‘Are you looking for my daughter?’ the baroness asked with a smile.
‘I confess I am. Surely you have not been so cruel as to leave her at home?’
‘Don’t worry. She met Mademoiselle de Villefort, who led her away. Look, they are there behind us, both in white dresses, one with a bouquet of camellias, the other with a bouquet of forget-me-nots… But tell me…’
‘And what are you looking for?’ Albert asked, smiling.
‘Will you not be having the Count of Monte Cristo this evening?’
‘Seventeen!’ Albert replied.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that all is well,’ said the viscount, laughing, ‘and that you are the seventeenth person to ask me the same question. He’s popular, the count! I must compliment him.’
‘And do you answer everyone in the same way?’
‘Ah! You’re quite right! I didn’t answer. Have no fear, Madame, we shall be privileged to receive the man of the moment.’
‘Were you at the opera yesterday?’
‘No.’
‘He was.’
‘Really? And did the eccentric signore do anything out of the ordinary?’
‘Can he appear in public otherwise? Elssler was dancing in Le Diable boiteux; the Greek princess was delighted. After the cachucha,1 he slipped a superb ring on the stems of a bouquet and threw it to the delightful ballerina, who reappeared in the third act with the ring on her finger, as a tribute to him. Will his Greek princess be here?’
‘No, you must do without her. Her status in the count’s entourage is slightly ambiguous.’
‘Now, leave me, and go to pay your respects to Madame de Villefort,’ said the baroness. ‘I can see that she’s dying to speak to you.’
Albert bowed and went across to Mme de Villefort, whose mouth started to open even as he was approaching her.
‘I bet,’ he said, interrupting, ‘that I can guess what you’re going to say.’
‘Well, I never!’ said Mme de Villefort.
‘Will you admit it, if I’m right?’
‘Yes.’
‘On your honour?’
‘On my honour.’
‘You were going to ask me if the Count of Monte Cristo had arrived or if he was coming.’
‘Nothing of the sort. I’m not concerned with him at the moment. I was going to ask if you had any news of Monsieur Franz?’
‘Yes, yesterday.’
‘And what did he have to say?’
‘That he was leaving at the same time as his letter.’
‘Very well. And, now, what about the count?’
‘The count will come, have no fear.’
‘Did you know he has another name, apart from Monte Cristo?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Monte Cristo is the name of an island, and he does have a family name.’
‘I’ve never heard it.’
‘Well, I know more than you do. He’s called Zaccone.’
‘Possibly.’
‘He is a Maltese.’
‘That’s also possible.’
‘The son of a shipowner.’
‘Come, now. You should be telling everybody about it. You’d have a huge audience.’
‘He served in India, has a silver mine in Thessaly and has come to Paris to set up, selling mineral water in Auteuil.’
‘Well, it’s about time,’ said Morcerf. ‘This really is news. Can I repeat it?’
‘Yes, but little by little, one item at a time, without saying that it comes from me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s almost a secret I’ve found out.’
‘From where?’
‘The police.’
‘And where was the news travelling?’
‘At the prefect’s, yesterday evening. The authorities were put out, you understand, by this unusual ostentation, so the police made some enquiries.’
‘Huh! You might as well arrest the count as a vagabond, on the excuse of his being too rich.’
‘Which is just what might have happened to him, if the information had not been so much in his favour.’
‘Poor count. Does he know the danger he was in?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, it is only right and proper to let him know. I shall certainly do it as soon as he arrives.’
At that moment a handsome young man with sparkling eyes, black hair and a well-waxed moustache came to pay his respects to Mme de Villefort. Albert held out his hand.
‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I have the honour to introduce Monsieur Maximilien Morrel, captain of spahis, one of our fine and, most of all, brave officers.’
‘I have already had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman in Auteuil at the Count of Monte Cristo’s,’ Mme de Villefort replied, turning away with distinct coldness.
This reply and, most of all, the tone in which it was delivered wrung poor Morrel’s heart; but a consolation was in store. Turning around, he saw a beautiful, pale face in the doorway, its wide and apparently expressionless eyes fixed on him, while the bouquet of forget-me-nots was raised to its lips.
This greeting was well enough understood by Morrel for him to lift his handkerchief to his mouth, though with the same blank expression on his face. These two living statues, whose hearts were beating so rapidly despite the marble calm of their faces, separated from one another by the whole length of the room, momentarily forgot themselves; or, rather, momentarily forgot everyone else in their silent contemplation of one another. Indeed, they could have remained for a long time in this way, lost in each other, without anyone noticing their total self-absorption: the Count of Monte Cristo had just come in.
As we have already mentioned, either because of some imagined aura or because of his natural presence, he attracted attention wherever he went. It was not his black coat, superbly though it was cut, simple and without decoration; it was not his plain white waistcoat; nor was it his trousers, fitting over a delicately shaped foot, that attracted attention. It was his dark complexion, his wavy black hair, his pure, calm face, his deep and melancholy eye and, finally, his exquisitely formed mouth which could so easily adopt an expression of sovereign contempt, which drew all eyes to him.
