The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (190 page)

‘Thank you, Monsieur,’ the baroness replied. ‘Thank you; but you will appreciate that what you have given me here is far more than could be required by a poor woman who does not envisage reappearing in society, at least for a long time hence.’

For a moment Debray was astonished, but he recovered and made a gesture that might most politely be interpreted as: ‘Do as you please.’

Up to then, Mme Danglars had perhaps continued to hope for something, but when she saw the casual gesture that Debray had just unconsciously made, and the sidelong glance that accompanied it, as well as the deep bow and significant silence that followed them, she raised her head, opened the door and, with no outburst of anger or nerves, but also without hesitation, she swept down the stairs, not even deigning to address a nod of farewell to the man who was allowing her to leave in this manner.

‘Pooh!’ Debray said, when she had gone. ‘Fine plans! She will stay in her house, read novels and play lansquenet, since she cannot play on the Exchange any longer.’ And he took up his notebook, carefully crossing out the amounts he had just paid.

‘I have one million sixty thousand francs left,’ he said. ‘What a pity Mademoiselle de Villefort is dead! There’s a woman who would have suited me in every respect; I should have married her.’

Phlegmatically, as usual, he waited for twenty minutes after Mme Danglars’ departure before leaving himself. During these twenty minutes, he did his accounts, with his watch on the table beside him.

Asmodée, that diabolical personage whom any adventurous imagination might have created with a greater or lesser degree of felicity, had Le Sage
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not already established priority with his masterpiece, Asmodée, then, who lifted the roofs off houses in order to see inside, would have enjoyed a remarkable scene if, at the moment when Debray was doing his accounts, he had raised the top of the little boarding-house in the Rue Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

Above the room in which Debray had just shared out two and a half million francs with Mme Danglars, there was another room, also occupied by people we know, people who played an important enough role in the events which have just been described for us to take a continuing interest in them.

In this room were Mercédès and Albert.

Mercédès had changed a great deal in the past few days. It was not that, even at the time of her greatest wealth, she had ever displayed the proud luxury that visibly marks a person out from other ranks in society and means that one can no longer recognize her when she appears in more simple attire; nor was it that she had fallen into that state of depression where one is driven to wear an outward appearance of misery. No, Mercédès had changed because her eyes no longer shone, her mouth no longer smiled and a perpetual sense of constraint froze on her lips the quick retort formerly thrown up by an ever-ready wit.

It was not poverty that had withered Mercédès’ intelligence or lack of courage that made her poverty burdensome to her.

Stepping down from the sphere in which she had lived, lost in the new sphere which she had chosen for herself, Mercédès was like those people who suddenly emerge out of a splendidly illuminated salon into darkness. She seemed like a queen who had left her palace for a cottage and who, reduced to the absolute essentials, cannot recognize herself either in the earthenware dishes that she is obliged to carry to the table in her own hands, or in the straw mattress that has replaced her feather bed.

Neither the beautiful Catalan nor the noble countess had preserved her proud look or her charming smile, because when her eyes rested on what was around her the only objects they met were distressing: the room was papered in one of those grey-on-grey papers that thrifty landlords choose because they show the dirt least; there was no carpet on the floor, and the furniture attracted attention, obliging one to contemplate the poverty in affected luxury; in short, these were all things that clashed and were liable to upset eyes accustomed to harmony and elegance.

Mme de Morcerf had been living here ever since she had left the family mansion. She found the silence dizzying, like a traveller reaching the edge of a precipice. Noticing that Albert was constantly looking at her surreptitiously to judge her state of mind, she had forced herself to wear an unchanging smile on her lips which, since it was not accompanied by that gentle glow of a smile in the eyes, produced the same effect as simple luminescence, that is to say light without warmth.

Albert, for his part, was preoccupied, ill at ease, embarrassed by the remnants of a lifestyle that prevented him from belonging to
his present state. He wanted to go out without gloves, and considered his hands too white. He wanted to walk everywhere and thought his boots were too well-polished.

However, these two noble and intelligent creatures, indissolubly linked by ties of maternal and filial love, could understand one another without speaking and economize on all the niceties required between friends to accept the material truth on which life depends. At last, Albert was able to say to his mother, without frightening her: ‘Mother, we have no money left.’

Mercédès had never really known destitution. Often, in her youth, she had herself spoken of poverty, but that is not the same thing: ‘need’ and ‘necessity’ are synonyms, but there is a world of difference between them.

In the Catalan village, Mercédès had needed for many things, but she never went without certain others. As long as the nets were in good repair, they caught fish; as long as the fish were sold, they had rope to repair the nets. And then, isolated from friendship, only having a love that had nothing to do with the material details of the situation, one thought of oneself, each for oneself, only oneself.

From the little that she had, Mercédès used to make her share as generously as possible. Now she had two shares to make, and from nothing.

Winter was coming on. Mercédès, in this bare room, already cold, had no fire – though once she had had a boiler which had heated the whole house from the halls to the bedrooms; she did not even have one miserable little flower, though her rooms had once been a hothouse which cost a king’s ransom to furnish with plants. But she did have her son…

Up to then, the joy of fulfilling, perhaps over-fulfilling, their duty had kept them in a state of exultation. Such a state is close to enthusiasm and that makes one insensible to the things of this earth. But their enthusiasm had died down, and they had had gradually to return from the land of dreams to the world of reality.

When the ideal was exhausted, they had to talk of practicalities.

