‘Do I have the honour of speaking to Monsieur Busoni?’ the visitor asked.
‘Yes, Monsieur,’ the abbé replied. ‘And you are the person sent to me by Monsieur de Boville, former inspector of prisons, on behalf of the prefect of police?’
‘Precisely, Monsieur.’
‘One of those agents appointed to look after security in Paris?’
‘Yes, Monsieur,’ the stranger replied, with momentary hesitation and, above all, a blush.
The abbé adjusted the large glasses that covered not only his eyes but also his temples; and, sitting down again, he motioned to the visitor to do likewise.
‘I am listening,’ he said, in a marked Italian accent.
‘The mission I have to accomplish, Monsieur,’ the visitor resumed, weighing each word as though finding it difficult to get it out, ‘is a confidential mission, both for the person carrying it out and for the one who will assist him in his enquiries.’
The abbé bowed his head.
‘Yes,’ the stranger continued. ‘Your probity, Monsieur l’Abbé, is so well known to the prefect of police that, as a magistrate, he would like to know something touching that same public safety in the name of which I have been sent to you. Consequently, Monsieur l’Abbé, we hope that neither ties of friendship nor any other human considerations will induce you to hide the truth from the eyes of the law.’
‘Monsieur, as long as whatever you wish to know does not affect any scruple of my conscience. I am a priest and the secrets of the confessional, for example, must remain between me and God’s justice, not between me and human justice.’
‘Oh, Monsieur l’Abbé, you may be quite reassured on that,’ said the stranger. ‘In any case, we shall ensure that your conscience is protected.’
At this, the abbé leant on his side of the lampshade, raising it on the opposite side, so that it lit fully the face of the stranger, while leaving his own still in shadow. ‘I beg your pardon, father,’ the other man said. ‘This light is terribly tiring for my eyes.’
The abbé lowered the green shade and said: ‘Now, Monsieur, I am listening. Speak.’
‘I am coming to the point. Do you know the Count of Monte Cristo?’
‘I suppose you are speaking of Monsieur Zaccone?’
‘Zaccone! So he is not called Monte Cristo!’
‘Monte Cristo is the name of an island, or rather of a rock, not of a family.’
‘Very well. Let’s not argue about words. So, since Monsieur de Monte Cristo and Monsieur Zaccone are the same man…’
‘Absolutely the same.’
‘… then let us talk about Monsieur Zaccone.’
‘Agreed.’
‘I asked if you knew him?’
‘Very well.’
‘Who is he?’
‘The son of a rich shipowner in Malta.’
‘Yes, I know that that’s what they say. But, as you must realize, the police cannot be satisfied with mere hearsay.’
‘And yet,’ the abbé said, with a very pleasant smile, ‘when hearsay is the truth, everyone must be satisfied with it, the police as well as the rest.’
‘But are you sure of what you are saying?’
‘What! Am I sure?’
‘Please understand me, Monsieur. I do not in any way question your good faith. I am merely asking if you are sure.’
‘Come now, I knew Monsieur Zaccone, his father.’
‘Ah!’
‘And while I was still a child I played a dozen times with his son in their shipyards.’
‘But this title: count?’
‘That can be bought, you know.’
‘In Italy?’
‘Everywhere.’
‘But this wealth which, still according to rumour, is immense…’
‘Ah, that!’ said the abbé. ‘Immense is the word.’
‘You know him. How much do you think he owns?’
‘Oh, an income of at least a hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand livres.’
‘That’s reasonable,’ the visitor said. ‘There was talk of three or four million.’
‘An income of two hundred thousand livres, Monsieur, adds up to a capital of just four million.’
‘But there was talk of an income of three or four million!’
‘Oh, it’s impossible to believe that.’
‘Do you know his island of Monte Cristo?’
‘Of course. Anyone who has come from Palermo, Naples or Rome to France by sea knows it, since he will have sailed past it and seen it as he went.’
‘They say it’s an enchanted spot.’