There may have been more handsome men, but there was surely none more significant, if we may be allowed to use the word. Everything about the count meant something and carried some weight; for the habit of positive thought had given to his features, to the expression on his face and to the least of his gestures an incomparable strength and suppleness.
Apart from which, our society here in Paris is so strange that it might have paid no attention to all that, were it not that behind it lay a mysterious tale, gilded by a huge fortune.
However it may be, he came forward, running the gauntlet of stares and cursory greetings, towards Mme de Morcerf who, standing in front of the mantelpiece, had observed his entrance in a mirror facing the doorway and was getting ready to receive him. She consequently turned around with a well-judged smile at the very moment when he bowed in front of her.
Doubtless she thought that the count would say something; and doubtless, on his side, he was expecting her to address him. But both remained silent, each surely feeling that a mere commonplace would be unworthy of them, and, after they had exchanged these silent salutations, Monte Cristo turned and began to walk towards Albert, who came to greet him with hand outstretched.
‘You saw my mother?’ Albert asked.
‘I have just had the honour of paying her my respects,’ said the count. ‘But I did not see your father.’
‘There! He is over there, talking politics, in that small circle of great celebrities.’
‘Really?’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Are the gentlemen I can see down there celebrities? I should never have guessed. What kind? There are all sorts of celebrities, you know.’
‘First a scientist: that dry old stick. He discovered a species of lizard in the Roman campagna, which has one vertebra more
than any other, and has come back to inform the Institut2 of his discovery. There was a long debate on the matter, but the dry old stick won the day. The vertebra attracted a lot of attention in the scientific world; and the old stick, who used to be a knight of the Legion of Honour, is now an officer of the order.’
‘Excellent!’ said Monte Cristo. ‘The decoration seems to me to have been judiciously awarded. And if he finds another extra vertebra, they will make him a commander?’
‘Quite probably,’ said Morcerf.
‘What about that other gentleman who has had the unusual notion of dressing up in a blue coat with green piping. What species can he be?’
‘It wasn’t his idea to dress up in that coat; it was the republic which, as you know, was something of an artist and thought it would give some kind of uniform to members of the French Academy, so it asked David to design them a coat.’3
‘Really?’ said Monte Cristo. ‘You mean the gentleman is an Academician?’
‘He has been a member of the learned assembly for a week.’
‘And what is his talent, his speciality?’
‘His speciality? I think he sticks pins in rabbits’ heads, feeds madder to hens and uses whales to cultivate the spinal columns of dogs.’
‘And he is in the Academy of Sciences because of that?’
‘No, in the French Academy.’
‘But what has all that got to do with the French Academy?’
‘I’ll tell you. It seems…’
‘His experiments have greatly advanced science, I presume?’
‘No, but he writes them up in a very fine style.’
‘That,’ said the count, ‘must be most gratifying for the self-respect of the rabbits into whose heads he sticks pins, the hens whose bones he colours red and the dogs whose columns he cultivates.’
Albert started to laugh.
‘What about that other person?’ asked the count.
‘Which one?’
‘The third…’
‘Ah, the cornflower-blue coat?’
‘Yes.’
‘A colleague of the count’s who has just emphatically opposed a measure in the Upper House to give its members a uniform. His speeches on the topic were warmly applauded. He was in bad odour with the liberal press, but his noble opposition to the wishes of the court has put him back in favour with them, and there is talk that he might be made an ambassador.’
‘What entitles him to the peerage?’
‘He’s written two or three comic operas, fought four or five lawsuits against Le Siècle and voted five or six times for the government.’
‘Hurrah, Viscount!’ said Monte Cristo, with a laugh. ‘You are a delightful guide. Now, will you do something for me?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t introduce these gentlemen to me and, if they ask to be introduced to me, give me good warning.’ At that moment he felt a hand on his arm. He looked around, to see Danglars. ‘Ah, it’s you, Baron,’ he said.
‘Why do you call me baron?’ said Danglars. ‘You know very well that I care nothing for my title – unlike you, Viscount. You do care for yours, I think?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ said Albert, ‘since, if I were not a viscount, I should be nothing, while you – well, you can give up your title of baron and you would still be a millionaire.’
‘And that seems to me the finest of titles under our July Monarchy,’4 said Danglars.
‘Unfortunately,’ said Monte Cristo, ‘one cannot be a millionaire for life, as one is a baron, a peer of the realm or an academician. Look at the millionaires Frank and Poulmann, of Frankfurt, who have just gone bankrupt.’
‘No, really?’ said Danglars, going pale.
‘Why, yes. I got the news only this evening by courier. I had something like a million with them, but I was given due warning and had myself reimbursed almost a month ago.’
‘Oh, good Lord!’ said Danglars. ‘They drew on me for two hundred thousand francs.’
‘Well, you have been warned. Their signature is worth five per cent.’
‘But the warning comes too late,’ said Danglars. ‘I honoured their signature.’
