The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin)

by Alexandre Dumas

  Danglars shuddered at this unexpected stab and turned towards Caderousse, studying his face now to see if the blow had been premeditated; but he saw nothing except covetousness on this face, already almost besotted with drink.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, filling the glasses. ‘Then let’s drink to Captain Edmond Dantès, husband of the beautiful Catalan!’

  Caderousse lifted his glass to his lips with a sluggish hand and drained it in one gulp. Fernand took his and dashed it to the ground.

  ‘Ha, ha!’ said Caderousse. ‘What can I see over there, on the crest of the hill, coming from the Catalan village? You look, Fernand, your eyesight is better than mine. I think I’m starting to see less clearly and, as you know, wine is a deceptive imp: it looks to me like two lovers walking along, side by side and hand in hand. Heaven forgive me! They don’t realize that we can see them and, look at that, they’re kissing each other!’

  Danglars marked every single trait of the anguish that crossed Fernand’s face, as its features changed before his eyes.

  ‘Do you know who they are, Monsieur Fernand?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the other replied dully. ‘It’s Monsieur Edmond and Mademoiselle Mercédès.’

  ‘There! You see?’ said Caderousse. ‘I didn’t recognize them. Hey, Dantès! Hey, there, pretty girl! Come down for a moment and let us know when the wedding is: Fernand here is so stubborn, he won’t tell us.’

  ‘Why don’t you be quiet!’ said Danglars, pretending to restrain Caderousse who, with drunken obstinacy, was leaning out of the arbour. ‘Try to stay upright and let the lovers enjoy themselves in peace. Why, look at Monsieur Fernand: he’s being sensible. Why not try and do the same?’

  It may be that Fernand, driven to the limit and baited by Danglars like a bull by the banderilleros, would finally have leapt forward, for he had already stood up and appeared to be gathering strength to throw himself at his rival; but Mercédès, upright and laughing, threw back her lovely head and shot a glance from her clear eyes. At that moment, Fernand recalled her threat to die if Edmond should die, and slumped back, discouraged, on his chair.

  Danglars looked at the two men, one besotted by drink, the other enslaved by love, and murmured: ‘I shall get nothing out of these idiots: I fear I am sitting between a drunkard and a coward. On the one hand, I have a man eaten up by envy, drowning his sorrows in drink when he should be intoxicated with venom; on the other, a great simpleton whose mistress has just been snatched away from under his very nose, who does nothing except weep like a child and feel sorry for himself. And yet he has the blazing eyes of a Spaniard, a Sicilian or a Calabrian – those people who are such experts when it comes to revenge – and fists that would crush a bull’s head as surely as a butcher’s mallet. Fate is definitely on Edmond’s side: he will marry the beautiful girl, become captain and laugh in our faces. Unless…’ (a pallid smile hovered on Danglars’ lips) ‘… unless I take a hand in it.’

  Caderousse, half standing, with his fists on the table, was still shouting: ‘Hello, there! Hello! Edmond! Can’t you see your friends, or are you too proud to talk to them?’

  ‘No, my dear Caderousse,’ Edmond replied. ‘I am not proud, but I am happy – and happiness, I believe, is even more dazzling than pride.’

  ‘At last, all is explained,’ said Caderousse. ‘Ho! Good day to you, Madame Dantès.’

  Mercédès bowed gravely and said: ‘That is not yet my name, and in my country they say it is bad luck to call a young woman by the name of her betrothed before he has become her husband. So, please, call me Mercédès.’

  ‘You must forgive my good neighbour, Caderousse,’ Dantès said. ‘He so seldom makes a mistake!’

  ‘So, the wedding is to take place shortly, Monsieur Dantès?’ Danglars said, greeting the two young people.

  ‘As soon as possible, Monsieur Danglars. Today, everything is to be agreed at my father’s house and tomorrow or, at the latest, the day after, we shall have the engagement dinner here at La Réserve. I hope that my friends will join us: you, of course, are invited, Monsieur Danglars, and you, too, Caderousse.’

  ‘And Fernand?’ Caderousse asked, with a coarse laugh. ‘Will Fernand be there as well?’

  ‘My wife’s brother is my brother,’ Edmond said, ‘and both Mercédès and I should regret it deeply if he were to be separated from us at such a time.’

