing as unoccupied as it was when he began his journey, to fill withideas which were very likely to keep a traveller awake, more especiallyone in such a situation as Danglars. His eyes acquired that qualitywhich in the first moment of strong emotion enables them to seedistinctly, and which afterwards fails from being too much taxed. Beforewe are alarmed, we see correctly; when we are alarmed, we see double;and when we have been alarmed, we see nothing but trouble. Danglarsobserved a man in a cloak galloping at the right hand of the carriage.
“Some gendarme!” he exclaimed. “Can I have been intercepted by Frenchtelegrams to the pontifical authorities?”
He resolved to end his anxiety. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.
“Dentro la testa,” replied the same voice, with the same menacingaccent.
Danglars turned to the left; another man on horseback was galloping onthat side.
“Decidedly,” said Danglars, with the perspiration on his forehead, “Imust be under arrest.” And he threw himself back in the calash, not thistime to sleep, but to think.
Directly afterwards the moon rose. He then saw the great aqueducts,those stone phantoms which he had before remarked, only then they wereon the right hand, now they were on the left. He understood that theyhad described a circle, and were bringing him back to Rome.
“Oh, unfortunate!” he cried, “they must have obtained my arrest.”
The carriage continued to roll on with frightful speed. An hour ofterror elapsed, for every spot they passed showed that they were on theroad back. At length he saw a dark mass, against which it seemed as ifthe carriage was about to dash; but the vehicle turned to one side,leaving the barrier behind and Danglars saw that it was one of theramparts encircling Rome.
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“Mon dieu!” cried Danglars, “we are not returning to Rome; then it isnot justice which is pursuing me! Gracious heavens; another ideapresents itself—what if they should be——”
His hair stood on end. He remembered those interesting stories, solittle believed in Paris, respecting Roman bandits; he remembered theadventures that Albert de Morcerf had related when it was intended thathe should marry Mademoiselle Eugénie. “They are robbers, perhaps,” hemuttered.
Just then the carriage rolled on something harder than gravel road.Danglars hazarded a look on both sides of the road, and perceivedmonuments of a singular form, and his mind now recalled all the detailsMorcerf had related, and comparing them with his own situation, he feltsure that he must be on the Appian Way. On the left, in a sort ofvalley, he perceived a circular excavation. It was Caracalla’s circus.On a word from the man who rode at the side of the carriage, it stopped.At the same time the door was opened. “Scendi!” exclaimed a commandingvoice.
Danglars instantly descended; although he did not yet speak Italian, heunderstood it very well. More dead than alive, he looked around him.Four men surrounded him, besides the postilion.
“Di quà,” said one of the men, descending a little path leading out ofthe Appian Way. Danglars followed his guide without opposition, and hadno occasion to turn around to see whether the three others werefollowing him. Still it appeared as though they were stationed at equaldistances from one another, like sentinels. After walking for about tenminutes, during which Danglars did not exchange a single word with hisguide, he found himself between a hillock and a clump of high weeds;three men, standing silent, formed a triangle, of which he was thecentre. He wished to speak, but his tongue refused to move.
“Avanti!” said the same sharp and imperative voice.
This time Danglars had double reason to understand, for if the word andgesture had not explained the speaker’s meaning, it was clearlyexpressed by the man walking behind him, who pushed him so rudely thathe struck against the guide. This guide was our friend Peppino, whodashed into the thicket of high weeds, through a path which none butlizards or polecats could have imagined to be an open r
oad.
Peppino stopped before a rock overhung by thick hedges; the rock, halfopen, afforded a passage to the young man, who disappeared like the evilspirits in the fairy tales. The voice and gesture of the man whofollowed Danglars ordered him to do the same. There was no longer anydoubt, the bankrupt was in the hands of Roman banditti. Danglarsacquitted himself like a man placed between two dangerous positions, andwho is rendered brave by fear. Notwithstanding his large stomach,certainly not intended to penetrate the fissures of the Campagna, heslid down like Peppino, and closing his eyes fell upon his feet. As hetouched the ground, he opened his eyes.
