The Count of Monte Cristo

by Alexandre Dumas

  A little way before the amphitheatre of Caracalla, the carriage halted, Peppino opened the door, and Franz and the count got down. ‘In ten minutes,’ the count told his companion, ‘we shall be there.’ He took Peppino aside, whispered some order to him, and Peppino left after taking a torch which they found in the trunk of the coupé.

  Five more minutes elapsed, during which Franz saw the shepherd follow a little path through the hillocks, which litter the uneven surface of the Roman plain, and disappear into a clump of that tall, reddish grass which resembles the bristling mane of some gigantic lion.

  ‘Now,’ said the count. ‘Let’s follow him.’

  They went along the same path and found that, after a hundred paces, it went down a slope to the bottom of a little valley. Soon they saw two men talking together in the darkness.

  ‘Should we go on,’ Franz asked the count, ‘or should we wait?’

  ‘Carry on. Peppino must have warned the sentry of our arrival.’

  One of the men, as it turned out, was Peppino, and the other a bandit acting as a guard. Franz and the count approached and the bandit greeted them.

  ‘Excellency,’ Peppino told the count, ‘please be so good as to follow me: the entrance to the catacombs is a short distance from here.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the count. ‘Lead the way.’

  Behind a clump of bushes and hidden among some rocks was an opening through which a man could barely pass. Peppino went through this slit first, but he had hardly advanced more than a step or two before the passage widened; so he stopped, lit his torch and turned around to see that the others were following. The count had been the next to venture into this sort of funnel and Franz came after.

  The ground sloped gently downwards and the path widened as they went on, but Franz and the count were obliged to walk bent double and would still have had difficulty in going two abreast. They continued for a further fifty yards like this and were then stopped by the cry of: ‘Who goes there?’ At the same time they saw the light from their own torch shining on the barrel of a rifle in the midst of the darkness.

  ‘A friend!’ said Peppino. And he went on alone to say a few words in a low voice to this second sentry who, like the first, greeted the nocturnal visitors with a sign showing that they could continue on their way.

  Behind the sentry was a staircase of about twenty steps. Franz and the count went down them and found themselves in a sort of crossroads of tombs: five paths led off it like the rays of a star and the walls were carved out with niches, one above the other, in the form of coffins, indicating that they had at last reached the catacombs.

  In one of the cavities, the depth of which it was impossible to assess, one could see by day a few chinks of light. The count put his hand on Franz’s shoulder. ‘Would you like to see an encampment of bandits at rest?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Franz.

  ‘Then come with me. Peppino, put out the light.’

  Peppino obeyed, and they found themselves plunged into the most profound darkness; however, about fifty yards ahead of them, a few reddish lights continued to play across the walls, made more visible since Peppino had put out his torch.

  They went on in silence, the count guiding Franz as if he had the unusual ability of being able to see in the dark; and Franz himself could make out the way more easily, the closer they approached to the glow that showed them their way. Eventually, they passed through three arches, the middle one serving as a door.

  On one side, these arches opened on the corridor down which the count and Franz had walked and, on the other, on a large square room completely surrounded by niches like the ones we have already mentioned. In the middle of the room stood four stones which had once served as an altar, as the cross on them still showed. A single lamp, placed on the shaft of a column, threw a faint and flickering light on the strange scene that met the eyes of the two visitors as they watched from the shadows.

  A man was sitting, his elbow resting on the column, and reading with his back turned towards the arches through which the new arrivals could watch him. It was the chief of the band, Luigi Vampa.

  Around him could be seen some twenty bandits, lying as they chose, wrapped in their cloaks or propped against a sort of stone bench that ran all round the walls of the chamber. Each had his gun within reach. At the far end, hardly visible, like a ghost, a sentry was walking backwards and forwards in front of a sort of opening that could only be made out because the darkness seemed thicker at this point.

  When the count decided that Franz had had time to take in this picturesque scene, he put a finger to his lips to ensure his silence, then climbed the three steps leading from the passage to the chamber, went through the middle archway and walked across to Vampa, who was so deeply engrossed in what he was reading that he did not hear the sound of footsteps.