‘It’s a rock.’
‘Why should the count buy a rock?’
‘Precisely in order to be a count. In Italy, to be a count, you still need a county.’
‘You have doubtless heard of Monsieur Zaccone’s youthful adventures?’
‘The father’s?’
‘No, the son’s.’
‘Ah, this is where I am less certain, because I lost touch with my young friend.’
‘Did he fight in the war?’
‘I think he served in it.’
‘In what force?’
‘In the navy.’
‘Aren’t you his confessor?’
‘No, Monsieur. I think he is a Lutheran.’
‘How is that? A Lutheran?’
‘I say, I think so. I couldn’t swear to it. In any case, I thought there was freedom of worship now in France.’
‘Indeed there is, and we are not concerned with his beliefs at this moment, but with his actions. In the name of the prefect of police, I request you to tell me whatever you know.’
‘He is reputed to be a very charitable man. Our Holy Father the Pope made him a Knight of Christ, a favour that he hardly ever grants except to princes, for his outstanding services to Christians in the East. He has five or six ribbons acquired for services to princes or states.’
‘Does he wear them?’
‘No, but he is proud of them none the less. He says that he prefers awards given to benefactors of mankind to those given to destroyers of men.’
‘Do you mean he is a Quaker?’
‘That’s right, a Quaker, apart from the broad-brimmed hat and brown coat, of course.’
‘Does he have any friends, as far as you know?’
‘Yes, everyone who knows him is his friend.’
‘And any enemies, then?’
‘Only one.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Lord Wilmore.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘He is in Paris at this very moment.’
‘Can he give me any information?’
‘Yes, very valuable. He was in India at the same time as Zaccone.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘Somewhere in the Chaussée-d’Antin. I am not sure of the street or the number of the house.’
‘Are you on bad terms with this Englishman?’
‘I like Zaccone and he detests him, so for that reason we do not get along.’
‘Abbé, do you think that the Count of Monte Cristo has ever been to France before the journey that has brought him to Paris?’
‘Oh, as far as that is concerned, I do know something to the point. No, Monsieur, he has never been here, because six months ago he asked me for the information he needed. And I, since I did not know precisely when I should be returning to Paris myself, I sent him to see Monsieur Cavalcanti.’
‘Andrea?’
‘No, Bartolomeo, the father.’
‘Very well, Monsieur. I have only one more thing to ask you and I command you, in the name of honour, humanity and religion, to answer me without any attempt at concealment.’
‘Ask your question.’
‘Do you know for what purpose the Count of Monte Cristo bought a house in Auteuil?’
‘Indeed, I do; he told me.’
‘So, why?’
‘With the idea of turning it into an asylum for lunatics on the model of the one set up in Palerm
o by Baron de Pisani. Do you know that asylum?’
‘Only by reputation, Monsieur l’Abbé.’
‘It is a wonderful institution.’
At this, the abbé got up, like a man intimating to his visitor that he would not be sorry to resume his interrupted work. The other did the same, either because he understood what the abbé wanted or because he had run out of questions. The abbé accompanied him to the door.
‘You give generously in alms,’ the visitor said. ‘And, even though they say you are rich, I would like to offer you something for the poor. Would you accept my gift?’
‘Thank you, Monsieur, but I boast of only one thing in the world, which is that all the good I do comes from me alone.’
‘Yes… !’
‘My resolve is unwavering. But seek, Monsieur, and you will find: alas, every rich man has more than enough of poverty to pass by on his road through life!’
The abbé bowed once more as he opened the door, and the stranger returned the compliment and left. His carriage took him immediately to Monsieur de Villefort’s and, an hour later, it drove out again, this time towards the Rue Fontaine-Saint-Georges. It stopped by No. 5, which was the address of Lord Wilmore.
The stranger had written to Lord Wilmore to request a meeting, which had been fixed for ten o’clock. As the prefect of police’s envoy arrived at ten to ten, he was told that Lord Wilmore, who was the soul of punctuality, had not yet returned, but that he would do so on the stroke of ten.