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The path was wide, but dark. Peppino, who cared little for beingrecognized now that he was in his own territories, struck a light andlit a torch. Two other men descended after Danglars forming therearguard, and pushing Danglars whenever he happened to stop, they cameby a gentle declivity to the intersection of two corridors. The wallswere hollowed out in sepulchres, one above the other, and which seemedin contrast with the white stones to open their large dark eyes, likethose which we see on the faces of the dead. A sentinel struck the ringsof his carbine against his left hand.
“Who comes there?” he cried.
“A friend, a friend!” said Peppino; “but where is the captain?”
“There,” said the sentinel, pointing over his shoulder to a spaciouscrypt, hollowed out of the rock, the lights from which shone into thepassage through the large arched openings.
“Fine spoil, captain, fine spoil!” said Peppino in Italian, and takingDanglars by the collar of his coat he dragged him to an openingresembling a door, through which they entered the apartment which thecaptain appeared to have made his dwelling-place.
“Is this the man?” asked the captain, who was attentively readingPlutarch’s Life of Alexander.
“Himself, captain—himself.”
“Very well, show him to me.”
At this rather impertinent order, Peppino raised his torch to the faceof Danglars, who hastily withdrew that he might not have his eyelashesburnt. His agitated features presented the appearance of pale andhideous terror.
“The man is tired,” said the captain, “conduct him to his bed.”
“Oh,” murmured Danglars, “that bed is probably one of the coffinshollowed in the wall, and the sleep I shall enjoy will be death from oneof the poniards I see glistening in the darkness.”
From their beds of dried leaves or wolf-skins at the back of the chambernow arose the companions of the man who had been found by Albert deMorcerf reading Cæsar’s Commentaries, and by Danglars studying the Lifeof Alexander. The banker uttered a groan and followed his guide; heneither supplicated nor exclaimed. He no longer possessed strength,will, power, or feeling; he followed where they led him. At length hefound himself at the foot of a staircase, and he mechanically lifted hisfoot five or six times. Then a low door was opened before him, andbending his head to avoid striking his forehead he entered a small roomcut out of the rock. The cell was clean, though empty, and dry, thoughsituated at an immeasurable distance under the earth. A bed of driedgrass covered with goat-skins was placed in one corner. Danglarsbrightened up on beholding it, fancying that it gave some promise ofsafety.
“Oh, God be praised,” he said; “it is a real bed!”
This was the second time within the hour that he had invoked the name ofGod. He had not done so for ten years before.
“Ecco!” said the guide, and pushing Danglars into the cell, he closedthe door upon him.
A bolt grated and Danglars was a prisoner. If there had been no bolt, itwould have been impossible for him to pass through the midst of thegarrison who held the catacombs of St. Sebastian, encamped round amaster whom our readers must have recognized as the famous Luigi Vampa.
Danglars, too, had recognized the bandit, whose existence he would notbelieve when Albert de Morcerf mentioned him in Paris; and not only didhe recognize him, but the cell in which Albert had been confined, andwhich was probably kept for the accommodation of strangers. Theserecollections were dwelt upon with some pleasure by Danglars, andrestored him to some degree of tranquillity. Since the bandits had notdespatched him at once, he felt that they would not kill him at all.They had arrested him for the purpose of robbery, and as he had only afew louis about him, he doubted not he would be ransomed.
He remembered that Morcerf had been taxed at 4,000 crowns, and as heconsidered himself of much greater importance than Morcerf he fixed hisown price at 8,000 crowns. Eight thousand crowns amounted to 48,000livres; he would then have about 5,050,000 francs left. With this sum hecould manage to keep out of difficulties. Therefore, tolerably secure inbeing able to extricate himself from his position, provided he were notrated at the unreasonable sum of 5,050,000 francs, he stretched himselfon his bed, and after turning over two or three times, fell asleep withthe tranquillity of the hero whose life Luigi Vampa was studying.
The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated Page 115