  ‘Who goes there?’ cried the sentry, more alert, seeing a sort of shadow growing in the light of the lamp behind his chief.

  At this, Vampa leapt to his feet, at the same time drawing a pistol from his belt. Immediately all the bandits were on their feet, and twenty gun-barrels were pointing towards the count.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said quietly, in a perfectly calm voice, with a muscle twitching in his face. ‘My dear Vampa, there is no need to go to such trouble just to greet a friend.’

  ‘Put down your weapons,’ the bandit chief said, with an imperious gesture of one hand, while with the other he respectfully removed his hat. Then, turning to the remarkable figure who dominated the whole of the scene, he added; ‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur le Comte. I was not expecting you to honour me with a visit and consequently did not recognize you.’

  ‘It seems that your memory is short in everything, Vampa,’ the count said. ‘Not only do you forget a man’s face, but also the agreement you have made with him.’

  ‘What agreement have I forgotten, Monsieur le Comte?’ the bandit asked in a voice that implied that, if he had made a mistake, he asked nothing better than to make amends for it.

  ‘Was it not understood,’ said the count, ‘that not only my own person but also that of my friends would be sacred to you?’

  ‘How have I failed in this respect, Excellency?’

  ‘This evening you have abducted and brought here Vicomte Albert de Morcerf. Now,’ the count continued in a voice that made Franz shudder, ‘this young man is one of my friends, staying at the same hotel as I am; he rode along the Corso for a week in my own carriage; yet, I repeat, you abducted him, brought him here and…’ (here the count took the letter out of his pocket) ‘you have set a price on his head – like any Tom, Dick or Harry.’

  ‘Why was I not told of this?’ the chief asked, turning towards his men, who shrank away from his look. ‘Why did you put me in a situation where I might fail in my promise to the count, who holds all our lives in his hands? By the blood of Christ! If I thought that any one of you knew that this young man was a friend of His Excellency, I should blow out his brains with my own hand.’

  ‘You see?’ the count said, turning towards Franz. ‘I told you that there must be some mistake.’

  ‘You are not alone?’ Vampa asked anxiously.

  ‘I am with the person to whom this letter is addressed, and I wanted to prove to him that Luigi Vampa is a man of his word. Come, Excellency,’ he said to Franz, ‘Luigi Vampa will tell you himself that he is in despair at the mistake he has made.’

  Franz came into the chamber. The chief stepped towards him.

  ‘Welcome among us, Excellency,’ he said. ‘You have heard what the count just said, and my reply. I might add that I would not wish such a thing to have happened for the four thousand piastres at which I set your friend’s ransom.’

  ‘But where is the prisoner?’ Franz asked, looking all around him anxiously. ‘I can’t see him.’

  ‘I hope no harm has come to him!’ the count said, frowning.

  ‘The prisoner is there,’ Vampa said, pointing to the recess in front of which th
e sentry was marching. ‘I shall go myself and tell him that he is free.’

  The chief went over to the place which he had indicated as Albert’s prison, followed by the count and Franz.

  ‘What is the prisoner doing?’ Vampa asked the sentry.

  ‘My word, I don’t know, Captain,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t heard him stir for more than an hour.’

  ‘Come, Excellency!’ Vampa said.

  The count and Franz went up seven or eight steps, still following the chief, who slipped a bolt and pushed open a door.

  By the light of a lamp like the one burning in the adjoining chamber, they could see Albert, wrapped in a cloak that he had been lent by one of the bandits, lying in a corner and sleeping profoundly.

  ‘Look at that!’ the count said, smiling his peculiar smile. ‘Not bad for a man who was to be shot at seven tomorrow morning.’

  Vampa looked at the sleeping figure with a certain degree of admiration: it was clear that he was not unimpressed by this proof of courage.

  ‘You are right, Monsieur le Comte,’ he said. ‘This must be one of your friends.’ Then, crossing over to Albert and touching him on the shoulder, he said: ‘Excellency, would you wake up?’

