The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (128 page)

‘Andrea?’

‘No, Bartolomeo, the father.’

‘Very well, Monsieur. I have only one more thing to ask you and I command you, in the name of honour, humanity and religion, to answer me without any attempt at concealment.’

‘Ask your question.’

‘Do you know for what purpose the Count of Monte Cristo bought a house in Auteuil?’

‘Indeed, I do; he told me.’

‘So, why?’

‘With the idea of turning it into an asylum for lunatics on the model of the one set up in Palermo by Baron de Pisani. Do you know that asylum?’

‘Only by reputation, Monsieur l’Abbé.’

‘It is a wonderful institution.’

At this, the abbé got up, like a man intimating to his visitor that he would not be sorry to resume his interrupted work. The other did the same, either because he understood what the abbé wanted or because he had run out of questions. The abbé accompanied him to the door.

‘You give generously in alms,’ the visitor said. ‘And, even though they say you are rich, I would like to offer you something for the poor. Would you accept my gift?’

‘Thank you, Monsieur, but I boast of only one thing in the world, which is that all the good I do comes from me alone.’

‘Yes… !’

‘My resolve is unwavering. But seek, Monsieur, and you will find: alas, every rich man has more than enough of poverty to pass by on his road through life!’

The abbé bowed once more as he opened the door, and the stranger returned the compliment and left. His carriage took him immediately to Monsieur de Villefort’s and, an hour later, it drove out again, this time towards the Rue Fontaine-Saint-Georges. It stopped by No. 5, which was the address of Lord Wilmore.

The stranger had written to Lord Wilmore to request a meeting, which had been fixed for ten o’clock. As the prefect of police’s envoy arrived at ten to ten, he was told that Lord Wilmore, who was the soul of punctuality, had not yet returned, but that he would do so on the stroke of ten.

The visitor waited in the drawing-room; there was nothing
remarkable about this room, which was like any other in furnished lodgings: a mantelpiece with two modern Sèvres vases, a clock with Cupid drawing his bow and a mirror, in two sections; engravings on each side of the mirror, one showing Homer carrying his guide, the other Belisarius
¹
begging alms; wallpaper, grey on grey; a sofa upholstered in red, and printed in black – this was Lord Wilmore’s drawing-room. It was lit by two lamps with shades of frosted glass that gave only a feeble light, as if deliberately designed not to strain the tired eyes of the prefect’s emissary.

After he had waited ten minutes, the clock struck ten and, on the fifth stroke, the door opened and Lord Wilmore appeared.

He was a man of more than average height, with thin, reddish side-whiskers, a pale complexion and greying blond hair. He was dressed with typically English eccentricity: that is to say, he wore a blue coat with gold buttons and high piqué collar, of the kind worn in 1811, with a waistcoat of white cashmere and nankeen breeches, three inches too short, restrained by straps under the feet from mounting up to his knees. His first words on entering were: ‘You know, Monsieur, that I do not speak French.’

‘I certainly know that you do not like to speak our language,’ the policeman said.

‘But you may speak it,’ Lord Wilmore continued. ‘For, though I do not speak, I can understand.’

‘And I speak English well enough,’ said the visitor, changing to that language, ‘for us to hold a conversation. So you may feel at ease, Monsieur.’

‘Haoh!’ Lord Wilmore exclaimed, with an intonation that only a pure-blooded Englishman can achieve.

The other man gave him his letter of introduction, which was perused with peculiarly British phlegm. Then, when he had finished, he said, in English: ‘Yes, I quite understand.’ So the visitor began his enquiries.

The questions were roughly the same as those that had been asked of Abbé Busoni; but since Lord Wilmore, an enemy of the Count of Monte Cristo, did not show the same discretion as the abbé, his answers were much fuller. He described the count’s youth, saying that as a boy of ten he had entered into the service of one of those Indian princelings who make war against the English: this is where he and Lord Wilmore met for the first time and fought one another. In the course of the war, Zaccone was taken prisoner, sent
to England and put in the hulks, from which he escaped by jumping into the water. This was the start of his journeys, his duels, his love affairs. When the Greeks rebelled, he fought for them against the Turks and, while in their service, discovered a silver mine in the mountains of Thessaly, about which he was careful to tell no one. When the Greek government was consolidated after the Battle of Navarino, he asked King Otto
²
for a licence to exploit the mine, which was granted. Hence the vast fortune which, according to Lord Wilmore, might yield an income of two million, but which would at the same time dry up overnight, if the mine itself were to do so.

‘But do you know why he has come to France?’ the visitor asked.

‘He wishes to speculate on the railways,’ said Lord Wilmore. ‘And, being a skilled chemist and no less distinguished physicist, he has invented a new form of telegraph which he is in process of developing.’

‘Roughly how much does he spend a year?’ the policeman asked.

‘Oh, five or six hundred thousand francs, at the most,’ said Lord Wilmore. ‘He is a miser.’

It was clear that the Englishman was inspired by hatred and, not finding anything else to say against the count, he reproached him with avarice.

‘Do you know anything about his house in Auteuil?’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘What?’

‘Do you mean, his reason for buying it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, the count is a speculator who will certainly ruin himself with experiments and wild dreams. He claims that in Auteuil, close to the house which he had just bought, there is a stream of mineral water which can rival those of Bagnères, Luchon and Cauterets. He wants to make his house into what the Germans call a
badhaus
, and has already dug over the whole of his garden two or three times to discover this famous spring. Since he has been able to find nothing, you will shortly see him buy all the houses around his own. Since there is no love lost between us, I hope that his railways, his electric telegraph and his mineral waters will ruin him. I shall enjoy his discomfiture, which is bound to arrive sooner or later.’