The visitor waited in the drawing-room; there was nothing remarkable about this room, which was like any other in furnished lodgings: a mantelpiece with two modern Sèvres vases, a clock with Cupid drawing his bow and a mirror, in two sections; engravings on each side of the mirror, one showing Homer carrying his guide, the other Belisarius1 begging alms; wallpaper, grey on grey; a sofa upholstered in red, and printed in black – this was Lord Wilmore’s drawing-room. It was lit by two lamps with shades of frosted glass that gave only a feeble light, as if deliberately designed not to strain the tired eyes of the prefect’s emissary.
After he had waited ten minutes, the clock struck ten and, on the fifth stroke, the door opened and Lord Wilmore appeared.
He was a man of more than average height, with thin, reddish side-whiskers, a pale complexion and greying blond hair. He was dressed with typically English eccentricity: that is to say, he wore a blue coat with gold buttons and high piqué collar, of the kind worn in 1811, with a waistcoat of white cashmere and nankeen breeches, three inches too short, restrained by straps under the feet from mounting up to his knees. His first words on entering were: ‘You know, Monsieur, that I do not speak French.’
‘I certainly know that you do not like to speak our language,’ the policeman said.
‘But you may speak it,’ Lord Wilmore continued. ‘For, though I do not speak, I can understand.’
‘And I speak English well enough,’ said the visitor, changing to that language, ‘for us to hold a conversation. So you may feel at ease, Monsieur.’
‘Haoh!’ Lord Wilmore exclaimed, with an intonation that only a pure-blooded Englishman can achieve.
The other man gave him his letter of introduction, which was perused with peculiarly British phlegm. Then, when he had finished, he said, in English: ‘Yes, I quite understand.’ So the visitor began his enquiries.
The questions were roughly the same as those that had been asked of Abbé Busoni; but since Lord Wilmore, an enemy of the Count of Monte Cristo, did not show the same discretion as the abbé, his answers were much fuller. He described the count’s youth, saying that as a boy of ten he had entered into the service of one of those Indian princelings who make war against the English: this is where he and Lord Wilmore met for the first time and fought one another. In the course of the war, Zaccone was taken prisoner, sent to England and put in the hulks, from which he escaped by jumping into the water. This was the start of his journeys, his duels, his love affairs. When the Greeks rebelled, he fought for them against the Turks and, while in their service, discovered a silver mine in the mountains of Thessaly, about which he was careful to tell no one. When the Greek government was consolidated after the Battle of Navarino, he asked King Otto2 for a licence to exploit the mine, which was granted. Hence the vast fortune which, according to Lord Wilmore, might yield an income of two million, but which would at the same time dry up overnight, if the mine itself were to do so.
‘But do you know why he has come to France?’ the visitor asked.
‘He wishes to speculate on the railways,’ said Lord Wilmore. ‘And, being a skilled chemist and no less distinguished physicist, he has invented a new form of telegraph which he is in process of developing.’
‘Roughly how much does he spend a year?’ the policeman asked.
‘Oh, five or six hundred thousand francs, at the most,’ said Lord Wilmore. ‘He is a miser.’
It was clear that the Englishman was inspired by hatred and, not finding anything else to say against the count, he reproached him with avarice.
‘Do you know anything about his house in Auteuil?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘What?’
‘Do you mean, his reason for buying it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, the count is a speculator who will certainly ruin himself with experiments and wild dreams. He claims that in Auteuil, close to the house which he had just bought, there is a stream of mineral water which can rival those of Bagnères, Luchon and Cauterets. He wants to make his house into what the Germans call a badhaus, and has already dug over the whole of his garden two or three times to discover this famous spring. Since he has been able to find nothing, you will shortly see him buy all the houses around his own. Since there is no love lost between us, I hope that his railways, his electric telegraph and his mineral waters will ruin him. I shall enjoy his discomfiture, which is bound to arrive sooner or later.’