  Albert stretched his arms, rubbed his eyes and opened them.

  ‘Ah, it’s you, Captain!’ he said. ‘Egad, you might have let me sleep. I was having a delightful dream: I dreamed that I was dancing the gallopade at Torlonia’s with Countess G—!’

  He took out his watch, which he had kept so that he could himself keep track of the time.

  ‘But it’s only half-past one in the morning!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why the devil are you waking me up at this time?’

  ‘To tell you that you are free, Excellency.’

  ‘My dear friend,’ Albert said, with perfect equanimity, ‘in future be so good as to remember this maxim of our great emperor, Napoleon: “Only wake me up when it’s bad news.” If you had let me sleep, I should have finished my gallopade and been grateful to you for the rest of my life… So, have they paid my ransom?’

  ‘No, Excellency.’

  ‘Then how does it come about that I am free?’

  ‘Someone to whom I can refuse nothing has come to ask for your freedom.’

  ‘Come here?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Then, by heaven, he’s a most generous someone!’

  Albert looked around and saw Franz.

  ‘What! My dear Franz, are you so devoted a friend?’

  ‘No,’ Franz replied, ‘it is not I, but our neighbour, the Count of Monte Cristo.’

  ‘Well, bless me!’ said Albert merrily, adjusting his cravat and his cuffs.

  ‘Monsieur le Comte, you’re a precious friend indeed and I hope that you will consider me eternally obliged to you, firstly for the matter of the carriage, and then for this!’ He held his hand out to the count, who shuddered as he took it in his own but did return the handshake even so.

  The bandit was watching the whole of this scene with stupefaction: obviously, he was used to his prisoners trembling before him, but here was one whose derisive and quizzical mood had not faltered for a moment. As for Franz, he was delighted that Albert had upheld the honour of their nation, even when dealing with a bandit.

  ‘My dear Albert,’ he said, ‘if you would hurry, we may yet have time to end the night in Torlonia’s. You can resume your gallopade where you left it off, and in that way you will harbour no grudge against Signor Luigi, who has truly acted as a man of honour in all this business.’

  ‘Certainly!’ he said. ‘You are right: we could be there at two o’clock. Signor Luigi,’ Albert continued, ‘are there any other formalities to be completed before we may take leave of Your Excellency?’

  ‘None at all, Monsieur,’ the bandit said. ‘You are as free as the air.’

  ‘In that case, I wish you a long life and good fortune. Come, gentlemen, come!’

  And Albert, followed by Franz and the count, went down the stairs and across the square chamber. All the bandits were standing with their hats in their hands.

  ‘Peppino,’ said their leader, ‘give me the torch.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked the count.

  ‘I shall show you the way,’ the captain said. ‘It’s the least I can do for Your Excellency.’

  Taking the lighted torch from the hands of the shepherd, he went ahead of his guests, not like a valet who does some servant’s work, but like a king leading a group of ambassadors.

  Arriving at the entrance, he bowed.

  ‘And now, Monsieur le Comte, I apologize again and hope that you will bear me no ill-will for what has happened?’

  ‘None, my dear Vampa,’ said the count. ‘In any event, you make up for your mistakes with such gallantry that one is almost grateful to you for having committed them.’

  ‘Gentlemen!’ the chief said, turning towards the two young men. ‘The offer may perhaps not appear very attractive to you, but should you ever wish to pay me a second visit, you will be welcome wherever I am.’

  Franz and Albert bowed. The count went out first, followed by Albert, Franz staying until last.

  ‘Does Your Excellency have something to ask me?’ said Vampa, smiling.

  ‘Yes, I admit,’ Franz replied. ‘I should very much like to know what book you were reading so attentively when we arrived.’

  ‘Caesar’s Commentaries,’ the bandit said. ‘It is my favourite reading.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’ Albert called.

  ‘Yes,’ Franz replied. ‘Yes, here I am.’ And he followed the others through the narrow opening. They started off across the plain.