  Fernand opened his mouth to reply, but his voice caught in his throat and he could not utter a single word.

  ‘The agreement today, the engagement tomorrow or the day after: by George! You’re in a great hurry, Captain.’

  ‘Danglars,’ Edmond said with a smile, ‘I shall say the same to you as Mercédès did a moment ago: don’t give me a title that does not yet belong to me, it could bring me ill luck.’

  ‘My apologies,’ Danglars replied. ‘I was merely saying that you seem in a great hurry. After all, we have plenty of time: the Pharaon will not set sail for a good three months.’

  ‘One always hurries towards happiness, Monsieur Danglars, because when one has suffered much, one is at pains to believe in it. But I am not impelled by mere selfishness. I have to go to Paris.’

  ‘Ah, indeed! To Paris. And will this be your first visit, Dantès?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have business there?’

  ‘Not of my own, but a final request that I must carry out for our poor Captain Leclère. You understand, Danglars, the mission is sacred to me. In any event, don’t worry. I shall be gone only as long as it takes to go there and return.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ Danglars said aloud; then he added, under his breath: ‘To Paris, no doubt to deliver the letter that the marshal gave him. By heaven! That letter has given me an idea – an excellent idea! Ah, Dantès, my friend, your name is not yet Number One on the register of the Pharaon.’

  Then, turning back to Edmond who was leaving, he shouted: ‘Bon voyage!’

  ‘Thank you,’ Edmond replied, turning around and giving a friendly wave. Then the two lovers went on their way, calm and happy as two chosen souls heading for paradise.

  IV

  THE PLOT

  Danglars’ eyes followed Edmond and Mercédès until the two lovers had vanished round one corner of the Fort Saint-Nicholas; then, turning at last, he noticed Fernand who had slipped back on to his chair, pale and trembling, while Caderousse was mumbling the words of a drinking song.

  ‘So, my good sir,’ Danglars told Fernand, ‘not everyone, I think, is happy about this marriage.’

  ‘I am in despair,’ said Fernand.

  ‘You’re in love with Mercédès?’

  ‘I adore her!’

  ‘For a long time?’

  ‘Ever since I’ve known her; I’ve always loved her.’

  ‘And all you can do is sit there and tear your hair out, instead of finding some way out of the dilemma! By God! I didn’t know that this was how people of your country behaved.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do?’ Fernand asked.

  ‘How do I know? Is it any of my business? As I see it, I’m not the one who’s in love with Mademoiselle Mercédès; you are. Seek and ye shall find, the Gospel says.’

  ‘I had found already.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I wanted to put my knife into the creature, but the girl said that if her fiancé was harmed, she would kill herself.’

  ‘Pah! People say such things, but they don’t do them.’

  ‘You don’t know Mercédès, Monsieur. If she threatens to do something, she will.’

  ‘Idiot!’ Danglars muttered. ‘What does it matter whether she kills herself or not, provided Dantès does not become captain.’

  ‘And before Mercédès dies,’ Fernand went on, in firmly resolute tones, ‘I should die myself.’

  ‘There’s love for you!’ Caderousse said, in a voice increasingly slurred by drink. ‘There’s love, or I don’t know it.’

  ‘Come now,’ said Danglars. ‘You seem an agreeable enough
lad to me and – by Jove! – I’d like to ease your sorrow, but…’

  ‘Yes,’ said Caderousse. ‘Come now.’

  ‘My good friend,’ Danglars remarked, ‘you are three-quarters drunk: go the whole way and finish the bottle. Drink, but don’t interfere with our business, because you need a clear head for what we’re doing.’

  ‘Me? Drunk?’ said Caderousse. ‘Never! I could take another four of your bottles, which are no bigger than bottles of eau de Cologne. Père Pamphile! Bring us some wine!’

  And, to make the point, Caderousse banged his glass on the table.

  ‘You were saying, Monsieur?’ Fernand asked, impatient to hear what else Danglars had to tell him.

  ‘What was I saying? I don’t remember. This drunkard Caderousse has put it quite out of my mind.’

  ‘Drunkard if you like. A curse on those who fear wine: it’s because they have evil thoughts and they are afraid that wine will loosen their tongues.’

