The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas (have you read this book TXT) 📕
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
- Performer: 0140449264
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“No, sir,” said Albert, coldly; “there are circumstances in which one cannot, except through cowardice,—I offer you that refuge,—refuse to admit certain persons at least.”
“What is your errand, then, with me, sir?”
“I mean,” said Albert, drawing near, and without apparently noticing Cavalcanti, who stood with his back towards the fireplace—“I mean to propose a meeting in some retired corner where no one will interrupt us for ten minutes; that will be sufficient—where two men having met, one of them will remain on the ground.”
Danglars turned pale; Cavalcanti moved a step forward, and Albert turned towards him.
“And you, too,” said he, “come, if you like, monsieur; you have a claim, being almost one of the family, and I will give as many rendezvous of that kind as I can find persons willing to accept them.”
Cavalcanti looked at Danglars with a stupefied air, and the latter, making an effort, arose and stepped between the two young men. Albert’s attack on Andrea had placed him on a different footing, and he hoped this visit had another cause than that he had at first supposed.
“Indeed, sir,” said he to Albert, “if you are come to quarrel with this gentleman because I have preferred him to you, I shall resign the case to the king’s attorney.”
“You mistake, sir,” said Morcerf with a gloomy smile; “I am not referring in the least to matrimony, and I only addressed myself to M. Cavalcanti because he appeared disposed to interfere between us. In one respect you are right, for I am ready to quarrel with everyone today; but you have the first claim, M. Danglars.”
“Sir,” replied Danglars, pale with anger and fear, “I warn you, when I have the misfortune to meet with a mad dog, I kill it; and far from thinking myself guilty of a crime, I believe I do society a kindness. Now, if you are mad and try to bite me, I will kill you without pity. Is it my fault that your father has dishonored himself?”
“Yes, miserable wretch!” cried Morcerf, “it is your fault.”
Danglars retreated a few steps. “My fault?” said he; “you must be mad! What do I know of the Grecian affair? Have I travelled in that country? Did I advise your father to sell the castle of Yanina—to betray——”
“Silence!” said Albert, with a thundering voice. “No; it is not you who have directly made this exposure and brought this sorrow on us, but you hypocritically provoked it.”
“I?”
“Yes; you! How came it known?”
“I suppose you read it in the paper in the account from Yanina?”
“Who wrote to Yanina?”
“To Yanina?”
“Yes. Who wrote for particulars concerning my father?”
“I imagine anyone may write to Yanina.”
“But one person only wrote!”
“One only?”
“Yes; and that was you!”
“I, doubtless, wrote. It appears to me that when about to marry your daughter to a young man, it is right to make some inquiries respecting his family; it is not only a right, but a duty.”
“You wrote, sir, knowing what answer you would receive.”
“I, indeed? I assure you,” cried Danglars, with a confidence and security proceeding less from fear than from the interest he really felt for the young man, “I solemnly declare to you, that I should never have thought of writing to Yanina, did I know anything of Ali Pasha’s misfortunes.”
“Who, then, urged you to write? Tell me.”
“Pardieu! it was the most simple thing in the world. I was speaking of your father’s past history. I said the origin of his fortune remained obscure. The person to whom I addressed my scruples asked me where your father had acquired his property? I answered, ‘In Greece.’—‘Then,’ said he, ‘write to Yanina.’”
“And who thus advised you?”
“No other than your friend, Monte Cristo.”
“The Count of Monte Cristo told you to write to Yanina?”
“Yes; and I wrote, and will show you my correspondence, if you like.”
Albert and Beauchamp looked at each other.
“Sir,” said Beauchamp, who had not yet spoken, “you appear to accuse the count, who is absent from Paris at this moment, and cannot justify himself.”
“I accuse no one, sir,” said Danglars; “I relate, and I will repeat before the count what I have said to you.”
“Does the count know what answer you received?”
“Yes; I showed it to him.”
“Did he know my father’s Christian name was Fernand, and his family name Mondego?”
“Yes, I had told him that long since, and I did only what any other would have done in my circumstances, and perhaps less. When, the day after the arrival of this answer, your father came by the advice of Monte Cristo to ask my daughter’s hand for you, I decidedly refused him, but without any explanation or exposure. In short, why should I have any more to do with the affair? How did the honor or disgrace of M. de Morcerf affect me? It neither increased nor decreased my income.”
Albert felt the blood mounting to his brow; there was no doubt upon the subject. Danglars defended himself with the baseness, but at the same time with the assurance, of a man who speaks the truth, at least in part, if not wholly—not for conscience’ sake, but through fear. Besides, what was Morcerf seeking? It was not whether Danglars or Monte Cristo was more or less guilty; it was a man who would answer for the offence, whether trifling or serious; it was a man who would fight, and it was evident Danglars would not fight.
In addition to this, everything forgotten or unperceived before presented itself now to his recollection. Monte Cristo knew everything, as he had bought the daughter of Ali Pasha; and, knowing everything, he had advised Danglars to write to Yanina. The answer known, he had yielded to Albert’s wish to be introduced to Haydée, and allowed the conversation to turn on the death of Ali, and had not opposed Haydée’s recital (but having, doubtless, warned the young girl, in the few Romaic words he spoke to her, not to implicate Morcerf’s father). Besides, had he not begged of Morcerf not to mention his father’s name before Haydée? Lastly, he had taken Albert to Normandy when he knew the final blow was near. There could be no doubt that all had been calculated and previously arranged; Monte Cristo then was in league with his father’s enemies. Albert took Beauchamp aside, and communicated these ideas to him.
