‘What have you seen? Come on, tell me.’
‘Well, I have observed that every time Mercédès comes into town, she is accompanied by a large Catalan lad, with black eyes, ruddy cheeks, very dark in colour and very passionate, whom she calls “my cousin”.’
‘Ah, indeed! And do you think this cousin is courting her?’
‘I imagine so: what else does a fine lad of twenty-one do to a pretty girl of seventeen?’
‘And you say that Dantès has gone to Les Catalans?’
‘He left before me.’
‘Suppose we were to go in the same direction, stop in the Réserve and, over a glass of La Malgue wine, learn what we can learn.’
‘Who would tell us anything?’
‘We shall be on the spot and we’ll see what has happened from Dantès’ face.’
‘Let’s go then,’ said Caderousse. ‘But you are paying?’
‘Certainly,’ Danglars replied.
The two of them set off at a brisk pace for the spot they had mentioned and, when they arrived, called for a bottle and two glasses.
Old Pamphile had seen Dantès go by less than two minutes before. Certain that he was in Les Catalans, they sat under the budding leaves of the plane-trees and sycamores, in the branches of which a happy band of birds was serenading one of the first fine days of spring.
III
LES CATALANS
A hundred yards away from the place where the two friends, staring into the distance with their ears pricked, were enjoying the sparkling wine of La Malgue, lay the village of Les Catalans, behind a bare hillock ravaged by the sun and the mistral.
One day, a mysterious group of colonists set out from Spain and landed on this spit of land, where it still resides today. No one knew where they had come from or what language they spoke. One of the leaders, who understood Provençal, asked the commune of Marseille to give them this bare and arid promontory on to which, like the sailors of Antiquity, they had drawn up their boats. The request was granted and, three months later, a little village grew up around the twelve or fifteen boats that brought these gypsies of the sea.
The same village, built in a bizarre and picturesque manner that is partly Moorish and partly Spanish, is the one that can be seen today, inhabited by the descendants of those men, who speak the language of their forefathers. For three or four centuries they have remained faithful to the little promontory on which they first landed, clinging to it like a flock of seabirds, in no way mixing with the inhabitants of Marseille, marrying among themselves and retaining the habits and dress of their motherland, just as they have retained its tongue.
The reader must follow us along the only street of the little village and enter one of those houses, to the outside of which the sunlight has given that lovely colour of dead leaves which is peculiar to the buildings of the country; with, inside, a coat of whitewash, the only decoration of a Spanish posada.
A lovely young girl with jet-black hair and the velvet eyes of a gazelle, was standing, leaning against an inner wall, rubbing an innocent sprig of heather between slender fingers like those on a classical statue, and pulling off the flowers, the remains of which were already strewn across the floor. At the same time, her arms, naked to the elbow, arms that were tanned but otherwise seemed modelled on those of the Venus of Arles, trembled with a sort of feverish impatience, and she was tapping the ground with her supple, well-made foot, revealing a leg that was shapely, bold and proud, but imprisoned in a red cotton stocking patterned in grey and blue lozenges.
A short distance away, a tall young man of between twenty and twenty-two was sitting on a chair, rocking it fitfully on two legs while supporting himself on his elbow against an old worm-eaten dresser and watching her with a look that combined anxiety with irritation. His eyes were questioning, but those of the young woman, firm and unwavering, dominated their conversation.
‘Please, Mercédès,’ the man said. ‘Easter is coming round again; it’s the time for weddings. Give me your answer!’
‘You have had it a hundred times, Fernand, and you really must like torturing yourself, to ask me again.’
‘Well, repeat it, I beg you, repeat it once more so that I can come to believe it. Tell me, for the hundredth time, that you reject my love, even though your mother approves of me. Convince me that you are prepared to trifle with my happiness and that my life and my death are nothing to you. My God, my God! To dream for ten years of being your husband, Mercédès, and then to lose that hope which was the sole aim of my existence!’
