The Count of Monte Cristo

by Alexandre Dumas

  ‘So?’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Everyone agrees that it should allow you to triple your capital in a year. Baron Danglars is a good father and knows how to add up.’

  ‘Very well, then,’ said Andrea. ‘Everything’s fine except your refusal, which wounds me deeply.’

  ‘Just put it down to what are, in the circumstances, quite natural scruples.’

  ‘As you wish, then,’ said Andrea. ‘This evening at nine?’

  ‘Until this evening.’ And, though the count shrank back slightly and his lips paled, while still preserving his polite smile, Andrea seized his hand, pressed it, leapt into his phaeton and rode off.

  He spent the last four or five hours until nine o’clock in shopping and in visits to drum up interest among the friends whom he had asked to appear at the banker’s in their finest carriages, dazzling them with the promise of shares – which were later to turn every head, but in which for the time being Danglars had the initiative.

  At half-past eight, accordingly, Danglars’ main reception room, the gallery leading to it and the three other reception rooms on the same floor were full of a crowd of scented people, very few of whom were attracted by sympathy, and very many by an irresistible urge to be where they knew something was going on. A self-conscious stylist would say that society receptions are a bed of flowers that attracts capricious butterflies, hungry bees and buzzing hornets.

  Needless to say, the rooms were resplendent with candles and light poured from the gilt mouldings on to the silk hangings; and all the bad taste of furnishings which expressed nothing but wealth shone out in its full glory.

  Mlle Eugénie was dressed with the most elegant simplicity: a white silk dress embroidered in white, and a white rose half hidden in her jet-black hair, made up her entire costume, enriched by not a single jewel. Yet her eyes shone with perfect self-assurance, contradicting what she saw as the vulgarly virginal significance of this outfit.

  Thirty yards away, Mme Danglars was talking to Debray, Beauchamp and Château-Renaud. Debray had made his entry into the house for this solemn occasion, but like everyone else and with no special privileges.

  M. Danglars, surrounded by members of parliament and men of money, was explaining a new theory of taxation which he intended to introduce when circumstances compelled the government to call him to ministerial office.

  Andrea, arm-in-arm with one of the most dashing young dandies from the opera, was explaining his future plans to him – somewhat impertinently, given that he needed to be bold to appear at ease – and how he intended to advance the cause of Parisian fashions with his income of 75,000 livres.

  The main crowd was ebbing and flowing around the rooms, like a tide of turquoises, rubies, emeralds, opals and diamonds.

  As always, it was the oldest women who were the most heavily adorned and the ugliest who were most determined to make an exhibition of themselves. If there was any fine white lily, or any sweet-scented, velvety rose, she had to be hunted down and revealed, hidden in a corner behind a mother in a turban or an aunt with a bird of paradise.

  At intervals, above this crush, this hum, this laughter, the voices of the ushers could be heard announcing the name of someone well known in the financial world, respected in the army or illustrious in the world of letters; and, at that, a faint movement in the clusters of people would greet the name. But for each one who had the privilege of causing a stir in this ocean of human waves, how many were greeted with indifference or a snigger of contempt!

  Just as the hand of the massive clock – of the clock showing the sleeping Endymion – reached nine on the gold face and the bell, faithfully translating the thought of the machine, struck nine times, the Count of Monte Cristo’s name rang out in its turn and everyone in the crowd, as if drawn by an electric flash, turned towards the door.

  The count was dressed, with his usual simplicity, in black. A white waistcoat covered his broad and noble chest and his black collar seemed unusually neat, outlined against the masculine pallor of his complexion. His only ornament was a watch-chain so fine that the slender band of gold was barely visible against the white stitching.

  A crowd immediately assembled round him. At a glance, the count observed Mme Danglars at one end of the room, Monsieur Danglars at the other and Mlle Eugénie in front of him.

  He went across, first of all, to the baroness, who was talking to Mme de Villefort, who had come alone, Valentine still being unwell. Without deviating from his course, the crowd parting before him, he went from the baroness to Eugénie, whom he complimented in a few concise and restrained words which impressed the proud artist.