“You are right,” said the latter; “M. Danglars has only been a secondary agent in this sad affair, and it is of M. de Monte Cristo that you must demand an explanation.”
Albert turned.
“Sir,” said he to Danglars, “understand that I do not take a final leave of you; I must ascertain if your insinuations are just, and am going now to inquire of the Count of Monte Cristo.”
He bowed to the banker, and went out with Beauchamp, without appearing to notice Cavalcanti. Danglars accompanied him to the door, where he again assured Albert that no motive of personal hatred had influenced him against the Count of Morcerf.
Chapter 88. The Insult
At the banker’s door Beauchamp stopped Morcerf.
“Listen,” said he; “just now I told you it was of M. de Monte Cristo you must demand an explanation.”
“Yes; and we are going to his house.”
“Reflect, Morcerf, one moment before you go.”
“On what shall I reflect?”
“On the importance of the step you are taking.”
“Is it more serious than going to M. Danglars?”
“Yes; M. Danglars is a money-lover, and those who love money, you know, think too much of what they risk to be easily induced to fight a duel. The other is, on the contrary, to all appearance a true nobleman; but do you not fear to find him a bully?”
“I only fear one thing; namely, to find a man who will not fight.”
“Do not be alarmed,” said Beauchamp; “he will meet you. My only fear is that he will be too strong for you.”
“My friend,” said Morcerf, with a sweet smile, “that is what I wish. The happiest thing that could occur to me, would be to die in my father’s stead; that would save us all.”
“Your mother would die of grief.”
“My poor mother!” said Albert, passing his hand across his eyes, “I know she would; but better so than die of shame.”
“Are you quite decided, Albert?”
“Yes; let us go.”
“But do you think we shall find the count at home?”
“He intended returning some hours after me, and doubtless he is now at home.”
They ordered the driver to take them to No. 30 Champs-Élysées. Beauchamp wished to go in alone, but Albert observed that as this was an unusual circumstance he might be allowed to deviate from the usual etiquette of duels. The cause which the young man espoused was one so sacred that Beauchamp had only to comply with all his wishes; he yielded and contented himself with following Morcerf. Albert sprang from the porter’s lodge to the steps. He was received by Baptistin. The count had, indeed, just arrived, but he was in his bath, and had forbidden that anyone should be admitted.
“But after his bath?” asked Morcerf.
“My master will go to dinner.”
“And after dinner?”
“He will sleep an hour.”
“Then?”
“He is going to the Opera.”
“Are you sure of it?” asked Albert.
“Quite, sir; my master has ordered his horses at eight o’clock precisely.”
“Very good,” replied Albert; “that is all I wished to know.”
Then, turning towards Beauchamp, “If you have anything to attend to, Beauchamp, do it directly; if you have any appointment for this evening, defer it till tomorrow. I depend on you to accompany me to the Opera; and if you can, bring Château-Renaud with you.”
Beauchamp availed himself of Albert’s permission, and left him, promising to call for him at a quarter before eight. On his return home, Albert expressed his wish to Franz Debray, and Morrel, to see them at the Opera that evening. Then he went to see his mother, who since the events of the day before had refused to see anyone, and had kept her room. He found her in bed, overwhelmed with grief at this public humiliation.
The sight of Albert produced the effect which might naturally be expected on Mercédès; she pressed her son’s hand and sobbed aloud, but her tears relieved her. Albert stood one moment speechless by the side of his mother’s bed. It was evident from his pale face and knit brows that his resolution to revenge himself was growing weaker.
“My dear mother,” said he, “do you know if M. de Morcerf has any enemy?”
Mercédès started; she noticed that the young man did not say “my father.”
“My son,” she said, “persons in the count’s situation have many secret enemies. Those who are known are not the most dangerous.”
“I know it, and appeal to your penetration. You are of so superior a mind, nothing escapes you.”
“Why do you say so?”
“Because, for instance, you noticed on the evening of the ball we gave, that M. de Monte Cristo would eat nothing in our house.”
Mercédès raised herself on her feverish arm.
“M. de Monte Cristo!” she exclaimed; “and how is he connected with the question you asked me?”
“You know, mother, M. de Monte Cristo is almost an Oriental, and it is customary with the Orientals to secure full liberty for revenge by not eating or drinking in the houses of their enemies.”
“Do you say M. de Monte Cristo is our enemy?” replied Mercédès, becoming paler than the sheet which covered her. “Who told you so? Why, you are mad, Albert! M. de Monte Cristo has only shown us kindness. M. de Monte Cristo saved your life; you yourself presented him to us. Oh, I entreat you, my son, if you had entertained such an idea, dispel it; and my counsel to you—nay, my prayer—is to retain his friendship.”
“Mother,” replied the young man, “you have special reasons for telling me to conciliate that man.”
“I?” said Mercédès, blushing as rapidly as
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