‘I, at least, never encouraged you in that hope, Fernand,’ Mercédès replied. ‘You cannot accuse me of having, even once, flirted with you. I’ve said repeatedly: “I love you like a brother, but never demand anything more from me than this fraternal love, because my heart belongs to another.” Isn’t that what I have always told you, Fernand?’
‘Yes, Mercédès, I know,’ the young man replied. ‘Yes, you have always been laudably, and cruelly, honest with me. But are you forgetting that it is a sacred law among the Catalans only to marry among themselves?’
‘You are wrong, Fernand, it is not a law, but a custom, nothing more; and I advise you not to appeal to that custom on your behalf. You have been chosen for conscription, Fernand, and the freedom that you now enjoy is merely a temporary reprieve: at any moment you might be called up to serve in the army. Once you are a soldier, what will you do with me – I mean, with a poor orphan girl, sad and penniless, whose only possession is a hut, almost in ruins, in which hang a few worn nets, the paltry legacy that was left by my father to my mother, and by my mother to me? Consider, Fernand, that in the year since she died, I have virtually lived on charity! Sometimes you pretend that I am of some use to you, so that you can be justified in sharing your catch with me. And I accept, Fernand, because you are the son of one of my father’s brothers, because we grew up together and, beyond that, most of all, because it would hurt you too much if I were to refuse. But I know full well that the fish I take to the market, which bring me the money to buy the hemp that I spin – I know, full well, Fernand, that it is charity.’
‘What does it matter, Mercédès, poor and alone as you are, when you suit me thus better than the daughter of the proudest shipowner or the richest banker in Marseille? What do people like us need? An honest wife and a good housekeeper. Where could I find better than you on either score?’
‘Fernand,’ Mercédès replied, shaking her head, ‘one is not a good housekeeper and one cannot promise to remain an honest woman when one loves a man other than one’s husband. Be satisfied with my friendship for, I repeat, that is all I can promise you and I only promise what I am sure of being able to give.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ said Fernand. ‘You bear your own poverty patiently, but you are afraid of mine. Well, Mercédès, with your love, I would try to make my fortune; you would bring me luck and I should become rich. I can cast my fisherman’s net wider, I can take a job as a clerk in a shop, I could even become a merchant myself!’
‘You can’t do any such thing, Fernand: you’re a soldier and, if you stay here among the Catalans, it is because there is no war for you to fight. So remain a fisherman, don’t dream of things that will make reality seem even more terrible to you – and be content with my friendship, because I cannot give you anything else.’
‘You are right, Mercédès, I shall be a seaman; and, instead of the dress of our forefathers which you despise, I shall have a patent-leather hat, a striped shirt and a blue jacket with anchors on the buttons. That’s how a man needs to dress, isn’t it, if he wants to please you?’
‘What do you mean?’ Mercédès asked, with an imperious look. ‘What do you mean? I don’t understand you.’
‘What I mean, Mercédès, is that you are only so hard-hearted and cruel towards me because you are waiting for someone who is dressed like that. But it may be that the one you await is fickle and, even if he isn’t, the sea will be fickle for him.’
‘Fernand!’ Mer
cédès exclaimed. ‘I thought you were kind, but I was mistaken. It is wicked of you to call on the wrath of God to satisfy your jealousy. Yes, I will not deny it: I am waiting for the man you describe, I love him and if he does not return, instead of blaming the fickleness that it pleases you to speak of, I shall think that he died loving me.’
The young Catalan made an angry gesture.
‘I understand what that means, Fernand: you want to blame him because I do not love you, and cross his dagger with your Catalan knife! What good would that do you? If you were defeated, you would lose my friendship; if you were the victor, you would see that friendship turn to hatred. Believe me, when a woman loves a man, you do not win her heart by crossing swords with him. No, Fernand, don’t be carried away by evil thoughts. Since you cannot have me as your wife, be content to have me as a friend and a sister. In any case,’ she added, her eyes anxious and filling with tears, ‘stay, Fernand: you said, yourself, a moment ago that the sea is treacherous. It is already four months since he left, and I have counted a lot of storms in the past four months!’