  Caderousse began to sing the last two lines of a song which was much in vogue at the time:

  The Flood proved it beyond a doubt:

  All wicked men do water drink.1

  ‘You were saying, Monsieur,’ Fernand continued, ‘that you’d like to ease my sorrow, but you added…’

  ‘Ah, yes. But I added that… to give you satisfaction, it is enough for Dantès not to marry the one you love. And this marriage, it seems to me, could very well not take place, even if Dantès does not die.’

  ‘Only death will separate them,’ said Fernand.

  ‘You have the brains of an oyster, my friend,’ said Caderousse. ‘And Danglars here, who is a sharp one, crafty as a Greek, will prove you wrong. Do it, Danglars. I’ve stuck up for you. Tell him that Dantès doesn’t have to die. In any case, it would be a pity if he died. He’s a good lad, Dantès. I like him. Your health, Dantès.’

  Fernand rose impatiently to his feet.

  ‘Let him babble,’ Danglars said, putting a hand on the young man’s arm. ‘And, for that matter, drunk as he is, he is not so far wrong. Absence separates as effectively as death; so just suppose that there were the walls of a prison between Edmond and Mercédès: that would separate them no more nor less than a tombstone.’

  ‘Yes, but people get out of prison,’ said Caderousse, who was gripping on to the conversation with what remained of his wits. ‘And when you get out of prison and you are called Edmond Dantès, you take revenge.’

  ‘What does that matter!’ said Fernand.

  ‘In any event,’ Caderousse continued, ‘why should they put Dantès in prison? He hasn’t stolen anything, killed anyone, committed any murder.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Danglars.

  ‘I don’t want to shut up,’ said Caderousse. ‘I want to know why they should put Dantès in prison. I like Dantès. Dantès! Your health!’

  He poured back another glass of wine.

  Danglars assessed the extent of the tailor’s drunkenness from his dull eyes, and turned towards Fernand.

  ‘So, do you understand that there is no need to kill him?’ he said.

  ‘No, surely not if, as you said a moment ago, there was some means of having Dantès arrested. But do you have such a means?’

  ‘If we look,’ Danglars answered, ‘we can find one. But, dammit, why should this concern me? What business is it of mine?’

  ‘I don’t know why it should concern you,’ Fernand said, grasping his arm. ‘What I do know is that you have some private animosity against Dantès: a man who feels hated cannot be mistaken about that feeling in others.’

  ‘I? Have some reason to hate Dantès? None, I swear. I saw that you were unhappy and took an interest in your unhappiness, that’s all. But if you are going to imagine that I am acting on my own behalf, then farewell, my good friend. You can manage for yourself.’ Here Danglars himself made as if to get up.

  ‘No, stay!’ said Fernand. ‘When it comes down to it, it’s of no matter to me whether you have some bone to pick with Dantès or not; I do, and I freely admit it. Find the means and I shall carry it out, as long as there is no murder involved, for Mercédès said that she would kill herself if anyone killed Dantès.’

  Caderousse, who had let his head fall on the table, lifted it and turned his dull, drink-sodden eyes on Fernand and Danglars.

  ‘Kill Dantès!’ he said. ‘Who’s talking about killing Dantès? I don’t want him killed. He’s my friend. This morning, he offered to share his money with me, as I shared mine with him. I don’t want anyone to kill Dantès.’

  ‘Who said anything about killing him, idiot?’ Danglars went on. ‘It’s nothing more than a joke. Drink to his health and leave us be,’ he added, filling Caderousse’s glass.

  ‘Yes, yes. To Dantès’ health,’ said Caderousse, emptying his glass. ‘His health! His health! Like that!’

  ‘But the means, what about the means?’ Fernand asked.

  ‘You haven’t thought of any yet?’

  ‘No, you said that you would do that.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Danglars. ‘A Spaniard is inferior to a Frenchman in one respect: your Spaniard thinks things over, but your Frenchman thinks them up.’

  ‘Well, think up something, then,’ Fernand said impatiently.

  ‘Waiter!’ Danglars called. ‘A pen, ink and paper!’

  ‘A pen, ink and paper,’ Fernand muttered.

  ‘Yes, I am an accountant: pens, ink and paper are the tools of my trade, and without them I can do nothing.’

