The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (104 page)

‘That is because your Orientals are sensible folk who only look at something when it is worth looking at. But I can assure you that Ali is enjoying this popularity for no reason except that he belongs to you, because you are the man
à la mode
just now.’

‘Really? To what do I owe that distinction?’

‘To yourself – what else? You give away horseflesh to the value of a thousand
louis
, you save the life of the king’s prosecutor, you dub yourself Major Brack to race thoroughbreds ridden by jockeys no bigger than marmosets and, finally, you win gold cups and send them to beautiful women.’

‘Who the devil told you of all these follies?’

‘Why, the first comes from Madame Danglars, who is dying to see you in her box – or, rather, for people to see you there; the second I had from Beauchamp’s newspaper; and the third I worked out for myself. Why do you call your horse Vampa, if you wish to remain incognito?’

‘True, true!’ said the count. ‘That was unwise of me. But tell me, does the Comte de Morcerf never come to the opera? I looked around for him but could not find him anywhere.’

‘He will be here this evening.’

‘Where?’

‘In the baroness’s box, I think.’

‘And the enchanting young lady with her is her daughter?’

‘Yes.’

‘I compliment you.’

Morcerf smiled.

‘We must speak of that later, and at length,’ he said. ‘How do you find the music?’

‘What music?’

‘The music you have just heard.’

‘I think it’s very good for music composed by a human composer and sung by birds with two feet and no feathers, as the late Diogenes remarked.’

‘My dear Count, you speak as though you could, at will, call up the seven choirs of paradise.’

‘That’s more or less the case. When I want to listen to fine music, Vicomte, music such as mortal ear has never heard, I sleep.’

‘Well, this is the perfect place. Sleep away, my dear Count, sleep away. The Opera was designed for no other purpose.’

‘No, I can’t: your orchestra is making too much noise. For me to enjoy the kind of sleep I mean, I need calm and silence; and a particular kind of preparation…’

‘Ah, the famous hashish?’

‘Precisely. Viscount, when you want to hear some music, come and take supper with me.’

‘But I have already heard it at lunch,’ said Morcerf.

‘In Rome?’

‘Yes.’

‘Of course! That was Haydée’s
guzla
. The poor exile sometimes amuses herself by playing me some of her native airs.’

Morcerf did not press the matter, and the count, for his part, fell silent. At that moment the bell rang.

‘Will you excuse me?’ said the count, going back towards his box.

‘What?’

‘My best wishes to Countess G—from her vampire.’

‘And the baroness?’

‘Tell her that I should be honoured, if she would allow me to present my compliments to her in the course of the evening.’

The third act began. During it, the Comte de Morcerf came, as he had promised, to join Mme Danglars. Morcerf was not one of
those people who cause a commotion in the auditorium, so no one noticed his arrival except the others in the box where he took his seat. However, Monte Cristo saw him, and a hint of a smile hovered on his lips. As for Haydée, she saw nothing from the moment when the curtain rose. Like all primitive natures, she adored everything that appealed to her eyes and her ears.

The third act followed its usual course. Mlles Noblet, Julia and Leroux
¹
executed their accustomed entrechats; the Prince of Grenada was challenged by Robert-Mario; and finally the magnificent king (already familiar to you) strode round the theatre showing off his velvet cloak and leading his daughter by the hand. Then the curtain fell, and the audience immediately repaired to the foyer and the corridors.

The count came out of his box and a moment later appeared in that of Baroness Danglars. The baroness could not restrain a cry of surprise, in which there was a hint of joy.

‘Come in, Count, come in!’ she exclaimed. ‘I have been anxious to add my verbal thanks to those I had already conveyed to you in writing.’

‘Oh, Madame,’ said the count, ‘do you still remember that trifle? I had forgotten it.’

‘Perhaps, but what cannot be forgotten, Monsieur le Comte, is that the very next day you saved my good friend Madame de Villefort from the danger she was in with those same horses.’

‘Once again, Madame, I do not deserve your thanks. It was my Nubian servant, Ali, who was fortunate enough to be able to perform this service for Madame de Villefort.’