Fernand remained impassive. He made no attempt to wipe the tears that were running down Mercédès cheeks, yet he would have given a glass of his own blood for each of those tears; but they were shed for another. He got up, walked round the hut and returned, stopping before Mercédès with a dark look in his eyes and clenched fists.
‘Come now, Mercédès,’ he said. ‘Answer me once more: have you truly made up your mind?’
‘I love Edmond Dantès,’ the young woman said, coldly, ‘and no one will be my husband except Edmond.’
‘And you will love him for ever?’
‘As long as I live.’
Fernand bent his head like a discouraged man, gave a sigh that was like a groan, then suddenly looked up with clenched teeth and nostrils flared.
‘But suppose he is dead?’
‘If he is dead, I shall die.’
‘And if he forgets you?’
‘Mercédès!’ cried a happy voice outside the house. ‘Mercédès!’
‘Ah!’ the girl exclaimed, reddening with joy and leaping up, filled with love. ‘You see that he has not forgotten me: he is here!’ And she ran to the door, and opened it, crying: ‘Come to me, Edmond! I am here!’
Pale and trembling, Fernand stepped back as a traveller might do at the sight of a snake; and, stumbling against his chair, fell back into it.
Edmond and Mercédès were in each other’s arms. The hot Marseille sun, shining through the doorway, drenched them in a flood of light. At first, they saw nothing of what was around them. A vast wave of happiness cut them off from the world and they spoke only those half-formed words that are the outpourings of such intense joy that they resemble the expression of pain.
Suddenly, Edmond noticed the sombre figure of Fernand, pale and threatening in the darkness. With a gesture of which he was not even himself aware, the young Catalan had laid his hand on the knife at his belt.
‘Oh, forgive me,’ Dantès said, raising an eyebrow. ‘I did not realize that we were not alone.’
Then, turning to Mercédès, he asked: ‘Who is this gentleman?’
‘He will be your best friend, Dantès, because he is my friend, my cousin and my brother: this is Fernand, which means he is the man whom, after you, I love most in the world. Don’t you recognize him?’
‘Ah! Yes, indeed,’ said Edmond. And, without leaving Mercédès whose hand he held clasped in one of his own, he extended the other with a cordial gesture towards the Catalan. But Fernand, instead of responding to this sign of friendship, remained as silent and motionless as a statue. It was enough to make Edmond look enquiringly from Mercédès, who was trembling with emotion, to Fernand, sombre and threatening.
That one glance told him everything. His brow clouded with rage.
‘I did not realize that I had hurried round to see you, Mercédès, only to find an enemy here.’
‘An enemy!’ Mercédès exclaimed, looking angrily in the direction of her cousin. ‘An enemy, in my house, you say, Edmond! If I thought that, I should take your arm and go with you to Marseille, leaving this house, never to return.’
Fernand’s eyes lit up with rage.
‘And if any misfortune were to befall you, my dear Edmond,’ she continued, with the same cool determination, proving to Fernand that she had read the sinister depths of his mind, ‘if any misfortune should happen to you, I should climb up the Cap de Morgiou and throw myself headlong on to the rocks.’
The blood drained from Fernand’s face.
‘But you are wrong, Edmond,’ she continued. ‘You have no enemies here. The only person here is Fernand, my brother, who is going to shake your hand like a true friend.’
With these words, the girl turned her imperious face towards the Catalan and he, as if mesmerized by her look, slowly came across to Edmond and held out his hand. His hatred, like an impotent wave, had been broken against the ascendancy that the woman exercised over him. But no sooner had he touched Edmond’s hand than he felt he had done all that it was possible for him to do, and rushed out of the house.
‘Ah!’ he cried, running along like a madman and burying his hands in his hair. ‘Ah! Who will deliver me from this man? Wretch that I am, wretch that I am!’
‘Hey, Catalan! Hey, Fernand! Where are you going?’ a voice called to him.
The young man stopped dead, looked around and saw Caderousse at the table with Danglars under a leafy arbour.
‘What now,’ said Caderousse, ‘why don’t you join us? Are you in such a hurry that you don’t have time to say hello to your friends?’