‘And why do you dislike him?’
‘Because once, when he was in England, he seduced the wife of one of my friends.’
‘So why not try to be revenged on him?’
‘I have already fought the count three times,’ the Englishman said. ‘The first time with pistols, the second with foils and the third with sabres.’
‘What was the result of these duels?’
‘The first time he broke my arm; the second, he ran me through the lung; and the third, he gave me this wound.’
The Englishman turned down the shirt-collar that reached up to his ears and revealed a scar, the redness of which showed that it must have been made recently.
‘So I greatly resent him,’ the Englishman said. ‘Naturally, he will die by no hand except mine.’
‘But it seems to me that you are doing nothing to kill him.’
‘Haoh!’ the Englishman said. ‘Every day I go to the shooting range, and every other day Grisier comes here.’
This was all that the visitor wished to know, or, rather, all that the Englishman appeared able to tell him. The agent got up and left, after taking leave of Lord Wilmore, who returned his bow with characteristically English stiffness and politeness.
For his part, Lord Wilmore, on hearing the street-door shut, went back into his bedroom and, in a trice, lost his blond hair, his red sideboards, his false jaw and his scar, to resume the black hair, dark colouring and pearly teeth of the Count of Monte Cristo.
And, as it happened, it was M. de Villefort himself, and not an emissary of the prefect of police, who returned to M. de Villefort’s house.
The crown prosecutor was a little easier in his mind after these two visits: he had not learnt anything reassuring from them, but neither had he learnt anything disturbing. As a result, for the first time since the dinner in Auteuil, he slept quite calmly the following night.
LXX
THE BALL
The hottest days of July had come when the calendar arrived at the Saturday appointed for M. de Morcerf’s ball. It was ten o’clock in the evening. The large
trees in the count’s garden were sharply outlined against a sky across which drifted the last tufts of cloud from the storm that had been threatening all day, to reveal an azure field sprinkled with golden stars.
From the ground-floor rooms one could hear the blast of music and the swirling of the waltz and the gallop, while sharp bands of light shone out through the slats of the persian blinds. The garden, for the time being, was solely the province of a dozen or so servants, who had just been ordered to lay out the supper by their mistress, who was reassured at seeing the steady improvement in the weather. Until then, she had been unsure whether to eat in the dining-room or under a long canvas awning, set up above the lawn. But this lovely blue sky, full of stars, had now settled the issue in favour of the awning and the lawn.
The garden paths were lit by coloured lamps, as is the custom in Italy, and the supper table was laden with candles and flowers, as is the custom in all countries where they understand how to dress a table, which when properly done is the rarest of all luxuries.
Just as the Countess de Morcerf had given her last orders and was returning indoors, the drawing-rooms began to fill with guests, attracted more by the countess’s charming hospitality than by the distinguished position of the count. Everyone knew in advance that the party would supply them with some details which would either be worth relating or, in the event, copying, thanks to Mercédès’ good taste.
Mme Danglars had been so deeply disturbed by the events we have described that she was reluctant to attend; but that morning her carriage had crossed Villefort’s. The latter signalled to her, the two carriages pulled up alongside each other and the crown prosecutor said, through the window: ‘You are going to Madame de Morcerf’s, I suppose?’
‘No,’ answered Mme Danglars. ‘I’m not well enough.’
‘That is a mistake,’ Villefort said, with a significant look. ‘It is important for you to be seen there.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’ the baroness asked.
‘I do.’
‘Then I shall go.’
Then the two carriages had continued on their separate ways. However, Mme Danglars did come, looking beautiful not only with her own beauty, but dressed with dazzling extravagance. She was just coming in through one door when Mercédès entered by the other. The countess sent Albert to greet Mme Danglars, and he came forward, offered the baroness some well-deserved compliments on her dress and took her arm to lead her wherever she wanted to go. At the same time, he looked around.
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