  Mlle Louise d’Armilly was standing close by her; she thanked the count for the letters of recommendation that he had so kindly given her for Italy and which, she said, she intended to make use of very shortly.

  On leaving these ladies, he turned around and found himself close to Danglars, who had come over to offer him his hand.

  After completing these three social duties, Monte Cristo stopped and looked around him with that self-confident look which bears the stamp of an expression peculiar to people who belong to a particular rank in society and, above all, to those who enjoy a certain influence in it; a look that seems to imply: ‘I have fulfilled my obligations; now let others pay their dues to me.’

  Andrea, who was in an adjoining room, felt the sort of shiver that Monte Cristo sent through the crowd and hastened to pay his respects. He found him entirely surrounded. People were hanging on his every word, as is always the case with those who say little and never waste words.

  At that moment the notaries entered and set up their scrawled signs on the gold-embroidered velvet covering on the table that had been prepared for the signing, a table of gilded wood. One notary sat down, the other remained standing.

  They were about to proceed to the reading of this contract which half of Paris would sign, having gathered for the occasion.

  Everyone took their place; or, rather, the women clustered round while the men, less moved by what Boileau2 calls the ‘energetic style’, commented on Andrea’s nervous agitation, M. Danglars’ concentration, Eugénie’s impassivity, and the lively and casual way in which the baroness was treating this important business.

  There was total silence while the contract was read, but, as soon as the reading was over, the noise resumed in every room, twice as loud as before: the jealous gathering had been deeply impressed by these marvellous amounts, these millions paving the future path of the young couple, complemented by the exhibition of the bride-to-be’s trousseau and diamonds in a room entirely set aside for them. All this doubled Mlle Danglars’ charms, blotting out the light of the sun, in the eyes of the young men. As for the women, it goes without saying that, jealous though they were of the millions, they did not believe them necessary to appear beautiful. Andrea, hemmed in by his friends, complimented, adulated, was beginning to believe in the reality of the dream he was having; Andrea was about to lose his head.

  The notary solemnly took the quill, raised it in the air and said: ‘Gentlemen, the contract is about to be signed!’

  The baron was to sign first, then the proxy for M. Cavalcanti the elder, then the baroness, then the ‘future spouses’ (as they say in that abominable style commonly used on stamped paper). The baron took the quill and signed, followed by the proxy. The baroness approached, on Mme de Villefort’s arm.

  ‘My friend,’ she said, taking the quill, ‘isn’t it just too much? An unexpected incident, connected with that business of murder and theft of which the Count of Monte Cristo was so nearly a victim, has deprived us of Monsieur de Villefort’s company.’

  ‘Oh, good Lord!’ Danglars exclaimed, with no more emotion than he might have said: ‘What? I really couldn’t care less!’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Monte Cristo said, coming over. ‘I am very afraid I may be the involuntary cause of his absence.’

  ‘What, Count? You?’ said Madame Danglars as she signed. ‘If that is so, beware, because I shall never forg
ive you.’

  Andrea pricked up his ears.

  ‘It is not at all my fault,’ said the count, ‘so I wish it to be put on record.’

  Everyone was listening eagerly. Monte Cristo, who so rarely opened his mouth, was about to speak.

  ‘You remember,’ the count said, in the midst of the most complete silence, ‘that it was in my house that he died, that wretch who came to rob me and who was killed as he left the house, as they believe, by his accomplice?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Danglars.

  ‘Well, in order to assist him, they undressed him and threw his clothes into a corner where the police came and collected them. But the police, while taking the coat and jacket as evidence, forgot the waistcoat.’

  The colour drained visibly from Andrea’s face and he edged towards the door. He could see a cloud looming on the horizon, and this cloud seemed to be drawing a storm along behind it.

  ‘So, this miserable waistcoat was found today, covered in blood, with a hole above the heart.’

  The ladies cried out and one or two got ready to faint.