‘Was it also Ali,’ asked the Comte de Morcerf, ‘who rescued my son from the Roman bandits?’

‘No, Count,’ said Monte Cristo, shaking the hand that the general offered him. ‘No, this time I will take the thanks for myself. But you had already offered them, I had received them and, in truth, I am embarrassed to find you still so grateful. Please do me the honour, Madame la Baronne, of introducing me to your daughter.’

‘You are already introduced, at least in name, for we have spoken of nothing except you over the past two or three days. Eugénie,’ the baroness went on, turning to her daughter, ‘the Count of Monte Cristo!’

The count bowed and Mlle Danglars gave a slight nod of the head.

‘You are accompanied by a splendid young woman, Monsieur le Comte,’ said Eugénie. ‘Is she your daughter?’

‘No, Mademoiselle,’ Monte Cristo replied, astonished at what was either great naïvety or amazing insolence. ‘She is a poor Greek; I am her guardian.’

‘And her name?’

‘Haydée,’ Monte Cristo replied.

‘A Greek!’ the Comte de Morcerf muttered.

‘Yes, Count,’ said Mme Danglars. ‘But tell me if you have ever seen in the court of Ali Tebelin,
²
at which you served with such distinction, as admirable a costume as that.’

‘Ah!’ said Monte Cristo. ‘You served in Janina, Count?’

‘I was inspector-general to the pasha’s troops,’ Morcerf replied. ‘I do not disguise the fact that I owe my fortune, such as it is, to the generosity of the illustrious Albanian leader.’

‘Look at that!’ Mme Danglars urged.

‘At what?’ muttered Morcerf.

‘Well, well!’ said Monte Cristo, wrapping his arm round the count and leaning out of the box.

At that moment Haydée, who had been looking around for the count, saw his pale features beside those of M. de Morcerf, whom he was clasping. The sight produced the same effect as a Medusa on the girl. She started forward as if to devour both of them with her eyes, then, almost immediately, leapt back with a weak cry – which was, however, heard by those closest to her and by Ali, who at once opened the door.

‘Well, I never!’ said Eugénie. ‘What has just happened to your ward, Monsieur le Comte? She seems to be feeling ill.’

‘Yes, she does,’ said the count. ‘But don’t worry. Haydée is very nervous and consequently very sensitive to smells. A perfume that she does not like is enough to make her faint. However,’ he added, taking a medicine bottle out of his pocket, ‘I have the remedy here.’

Then he saluted the baroness and her daughter with a single bow, shook hands one final time with Morcerf and Debray, and left Mme Danglars’ box. When he reached his own, Haydée was still very pale. No sooner did he appear than she grasped his hand and said: ‘To whom were you talking, my Lord?’

‘The Comte de Morcerf,’ Monte Cristo replied, ‘who served under your illustrious father and admits owing him his fortune.’

‘The miserable wretch!’ Haydée cried. ‘He it was who sold him to the Turks and the fortune was the price of his treachery. My dear master, did you not know that?’

‘I did hear some talk of this story in Epirus,’ said Monte Cristo, ‘but I am not familiar with the details. Come, child, you will tell me. It must be a curious tale.’

‘Oh, yes, come with me, and I shall. I think I shall die if I stay any longer facing that man.’

Haydée leapt to her feet, wrapped herself in her white cashmere burnous embroidered with pearls and corals, and ran out just as the curtain was rising.

‘Look at that man: he does nothing like anyone else!’ Countess G—told Albert, who had gone back to her box. ‘He sits religiously all the way through the third act of
Robert le Diable
, then leaves just as the fourth act is about to begin.’

A few days after this encounter, Albert de Morcerf visited the Count of Monte Cristo in his house on the Champs-Elysées; it had already taken on the palatial appearance that the count, thanks to his vast fortune, gave to even the most temporary accommodation. Morcerf had come to reiterate Mme Danglars’ thanks, already conveyed in a letter signed ‘Baroness Danglars, née Herminie de Servieux’.