  ‘Oh, one moment!’ said Albert, turning back. ‘May I, Captain?’ And he lit his cigar on Vampa’s torch.

  ‘Now, Monsieur le Comte,’ he said, ‘as quickly as possible! I am very keen to finish the night at the Duke of Bracciano’s.’

  The carriage was still where they had left it. The count said a single word in Arabic to Ali, and the horses set off at full speed.

  It was exactly two o’clock by Albert’s watch when the two friends came into the ballroom. Their return caused a sensation; but, as they were coming in together, all anxieties that people may have had about Albert immediately ceased.

  ‘Madame,’ the Vicomte de Morcerf said, stepping over to the countess, ‘yesterday you had the goodness to promise me a gallopade. I am a little late in asking you to fulfil this kind promise, but my friend here, whose trustworthiness you know, will confirm that it is not my fault.’

  As at this moment the musicians were striking up a waltz, Albert put his arm round the countess’s waist and disappeared with her into the whirlwind of dancers.

  Franz, meanwhile, was thinking about the extraordinary shudder that had passed through the whole of the Count of Monte Cristo’s body at the moment when he was more or less obliged to give Albert his hand.

  XXXVIII

  THE RENDEZ-VOUS

  The first thing that Albert said on getting up the next day was to suggest that he and Franz went to visit the count. He had already thanked him on the previous evening, but he realized that he deserved to be thanked twice for a service such as the one he had performed for him.

  Franz, who was drawn towards the count by an attraction mingled with terror, accompanied Albert because he did not want to let him go to see the man alone. Both of them were introduced into the drawing-room. Five minutes later, the count appeared.

  ‘Monsieur le Comte,’ Albert said, advancing towards him, ‘allow me to repeat this morning what I could only imperfectly tell you yesterday, which is that I shall never forget the nature of the assistance you gave me and that I shall always remember that I owe you my life, or nearly so.’

  ‘My dear neighbour,’ the count replied, laughing, ‘you are exaggerating your debt to me. All I did was to save you the sum of twenty thousand francs on the expenses of your trip, nothing more. As you see, it is hardly worth mentioning. For your part,’ he added, ‘may I congratulate
you on your remarkable nerve and coolness.’

  ‘How else could I behave, Count?’ said Albert. ‘I pretended to myself that I had got into an argument and a duel had resulted. I wanted to demonstrate something to those bandits, namely that while people fight one another in every country in the world, only a Frenchman jests as he fights. However, since my obligation to you is no less great for all that, I have come to ask you if, either myself, or through my friends – or my own acquaintances – I might not be of some service to you. My father, the Comte de Morcerf, who is a Spaniard by origin, holds high positions in both France and Spain, so I have come to put myself, and all those who are fond of me, at your disposal.’

  ‘Well,’ said the count, ‘I must confess, Monsieur de Morcerf, that I was expecting your offer and that I accept it gratefully. I had already set my heart on the idea of asking a great service of you.’

  ‘What service?’

  ‘I have never been to Paris! I do not know the city…’

  ‘Really!’ Albert exclaimed. ‘Have you managed to live so long without seeing Paris! That is incredible.’

  ‘It is so, nonetheless. But, like you, I feel that it is not possible for me to remain any longer in ignorance of the capital of the intelligent world. There is something more: I might even have made this essential journey a long time ago if I had known someone who could have introduced me into Parisian society; but I have no connections there.’

  ‘What! A man like you!’ said Albert.

  ‘You are very kind. But since I would not claim any greater merit for myself than that of being able to compete in wealth with Monsieur Aguado or Monsieur Rothschild,1 and since I am not going to Paris to invest on the Stock Exchange, this little consideration prevented me. Now, thanks to your offer, I have made up my mind. So, do you promise, dear Monsieur de Morcerf,’ (the count smiled in a singular manner as he said these words) ‘do you promise, when I go to France, to open for me the doors of that society where I shall be as much a foreigner as a Huron or a Cochin Chinese?’