The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (192 page)

‘Obviously,’ he thought, ‘I have some powerful protector. Everything goes to prove it: my sudden fortune, the ease with which I overcame every obstacle, a ready-made family, an illustrious name which was mine to use, the gold showered upon me, the splendid matches offered to satisfy my ambition. My good luck
unfortunately failed me and my protector was away, so I was lost, but not entirely, not for ever! The hand was withdrawn for a moment, but it must now reach out to me again and catch me just as I feel myself about to fall into the abyss.

‘Why should I risk doing something unwise? Perhaps I would alienate my protector. There are two ways to get out of this spot: a mysterious escape, expensively paid for, or pressure on the judges to dismiss the case. Let’s wait before speaking or acting, until it is proved that I have been utterly abandoned, then…’

Andrea had worked out a plan which some might consider clever; the rascal was bold in attack and tough in defence. He had put up with the wretchedness of prison and every form of deprivation. But, little by little, nature (or, rather, habit) regained the upper hand. He was suffering from being naked, dirty and hungry, and time was hanging heavy on his hands. It was when he had reached this point of boredom that the inspector called him to the visitors’ room.

Andrea felt his heart leap with joy. It was too early for a visit from the investigating magistrate and too late for a call from the prison director or the doctor. It must therefore be the visit he was expecting.

He was introduced into the visiting-room. There, behind the grille, his eyes wide with hungry curiosity, he saw the dark and intelligent face of M. Bertuccio, who was also looking, though with painful astonishment, at the iron bars, the bolted doors and the shadow moving behind the iron lattice.

‘Ah!’ Andrea exclaimed, deeply touched.

‘Good day, Benedetto,’ Bertuccio said, in his resounding, hollow voice.

‘You!’ the young man exclaimed, looking around in terror. ‘You!’

‘You don’t recognize me,’ said Bertuccio. ‘Wretched child!’

‘Be quiet!’ said Andrea, knowing that these walls had very sharp ears. ‘Do be quiet! My God, don’t talk so loudly!’

‘You would like to speak to me, wouldn’t you?’ said Bertuccio. ‘A tête-à-tête?’

‘Yes, certainly,’ said Andrea.

‘Very well.’ After feeling around in his pocket, Bertuccio motioned to a warder who could be seen in his box behind a glass screen. ‘Read this,’ he said.

‘What is it?’ Andrea asked.

‘An order to take you into a room, to leave you there, and to let me converse with you.’

‘Oh!’ Andrea said, leaping for joy. And immediately, in his inner thoughts, he told himself: ‘Once more, my unknown protector! I have not been forgotten! He is trying to keep it quiet because we are to talk alone in a room. I’ve got them! Bertuccio has been sent by my protector.’

The warder briefly consulted his superior, then opened the two barred doors and led Andrea, beside himself with joy, to a room on the first floor with a view over the courtyard.

The room was whitewashed, as prison rooms usually are. It had a pleasant appearance, which seemed delightful to the prisoner: a stove, a bed, a chair and a table made up its luxurious furnishings.

Bertuccio sat down on the chair; Andrea threw himself on the bed. The warder left the room.

‘Now, then,’ said the steward. ‘What have you to say to me?’

‘And you?’

‘You speak first…’

‘Oh, no. You have a lot to tell me, since you came to find me.’

‘Very well. You have continued to pursue your criminal career: you have stolen, you have committed murder…’

‘Pooh! If it was to tell me that that you had me brought to a private room, you might have saved yourself some time. I know all those things; but there are others that I do not know. Let’s start with those, if you don’t mind. Who sent you?’

‘Oh! You’re going very fast, Monsieur Benedetto.’

‘I am, and straight to the point. Let’s not waste words. Who sent you?’

‘No one.’

‘How did you know that I was in prison?’

‘I recognized you a long time ago in the insolent dandy who was so elegantly driving his horse down the Champs-Elysées.’

‘The Champs-Elysées! Ah, we’re getting warm, as they say in hunt the slipper. The Champs-Elysées… So, let’s talk about my father, shall we?’