‘Well, now,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘That’s two hundred thousand francs which have gone to…’
‘Hush!’ said Danglars. ‘Don’t speak about such things…’ Then, coming closer to Monte Cristo, he added: ‘Especially not in front of the younger Cavalcanti.’ At which he turned around, smiling in the direction of the young man.
Morcerf had left the count to go and talk to his mother. Danglars left him to speak to young Cavalcanti and, for a moment, Monte Cristo found himself alone.
The heat was starting to become unbearable. Valets were walking round the drawing-rooms bearing trays laden with fruit and ices. Monte Cristo took out a handkerchief and wiped a face dripping with sweat, but he shrank back when the tray passed by him and partook of no refreshment. Mme de Morcerf had not taken her eyes off Monte Cristo. She saw the tray pass, untouched, and even noticed his movement away from it.
‘Albert,’ she said, ‘have you noticed something?’
‘What, mother?’
‘The count has never wanted to accept an invitation to dine with Monsieur de Morcerf.’
‘Yes, but he did agree to take lunch at my house, since that is when he made his entrée into society.’
‘With you is not the same as with the count,’ Mercédès muttered. ‘I have been watching him since he arrived.’
‘Well?’
‘Well, he has not yet taken anything to eat or drink.’
‘He is very abstemious.’
Mercédès smiled sadly. ‘Go over to him,’ she said, ‘and, the next time the tray comes round, insist.’
‘Why, mother?’
‘Just do it for me, Albert,’ Mercédès said. Albert kissed his mother’s hand and took up his position near the count. Another tray came past, loaded like the rest. She saw Albert pressing the count to take something, and even offering him an ice, but the count obstinately refused.
Albert returned to his mother’s side. She was very pale. ‘Did you see?’ she said. ‘He refused.’
‘Why are you worried about that?’
‘You know, Albert, we women are peculiar. I should have been pleased to see the count take something in my house, if only a pomegranate seed. But perhaps he is not used to French manners, or he might have some preference, for something in particular?’
‘No, I’m sure of it. I saw him taste everything in Italy. I expect he is feeling unwell this evening.’
‘Since he has always lived in hot countries,’ the countess said, ‘he may be less sensitive than other people to the heat.’
‘I don’t think so, because he complained that it was stifling and asked why, since the windows had already been opened, the shutters were not opened as well.’
‘Yes,’ Mercédès said, ‘that’s a way of finding out if his abstinence is deliberate.’
She left the room, and a moment later the shutters were opened and, through the jasmine and clematis that hung around the windows, one could see the whole garden lit up with lamps and the supper laid out under the awning.
The men and women on the dance floor, gamblers and talkers, all let out cries of joy – their thirsty lungs drinking in the air which poured into the room. At the same time Mercédès reappeared, paler than when she left, but with a remarkable expression of determination which her face took on in certain circumstances. She went directly to the group around her husband and said: ‘Count, please don’t keep these gentlemen here. If they are not playing cards, I am sure they would prefer to breathe in the garden than to suffocate here.’
‘Oh, Madame,’ said a very gallant old general who had sung Partons pour la Syrie5 in 1809, ‘we will not go into the garden alone.’
‘Very well,’ said Mercédès. ‘I shall set you an example.’ And she turned towards Monte Cristo. ‘Monsieur le Comte, please do me the honour of giving me your arm.’
The
count seemed almost to stagger on hearing these simple words, then he looked at Mercédès for a moment. The moment lasted as long as a flash of lightning, but to the countess it seemed to last a century, so much intensity of thought did Monte Cristo put into this single glance.
He offered the countess his arm and she leant on it; or, rather, she allowed her little hand to brush against it; and the two of them went down one of the staircases outside the french windows, bordered with rhododendron and camellias. By the other staircase, with noisy cries of delight, some twenty guests hurried along behind them into the garden.
LXXI
BREAD AND SALT
Mme de Morcerf directed her companion under the arbour of linden-trees that led towards a greenhouse. ‘It was too hot in the drawing-room, wasn’t it, Count?’ she said.
‘Yes, Madame. It was an excellent idea of yours to open the doors and the shutters.’
As he said these words, the count noticed that Mercédès’ hand was trembling. ‘But perhaps you are cold, with that light dress and no other protection around your neck except a chiffon scarf?’ he said.
‘Do you know where I am taking you?’ the countess asked, not answering Monte Cristo’s question.
‘No, Madame,’ he replied, ‘but, as you see, I am offering no resistance.’
‘To the greenhouse down there, at the end of this path.’
The count looked at her questioningly, but she carried on without a word, so he too said nothing.
They arrived at the building, hung with splendid fruit which matured at the beginning of July in this temperature, designed to replace that of the sun which is so unreliable in our climate. The countess let go of Monte Cristo’s arm and went to pluck a bunch of grapes from a vine.
‘Here, Count,’ she said, with such a sad smile that it did not disguise the tears at the corners of her eyes, ‘take it. Our French grapes are not, I know, comparable to those you have in Sicily or Cyprus, but I know you will excuse our pale northern sun.’
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