‘Especially when they still have an almost full bottle in front of them,’ Danglars added.
Fernand stared at the two men with a dazed look, and did not answer.
‘He seems a bit down in the dumps,’ Danglars said, nudging Caderousse with his knee. ‘Could we be wrong? Contrary to what we thought, could it be that Dantès has got the upper hand?’
‘Why! We’ll just have to find out,’ said Caderousse. And, turning back to the young man, he said: ‘Well, Catalan, have you made up your mind?’
Fernand wiped the sweat from his brow and slowly made his way under the vault of leaves: its shade appeared to do something to calm his spirits and its coolness to bring a small measure of well-being back to his exhausted body.
‘Good day,’ he said. ‘I think you called me?’
‘I called you because you were running along like a madman and I was afraid you would go and throw yourself into the sea,’ Caderousse said with a laugh. ‘Devil take it, when one has friends, it is not only to offer them a glass of wine, but also to stop them drinking three or four pints of water.’
Fernand gave a groan that resembled a sob and let his head fall on to his wrists, which were crossed on the table.
‘Well now, do you want me to tell you what, Fernand?’ Caderousse continued, coming straight to the point with that crude brutality of the common man whose curiosity makes him forget any sense of tact. ‘You look to me like a man who has been crossed in love!’ He accompanied this quip with a roar of laughter.
‘Huh!’ Danglars retorted. ‘A lad built like that is not likely to be unhappy in love. You must be joking, Caderousse.’
‘Not at all,’ the other said. ‘Just listen to him sigh. Come, Fernand, come now, lift your nose off the table and tell us: it is not very mannerly to refuse to answer your friends when they are asking after your health.’
‘My health is fine,’ said Fernand, clenching his fists and without looking up.
‘Ah, Danglars, you see now,’ Caderousse said, winking at his friend. ‘This is how things are: Fernand here, who is a fine, brave Catalan, one of the best fishermen in Marseille, is in love with a beautiful girl called Mercédès; but it appears that, unfortunately, the girl herself is in love with the second mate of the Pharaon; and, as the Pharaon came into port this very day… You follow me?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Danglars.
‘Poor Fernand has got his marching orders,’ Caderousse continued.
‘So, what then?’ said Fernand, lifting his head and looking at Caderousse, like a man anxious to find someone on whom to vent his wrath. ‘Mercédès is her own woman, isn’t she? She is free to love whomsoever she wants.’
‘Oh, if that’s how you take it,’ said Caderousse, ‘that’s another matter. I thought you were a Catalan, and I have been told that the Catalans are not men to let themselves be pushed aside by a rival. They even said that Fernand, in particular, was fearsome in his vengeance.’
Fernand smiled pityingly. ‘A lover is never fearsome,’ he said.
‘Poor boy!’ Danglars continued, pretending to grieve for the young man from the bottom of his heart. ‘What do you expect? He didn’t imagine that Dantès would suddenly return like this; he may have thought him dead, or unfaithful. Who knows? Such things are all the more distressing when they happen to us suddenly.’
‘In any event,’ Caderousse said, drinking as he spoke and starting to show the effects of the heady wine of La Malgue, ‘in any event, Fernand is not the only person to have been put out by Dantès’ fortunate return, is he, Danglars?’
‘No, what you say is true – and I might even add that it will bring him misfortune.’
‘No matter,’ Caderousse went on, pouring out some wine for Fernand and replenishing his own glass for the eighth or tenth time (though Danglars had hardly touched the one in front of him). ‘No matter. In the meantime he will marry Mercédès, the lovely Mercédès. He has come back for that, at least.’
While the other was speaking, Danglars directed a piercing look at the young man, on whose heart Caderousse’s words were falling like molten lead.
‘And when is the wedding?’ he asked.
‘Oh, it’s not settled yet,’ Fernand muttered.
‘No, but it will be,’ said Caderousse, ‘just as surely as Dantès will be captain of the Pharaon, don’t you think, Danglars?’
The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) Page 6