‘Who am I, then?’

‘You, my good sir, are my adoptive father. But I don’t suppose it was you who put at my disposal some hundred thousand francs, which I spent in four or five months. I don’t suppose it was you
who forged an Italian father for me – and a nobleman. I don’t suppose you were the one who introduced me to society and invited me to a certain dinner, which I can still taste, in Auteuil, with the best company in Paris, including a certain crown prosecutor whose acquaintance I was mistaken not to cultivate; he could be useful to me at this moment. In short, you are not the one who stood guarantor for me for two million when I suffered the fatal accident of the revelation of the truth. Come, my fine Corsican, say something…’

‘What can I say?’

‘I’ll help you. You were talking about the Champs-Elysées just now, my dear adoptive father.’

‘Well?’

‘Well, in the Champs-Elysées lives a rich, a very rich man.’

‘You committed burglary and murder at his house?’

‘I do believe I did.’

‘The Count of Monte Cristo?’

‘You were the one who mentioned him, as Monsieur Racine says.
⁴
Well, should I throw myself into his arms, press him to my heart and cry: “Father, father!!” as Monsieur Pixérécourt does?’

‘Don’t joke,’ Bertuccio answered. ‘Such a name should not be spoken here in the tone in which you dare to speak it.’

‘Huh!’ said Andrea, a little stunned by the gravity of Bertuccio’s demeanour. ‘Why not?’

‘Because the man who bears that name is too favoured by heaven to be the father of a wretch like yourself.’

‘Fine words!’

‘With fine consequences, if you are not careful.’

‘Threats! I’m not afraid of them… I’ll say…’

‘Do you imagine you are dealing with pygmies like yourself?’ Bertuccio said, so calmly and with such a confident look that Andrea was shaken to the core. ‘Do you imagine you are dealing with one of your ordinary convicts or your weak-minded society gulls? Benedetto, you are in dreadful hands. These hands are ready to open for you: take advantage of it. But don’t play with the lightning that they may put down for a moment but will pick up again if you try to hamper their freedom of movement.’

‘My father! I want to know who my father is,’ Andrea said obstinately. ‘I’ll die in the attempt if I must, but I will find out.
What does a scandal mean to me? Good, reputation, “publicity”, as Beauchamp the journalist says. But the rest of you, who belong to society, always have something to lose by scandal, for all your millions and your coats of arms… So, who is my father?’

‘I have come to tell you.’

‘Ah!’ Benedetto cried, his eyes shining.

At that moment the door opened and the keeper said to Bertuccio: ‘Excuse me, Monsieur, but the investigating magistrate is waiting for the prisoner.’

‘That’s the end of the enquiry into my case,’ Andrea told the good steward. ‘Damn him for disturbing us.’

‘I’ll come back tomorrow,’ said Bertuccio.

‘Very well,’ Andrea replied. ‘Gentlemen of the watch, I am all yours. Oh, my good sir, please leave the guard ten
écus
or so, for them to give me what I need in here.’

‘It will be done,’ Bertuccio replied.

Andrea offered his hand. Bertuccio kept his in his pocket and merely jingled a few coins with it.

‘That’s what I meant,’ Andrea said, forcing a smile, but in fact quite overwhelmed by Bertuccio’s calm manner.

‘Could I have been wrong?’ he wondered, getting into the oblong vehicle with its barred windows, which is called the Black Maria. ‘We’ll see! So, until tomorrow,’ he added, turning to Bertuccio.

‘Until tomorrow!’ said the steward.

It will be recalled that Abbé Busoni had remained alone with Noirtier in the funerary chamber and that it was the old man and the priest who had taken on the task of watching over the young girl’s body.

Perhaps the abbé’s Christian exhortations, or his gentle charity, or his winning words had restored the old man’s courage because, as soon as he had the opportunity to confer with the priest, instead of the despair that had at first overwhelmed him, everything in Noirtier spoke of great resignation; and this calm was all the more
surprising to those who remembered the deep affection that he felt for Valentine.