‘And why do you dislike him?’

‘Because once, when he was in England, he seduced the wife of one of my friends.’

‘So why not try to be revenged on him?’

‘I have already fought the count three times,’ the Englishman said. ‘The first time with pistols, the second with foils and the third with sabres.’

‘What was the result of these duels?’

‘The first time he broke my arm; the second, he ran me through the lung; and the third, he gave me this wound.’

The Englishman turned down the shirt-collar that reached up to his ears and revealed a scar, the redness of which showed that it must have been made recently.

‘So I greatly resent him,’ the Englishman said. ‘Naturally, he will die by no hand except mine.’

‘But it seems to me that you are doing nothing to kill him.’

‘Haoh!’ the Englishman said. ‘Every day I go to the shooting range, and every other day Grisier comes here.’

This was all that the visitor wished to know, or, rather, all that the Englishman appeared able to tell him. The agent got up and left, after taking leave of Lord Wilmore, who returned his bow with characteristically English stiffness and politeness.

For his part, Lord Wilmore, on hearing the street-door shut, went back into his bedroom and, in a trice, lost his blond hair, his red sideboards, his false jaw and his scar, to resume the black hair, dark colouring and pearly teeth of the Count of Monte Cristo.

And, as it happened, it was M. de Villefort himself, and not an emissary of the prefect of police, who returned to M. de Villefort’s house.

The crown prosecutor was a little easier in his mind after these two visits: he had not learnt anything reassuring from them, but neither had he learnt anything disturbing. As a result, for the first time since the dinner in Auteuil, he slept quite calmly the following night.

The hottest days of July had come when the calendar arrived at the Saturday appointed for M. de Morcerf’s ball. It was ten o’clock in the evening. The large trees in the count’s garden were sharply outlined against a sky across which drifted the last tufts of cloud from the storm that had been threatening all day, to reveal an azure field sprinkled with golden stars.

From the ground-floor rooms one could hear the blast of music and the swirling of the waltz and the gallop, while sharp bands of light shone out through the slats of the persian blinds. The garden, for the time being, was solely the province of a dozen or so servants, who had just been ordered to lay out the supper by their mistress, who was reassured at seeing the steady improvement in the weather. Until then, she had been unsure whether to eat in the dining-room or under a long canvas awning, set up above the lawn. But this lovely blue sky, full of stars, had now settled the issue in favour of the awning and the lawn.

The garden paths were lit by coloured lamps, as is the custom in Italy, and the supper table was laden with candles and flowers, as is the custom in all countries where they understand how to dress a table, which when properly done is the rarest of all luxuries.

Just as the Countess de Morcerf had given her last orders and was returning indoors, the drawing-rooms began to fill with guests, attracted more by the countess’s charming hospitality than by the distinguished position of the count. Everyone knew in advance that the party would supply them with some details which would either be worth relating or, in the event, copying, thanks to Mercédès’ good taste.

Mme Danglars had been so deeply disturbed by the events we have described that she was reluctant to attend; but that morning her carriage had crossed Villefort’s. The latter signalled to her, the two carriages pulled up alongside each other and the crown prosecutor said, through the window: ‘You are going to Madame de Morcerf’s, I suppose?’

‘No,’ answered Mme Danglars. ‘I’m not well enough.’

‘That is a mistake,’ Villefort said, with a significant look. ‘It is important for you to be seen there.’

‘Oh, do you think so?’ the baroness asked.

‘I do.’

‘Then I shall go.’

Then the two carriages had continued on their separate ways. However, Mme Danglars did come, looking beautiful not only with her own beauty, but dressed with dazzling extravagance. She was just coming in through one door when Mercédès entered by the other. The countess sent Albert to greet Mme Danglars, and he came forward, offered the baroness some well-deserved compliments on her dress and took her arm to lead her wherever she wanted to go. At the same time, he looked around.

‘Are you looking for my daughter?’ the baroness asked with a smile.

‘I confess I am. Surely you have not been so cruel as to leave her at home?’

‘Don’t worry. She met Mademoiselle de Villefort, who led her away. Look, they are there behind us, both in white dresses, one with a bouquet of camellias, the other with a bouquet of forget-me-nots… But tell me…’

‘And what are you looking for?’ Albert asked, smiling.

‘Will you not be having the Count of Monte Cristo this evening?’

‘Seventeen!’ Albert replied.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that all is well,’ said the viscount, laughing, ‘and that you are the seventeenth person to ask me the same question. He’s popular, the count! I must compliment him.’

‘And do you answer everyone in the same way?’

‘Ah! You’re quite right! I didn’t answer. Have no fear, Madame, we shall be privileged to receive the man of the moment.’

‘Were you at the opera yesterday?’

‘No.’

‘He was.’

‘Really? And did the eccentric signore do anything out of the ordinary?’

‘Can he appear in public otherwise? Elssler was dancing in
Le Diable boiteux
; the Greek princess was delighted. After the cachucha,
¹
he slipped a superb ring on the stems of a bouquet and threw it to the delightful ballerina, who reappeared in the third act with
the ring on her finger, as a tribute to him. Will his Greek princess be here?’

‘No, you must do without her. Her status in the count’s entourage is slightly ambiguous.’

‘Now, leave me, and go to pay your respects to Madame de Villefort,’ said the baroness. ‘I can see that she’s dying to speak to you.’

Albert bowed and went across to Mme de Villefort, whose mouth started to open even as he was approaching her.

‘I bet,’ he said, interrupting, ‘that I can guess what you’re going to say.’

‘Well, I never!’ said Mme de Villefort.

‘Will you admit it, if I’m right?’

‘Yes.’