  ‘A pen, some ink and some paper!’ Fernand repeated to the waiter.

  ‘What you need is over there on the table,’ the waiter said, indicating the items they had requested.

  ‘Give them to us, then.’

  The waiter brought the paper, some ink and a quill pen, and put them on the table in the arbour.

  ‘When you think,’ Caderousse said, letting his hand fall on to the paper, ‘that what you have here can kill a man more surely than if you were to hide in the woods to murder him! I have always been more afraid of a pen, a bottle of ink and a sheet of paper than of a sword or a pistol.’

  ‘This clown is not yet as drunk as he seems,’ said Danglars. ‘Pour him another drink, Fernand.’

  Fernand filled Caderousse’s glass and he, like the true drunkard he was, took his hand off the paper and moved it to his glass. The Catalan watched him until Caderousse, almost floored by this new assault, put his glass back – or, rather, let it fall – on to the table.

  ‘Well?’ the Catalan asked, seeing that the last traces of Caderousse’s wits had begun to disappear in this final draught of wine.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Danglars continued, ‘for example, after a voyage such as the one Dantès has just made, in the course of which he put in at Naples and the island of Elba, if someone were to denounce him to the crown prosecutor2 as a Bonapartist agent…’

  ‘I’ll denounce him, I’ll do it!’ the young man said eagerly.

  ‘Yes, but in that case you would have to sign your declaration and be confronted with the man you accused: I could give you proof to support your accusation, I know; but Dantès cannot stay in prison for ever; one day he will come out, and on that day, woe betide the one who put him there!’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t ask for anything better,’ said Fernand. ‘Let him come and challenge me.’

  ‘Yes, but what about Mercédès? Mercédès who will hate you if you are unfortunate enough to leave even a scratch on her beloved Edmond!’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Fernand.

  ‘No, no,’ Danglars continued. ‘You see, if we were to make up our minds to such a thing, it would be far better simply to do as I am doing now, and take this pen, dip it in the ink and, with one’s left hand – to disguise the writing – make out a little denunciation in these terms.’

  To illustrate his meaning, Danglars wrote the following lines, with his left hand, the writing sloping backwards so that it bore no resemblance to his usual handwriting, then passed it to Fernand, who read it
in a hushed voice:

  The crown prosecutor is advised, by a friend of the monarchy and the faith, that one Edmond Dantès, first mate of the Pharaon, arriving this morning from Smyrna, after putting in at Naples and Porto Ferrajo, was entrusted by Murat3 with a letter for the usurper and by the usurper with a letter to the Bonapartist committee in Paris.

  Proof of his guilt will be found when he is arrested, since the letter will be discovered either on his person, or at the house of his father, or in his cabin on board the Pharaon.

  ‘So there we have it,’ Danglars continued. ‘In this way your revenge would be consistent with common sense, because it could in no way be traced back to you and the matter would proceed of its own accord. You would merely have to fold the letter – as I am doing now – and write on it: “To the Crown Prosecutor”. That would settle it.’ And Danglars wrote the address with a simple stroke of the pen.

  ‘Yes, that would settle it,’ cried Caderousse, who had made one final effort to muster his wits and follow the reading of the letter, and understood instinctively all the misfortune that such a denunciation could bring. ‘Yes, that would settle it, except that it would be a vile act.’ And he reached over to take the letter.

  ‘Which is why,’ said Danglars, pushing it beyond the reach of his hand, ‘which is why what I am saying and doing is simply in jest; and I should be the first to be upset if anything were to happen to Dantès – dear Dantès! So, watch…’

  He took the letter, crumpled it in his hands and threw it into a corner of the arbour.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Caderousse. ‘Dantès is my friend and I don’t want anyone to harm him.’

  ‘The devil take it! Whoever would think of doing him harm? Certainly not I or Fernand!’ said Danglars, getting up and looking at the young man, who had remained seated but who had his covetous eye fixed sideways on the accusing letter where it had fallen.

  ‘In that case,’ Caderousse went on, ‘bring us more wine: I want to drink to the health of Edmond and the lovely Mercédès.’

  ‘You have had enough to drink already, you tippler,’ said Danglars. ‘If you go on, you will have to sleep here, because you won’t be able to stand up.’