  ‘It was brought to me. No one could guess where the rag came from; only I thought that it probably belonged to the victim. Then suddenly my valet, gingerly and with some disgust looking over this lugubrious relic, felt a piece of paper in the pocket. He took it out and found a letter – addressed to whom? Why, Baron, to you.’

  ‘To me?’ Danglars exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, by heaven, to you. Yes, I managed to read your name under the blood with which the paper was stained,’ Monte Cristo replied, in the midst of a general gasp of surprise.

  ‘But how has this prevented Monsieur de Villefort from being here?’ Mme Danglars asked, looking anxiously at her husband.

  ‘Quite simple, Madame,’ Monte Cristo replied. ‘The waistcoat and the letter were what are called exhibits in evidence. I sent both of them to the crown prosecutor. You understand, my dear Baron, the legal process is the most reliable in criminal cases. There may be some plot against you.’

  Andrea stared hard at Monte Cristo and vanished into the second drawing-room.

  ‘It could be,’ said Danglars. ‘Was this murdered man not a former convict?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the count. ‘A former convict named Caderousse.’

  Danglars went a little pale. Andrea left the second drawing-room to go into the antechamber.

  ‘But sign, sign!’ said Monte Cristo. ‘I see that my story has upset everyone and I most humbly beg your pardon, Madame la Baronne, and that of Mademoiselle Danglars.’

  The baroness, who had just signed, handed the quill to the notary.

  ‘Prince Cavalcanti,’ the lawyer said. ‘Prince Cavalcanti, where are you?’

  ‘Andrea! Andrea!’ repeated several voices of young people who were already on terms of such intimacy with the noble Italian that they called him by his first name.

  ‘Call the prince! Tell him it’s his turn to sign!’ Danglars shouted to an usher. But at the same moment the crowd of onlookers swept back into the main reception room, terrified, as if some dreadful monster had entered the apartments, quaerens quem devoret.3

  Indeed, there was reason to shrink back and cry out in fear.

  An officer of the gendarmerie stationed two gendarmes at the door of each drawing-room, then marched over toward Danglars, preceded by a commissioner of police decked out in his scarf of office. Mme Danglars gave a cry and fainted. Danglars, who felt himself under threat – some consciences are never at rest – presented his guests with a face contorted by terror.

  ‘What is the matter, Monsieur?’ asked Monte Cristo, going to meet the commissioner.

  ‘Which of you gentlemen is named Andrea Cavalcanti?’ the commissioner asked, without replying to the count’s question.

  A cry of amazement rose from every corner of the room. Everyone looked around and asked questions.

  ‘Who is this Andrea Cavalcanti, then?’ Danglars enquired, in a state of near distraction.

  ‘A former convict who escaped from the penitentiary of Toulon.’

  ‘What crime has he committed?’

  ‘He is accused of the murder of one Caderousse,’ the commissioner said, in his impassive voice, ‘formerly his fellow-inmate, as the said Caderousse was leaving the house of the Count of Monte Cristo.’

  Monte Cristo looked quickly around him. Andrea had vanished.

  XCVII

  THE ROAD FOR BELGIUM

  A few minutes after the scene of confusion produced by the sudden appearance of the brigadier of the gendarmerie in M. Danglars’ house, and the revelation that followed, the vast mansion had emptied with much the same haste as would have followed the announcement of a case of the plague or cholera among the guests. In a few minutes, everyone had hurried to leave, or, rather, to flee, by every door, down every stairway, out of every exit. This was one of those circumstances in which one should not even try to offer the trite consolations that make the best of friends so unwelcome in the event of a great catastrophe.

  No one remained in the banker’s mansion except Danglars, shut up in his study with the officer of gendarmes; Mme Danglars, terrified, in the boudoir with which we are already acquainted; and Eugénie who, with her proud eyes and scornfully curled lips, had retired to her room with her inseparable companion, Mlle Louise d’Armilly.

  As for the many servants, even more numerous that evening than usual because they had been joined for the occasion by the ice-cream chefs, cooks and maîtres d’hôtel of the Café de Paris, they were standing around in groups in the pantries and the kitchens, or in their rooms, turning against their masters the anger they felt at what they called this ‘affront’ to them and not at all bothered about their domestic duties – which had, in any case, naturally been suspended.