Albert was accompanied by Lucien Debray, who added to his friend’s words some compliments that were no doubt not official – though, with his sharp instincts, the count could be quite sure of their source. It even appeared that Lucien had come to see him partly out of a feeling of curiosity, half of which came from the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin. Indeed, he might safely have guessed that Mme Danglars, being unable to use her own eyes to explore the interior of the home of a man who gave away horses worth thirty thousand francs and who went to the opera with a Greek slave wearing a million francs’ worth of diamonds, had instructed the eyes through which she was accustomed to see such things to inform her about this interior. But the count gave no sign of
suspecting that there was any connection between Lucien’s visit and the baroness’s curiosity.

‘Are you in almost continual contact with Baron Danglars?’ he asked Albert de Morcerf.

‘Yes, Monsieur le Comte. You know what I told you.’

‘It still applies?’

‘More than ever,’ said Lucien. ‘The matter is settled.’

Whereupon Lucien, doubtless judging that this word thrown into the conversation gave him the right to retire from it, put his tortoiseshell monocle into one eye, chewed the gold pommel of his cane and began to walk round the room, looking at the shields and the pictures.

‘Ah,’ said Monte Cristo, ‘listening to you, I should not have believed in such a rapid solution.’

‘What do you expect? Things proceed in ways that one does not suspect. While you are not thinking about them, they are thinking about you and, when you turn round, you are surprised at the distance they have covered. My father and Monsieur Danglars served together in Spain, my father in the army, Monsieur Danglars in supplies. My father was ruined by the Revolution, and Monsieur Danglars had never had any inheritance, so that is where both of them laid the foundations – in my father’s case of his fine political and military career, and in Monsieur Danglars’ of his admirable political and financial one.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said the count. ‘I think that, during the visit I paid him, Monsieur Danglars spoke to me of that. And,’ he continued, glancing at Lucien, who was leafing through an album, ‘Mademoiselle Eugénie is pretty, isn’t she? I seem to remember her name is Eugénie.’

‘Very pretty; or, rather, very beautiful,’ Albert replied. ‘But it is a type of beauty that does not appeal to me. I am not worthy of her!’

‘You already speak as if you were her husband!’

‘Oh!’ said Albert, looking around in his turn to see what Lucien was doing.

‘Do you know…’ Monte Cristo said, lowering his voice, ‘you don’t seem to me very enthusiastic about this marriage.’

‘Mademoiselle Danglars is too rich for me,’ Morcerf said. ‘It scares me.’

‘Huh!’ Monte Cristo exclaimed. ‘That’s no reason. Aren’t you rich yourself?’

‘My father has an income of something like fifty thousand
livres
and he might give me ten or twelve, perhaps, when I marry.’

‘I admit, that is a modest sum,’ said the count, ‘especially in Paris. But money is not everything in this world, and a fine name and good social standing count for something, too. Your name is famous, your position is magnificent; and, in addition to that, the Comte de Morcerf is a soldier and it is a pleasure to see the integrity of Bayard allied to the poverty of Du Guesclin. Disinterestedness is the finest ray that can shine from a noble sword. I must say that, on the contrary, I find this match as appropriate as may be: Mademoiselle Danglars will enrich you and you will ennoble her!’

Albert shook his head and remained thoughtful. ‘There is something more,’ he said.

‘I admit,’ Monte Cristo continued, ‘that I find it hard to understand your repugnance for a rich and beautiful young girl.’

‘Oh, good Lord!’ said Morcerf. ‘The repugnance, if there is any, does not only come from me.’

‘From whom, then? You told me that your father was in favour of the marriage.’

‘From my mother, and she has a prudent and unfailing eye. Well, she does not favour the match. I don’t know what she has against the Danglars.’

‘It’s understandable,’ said the count, in a slightly unnatural voice. ‘The countess, who is the epitome of distinction, aristocracy and good taste, might have misgivings about embracing a family that is low-born, coarse and ignoble. It’s only natural.’