‘Mother,’ Albert said, just as Mme Danglars was coming down the stairs, ‘let’s just count all our wealth, if you don’t mind. I need a total on which to build my plans.’

‘Total: nothing,’ Mercédès said with a pained smile.

‘On the contrary, mother, total: three thousand francs, first of
all, and then I intend with those three thousand francs to give us a truly delightful life.’

‘My child!’ Mercédès sighed.

‘Alas, my dear mother,’ the young man said, ‘I have unfortunately spent enough of your money to know its worth. You see, now, three thousand francs is a vast sum: I have built a miraculous future on it, one of everlasting security.’

‘You say that, my dear,’ the poor mother said, blushing, ‘but can we even accept these three thousand francs?’

‘I think it’s agreed we can,’ said Albert in a firm voice. ‘We accept them all the more readily since we do not have them, for as you know they are buried in the garden of the little house in the Allées de Meilhan, in Marseille. With two hundred francs,’ he continued, ‘we shall both go to Marseille.’

‘For two hundred francs!’ said Mercédès. ‘Do you really think that, Albert?’

‘Oh, I’m absolutely sure of it. I’ve enquired about coaches and steamships and done my sums. You hire your seats in the coach for Chalon: you see, mother, I’m treating you like a queen; that’s thirty-five francs…’

He took a pen and wrote:

‘Let’s say one hundred and twenty,’ Albert said, with a smile. ‘See how generous I am, mother?’

‘But what about you, my poor boy?’

‘Me! Don’t you see that I’ve left eighty francs for myself? A young man does not need a good deal of comfort. In any case, I know what it means to travel.’

‘With your post-chaise and your valet.’

‘However it may be, I know, mother.’

‘Very well,’ said Mercédès. ‘But the two hundred francs?’

‘Here they are, and another two hundred. I sold my watch for a hundred francs and the chain and trimmings for three hundred.
Isn’t that splendid: a watch-chain worth three times as much as the watch! A matter of sheer excess again. So we are rich since, instead of the hundred and fourteen francs you needed for the journey, you now have two hundred and fifty.’

‘But do we owe something for our rent here?’

‘Thirty francs, which I can take out of my hundred and fifty. So it’s agreed. And, since I only need eighty francs myself for the journey, if it comes down to it, you can see we’re in the lap of luxury. But that’s not all; what do you say to this, mother?’

And, out of a little wallet with a gold lock – the remnant of some past self-indulgence or perhaps a tender souvenir of one of those mysterious, veiled women who used to knock at the little door – Albert took a thousand-franc note.

‘What is that?’ Mercédès asked.

‘A thousand francs, mother. Oh, it’s perfectly in order.’

‘But where did it come from?’

‘Now listen to me, mother, and don’t get too excited.’ Albert stood up, went over to kiss his mother on both cheeks, then paused to look at her.

‘You have no idea, mother, how beautiful I think you are!’ he said, with profound feelings of filial love. ‘You really are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and the most noble.’

‘Dear child!’ Mercédès said, trying unsuccessfully to hold back the tears that were forming in the corners of her eyes.

‘I do think that you needed only to be unhappy for my love to change to adoration.’

‘I am not unhappy while I have my son,’ Mercédès said. ‘I never shall be, as long as I have him.’

‘Oh, yes, now,’ said Albert. ‘That’s where the trying times will begin. You know what is agreed?’

‘Have we agreed something?’ Mercédès asked.

‘Yes, it is agreed that you will live in Marseille and I shall leave for Africa. There, instead of the name I have given up, I shall make for myself the name I have adopted.’

Mercédès sighed.

‘Well, mother, yesterday I enrolled in the spahis,’ the young man said, lowering his eyes with some feeling of shame, not realizing how sublime his humiliation was. ‘Or, rather, I thought that my body was mine and that I could sell it; since yesterday I have replaced someone. I have sold myself, as they say, and…’ he
added, forcing a smile, ‘dearer than I ever expected, that is to say for two thousand francs.’

‘So this thousand francs?’ Mercédès said, shuddering.

‘Half of the amount, mother; the rest in a year’s time.’

Mercédès raised her eyes heavenwards with an expression beyond the power of any artist to depict. Her inner feelings overflowed and the two tears poised on the rim of her eyelids ran silently down her cheeks. ‘The price of his blood,’ she murmured.

‘Yes, if I should be killed,’ said Morcerf, with a laugh. ‘But I assure you, dear mother, that I have every intention of defending myself savagely. I have never felt such a strong desire to live.’

‘My God, my God!’ Mercédès said.

‘Anyway, mother, why should I be killed? Was Lamoricière killed, that second Ney from the south? Was Changarnier killed? Or Bedeau?
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Has our friend Morrel been killed? Just think how pleased you will be when you see me come home in my uniform with the braid on it! I do assure you, I intend to look quite magnificent in it; I only chose that regiment for the sake of the uniform.’

Mercédès sighed, while attempting to smile. The saintly woman realized that it was wrong for her to let her son bear all the weight of their sacrifice.

‘So, you see, mother,’ Albert said, ‘you are already guaranteed more than four thousand francs. With that you can live for at least two years.’

‘Do you think so?’ said Mercédès.

The words had slipped out, and the pain behind them was so real that Albert could not help grasping their real meaning. He felt a lump in his throat and, taking his mother’s hand, clasped it tenderly in his and said: ‘Oh, yes, you shall live!’