  In the midst of these various people, all agitated by their own interests, only two deserve our attention: Mlle Eugénie Danglars and Mlle Louise d’Armilly.

  The young fiancée, as we mentioned, had retired with a haughty air and a curled lip, and with the bearing of an insulted queen, followed by her companion who was paler and more disturbed than she was.

  When they got to her room, Eugénie locked the door from the inside, while Louise slumped into a chair.

  ‘Oh, my God! My God! What a dreadful thing!’ said the young musician. ‘Whoever could have imagined it? Monsieur Andrea Cavalcanti… an assassin… an escaped convict… a criminal!’

  An ironic smile formed on Eugénie’s lips. ‘I really am fated,’ she said. ‘I escape from Morcerf and find Cavalcanti!’

  ‘Oh, Eugénie, don’t confuse one with the other.’

  ‘Be quiet. All men are scoundrels and I am happy to be able to do more than hate them: now I despise them.’

  ‘What can we do?’ Louise asked.

  ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The very thing we should have done three days ago: leave.’

  ‘So, as you are not getting married, you still want to?’

  ‘Listen, Louise, I abhor this society life, ordered, measured and ruled out like our sheets of music paper. What I’ve always wanted, aspired to and yearned for is an artist’s life, free, independent, where one depends only on oneself and is responsible only to oneself. Why should we stay? So that they will try, in a month’s time, to marry me off again? To whom? Perhaps to Monsieur Debray: they did consider it for a while. No, Louise, no. This evening’s adventure will be my excuse. I didn’t look for it, I didn’t ask for it. God sent it, and I welcome it.’

  ‘How strong and courageous you are!’ the fragile young blonde said to her dark-haired companion.

  ‘Surely you know me by now? Come, Louise, let’s discuss the whole matter. The carriage…’

  ‘Was purchased three days ago, luckily.’

  ‘Did you have it taken where we are to join it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And our passport?’

  ‘Here it is!’

  And Eugénie, with her usual sang
-froid, unfolded the document and read: ‘Monsieur Léon d’Armilly, twenty years old, an artist by profession, black hair, black eyes, travelling with his sister.’

  ‘Wonderful! How did you obtain this passport?’

  ‘I went and asked Monsieur de Monte Cristo for letters to the directors of the theatres in Rome and Naples, telling him that I was afraid to travel as a woman. He quite understood my feelings and offered to get me a man’s passport. Two days later, I received this one and added, with my own hands, “travelling with his sister”.’

  ‘Fine!’ Eugénie said merrily. ‘Now all that’s left is to pack our trunks. We’ll leave on the evening of signing the contract, instead of leaving on the wedding night, that’s all.’

  ‘Think carefully, Eugénie.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve thought about it. I’m tired of hearing about nothing but reports, ends of the month, rises, falls, Spanish funds, Haitian paper. Instead of that, Louise, don’t you see: the air, freedom, the song of the birds, the plains of Lombardy, the canals of Venice, the palaces of Rome, the beach at Naples. How much have we got, Louise?’

  The young woman answered by taking a little locked wallet out of an inlaid bureau, opening it and counting twenty-three banknotes. ‘Twenty-three thousand francs,’ she said.

  ‘And at least as much again in pearls, diamonds and jewels,’ said Eugénie. ‘We are rich. With forty-five thousand francs, we can live like princesses for two years, or more modestly for four. But in less than six months, you with your music and I with my voice, we shall have doubled our capital. Come, you take the money, I’ll look after the jewel box, so that if one of us is unlucky enough to lose her treasure, the other will still have hers. Now the suitcase! Quickly, the suitcase!’

  ‘Wait,’ Louise said, going to listen at Mme Danglars’ door.

  ‘What are you afraid of?’

  ‘Being surprised.’

  ‘The door’s closed.’

  ‘Suppose they tell us to open it.’