M. de Villefort had not seen the old man since the morning of her death. The whole household had been renewed: another valet was hired for himself, another servant for Noirtier; two women had come into Mme de Villefort’s service; and all of them, right down to the concierge and the chauffeur, provided new faces which had, so to speak, risen up between the different masters in this accursed household and interposed themselves in the already quite cold relationships between them. In any case, the assizes opened in three days and Villefort, shut up in his study, was feverishly working on the indictment against Caderousse’s murderer. This affair, like all those in which the Count of Monte Cristo was involved, had caused a great stir in Paris. The evidence was not conclusive, since it relied on a few words written by a dying convict, a former fellow-inmate of the man he was accusing, who might be acting out of hatred or for revenge. The magistrate was morally certain, but nothing more. The crown prosecutor had eventually succeeded in acquiring for himself the dreadful certainty that Benedetto was guilty, and this difficult victory was to reward him with one of those satisfactions to his vanity which were the only pleasures that still touched the fibres of his icy heart.

So the trial opened, thanks to Villefort’s unending work. He wanted to make it the first case to be heard at the next assizes, so he had been obliged to hide himself away even more than usual in order to avoid answering the huge number of demands for tickets to the hearing that were addressed to him.

Moreover, so little time had passed since poor Valentine had been laid to rest. The family’s grief was still so recent that no one was surprised to see the father so totally absorbed in his duties, that is to say in the only thing that might take his mind off his sorrow.

Only once, the day after Benedetto had received a second visit from Bertuccio, the one when he was to tell him the name of his father, in fact the day after that, which was Sunday – only once, as we say, did Villefort notice his father. This was at a moment when the magistrate, overcome with tiredness, had gone down into the garden of his house and, dark, bent beneath some implacable thought, like Tarquin
¹
cutting the heads off the tallest poppies with his cane, M. de Villefort was knocking down the long, dying stems
of the hollyhocks that rose on either side of the path like the ghosts of those flowers that had been so brilliant in the season that had just passed away.

He had already more than once reached the end of the garden, that is to say the famous gate overlooking the abandoned field, from which he would always return by the same path, resuming his walk at the same pace and repeating the same gestures, when he looked up, mechanically, towards the house, where he could hear his son playing noisily. The boy had come home from boarding school to spend Sunday and Monday with his mother.

At that moment, he saw M. Noirtier at one of the open windows. The old man had had his chair brought up to that window to enjoy the last rays of the still warm sun as it came to bid farewell to the dying convolvulus flowers and the reddened leaves of the vines entwined around the balcony.

The old man’s eye was fixed as it were on a point which Villefort could only imperfectly distinguish. His look was so full of hatred and savagery, and burned with such impatience, that the crown prosecutor, accustomed to interpreting every nuance of the features that he knew so well, stepped aside from his route to see who could have attracted such a powerful look.

Under a group of lime-trees, almost entirely bare of leaves, he saw Mme de Villefort, sitting with a book in her hand and looking up from her reading at intervals to smile at her son or to throw back the rubber ball which he insisted on throwing from the drawing-room into the garden.

Villefort paled, knowing what the old man wanted.

Noirtier was still looking at the same spot, but his eyes often turned from the wife to the husband, and then Villefort himself had to suffer the onslaught of those devastating eyes which, as they switched from one object to another, also changed in meaning, though without losing any of their threatening expression.

Mme de Villefort, quite unaware of these passions beamed back and forth above her head, was at that moment holding her son’s ball and motioning him to come and fetch it with a kiss; but Edouard took a lot of persuading: a kiss from his mother probably seemed insufficient reward for the trouble he would have to take. Finally he made up his mind, jumped out of the window into a bed of asters and heliotropes and ran over to Mme de Villefort, his forehead bathed in sweat. Mme de Villefort wiped it dry, put her
lips to the damp ivory and sent the child off with his ball in one hand and sweets in the other.