The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (58 page)

‘Yes,’ Franz remarked. ‘You mean for the three when it is quite indispensable.’

‘What is it?’ asked Albert, coming in. ‘No barouche?’

‘Exactly, my dear friend,’ Franz replied. ‘You’ve got it in one.’

‘Well, a fine city it is, your Eternal City.’

‘By which I mean, Excellency,’ Signor Pastrini continued, wishing the visitors to retain some modicum of respect for the capital of the Christian world, ‘I mean that there will be no carriage from Sunday morning to Tuesday evening, but that between now and then you can find fifty if you so wish.’

‘Ah! That’s something anyway,’ said Albert. ‘Today is Thursday. Who knows what may happen between now and Sunday.’

‘Ten or twelve thousand travellers are what will happen,’ Franz replied, ‘aggravating the problem.’

‘My friend,’ Morcerf said, ‘let’s enjoy the present and not let it cloud the future.’

‘At least we shall be able to have a window?’ said Franz.

‘A window, where?’

‘Lord love us! Overlooking the Corso.’

‘Ah, yes! A window!’ exclaimed Signor Pastrini. ‘Impossible! Completely impossible! There was one remaining on the fifth floor of the Palazzo Doria, but it was rented to a Russian prince for twenty sequins a day.’

The two young men looked at one another in amazement.

‘Damnation, my dear Albert,’ Franz said. ‘Do you know what we should do? We should go and celebrate the carnival in Venice. At least there, if we don’t find a carriage, we’ll find a gondola.’

‘No, no, no!’ Albert cried. ‘My mind is set on seeing the carnival in Rome and here I shall see it, even if I have to use stilts.’

‘Ah, now!’ Franz said. ‘That’s a brilliant idea, especially for putting out moccoletti;
¹
we’ll dress up as vampire polichinelli or else as peasants from the Landes. We’ll be a roaring success.’

‘Do Your Excellencies still wish to have a carriage until Sunday?’

‘Yes, dammit!’ said Albert. ‘Do you expect us to go running round the streets of Rome on foot, like bailiff’s clerks?’

‘I shall hasten to carry out Your Excellencies’ orders,’ said Signor Pastrini. ‘But I must warn you that the carriage will cost six
piastres
a day.’

‘And I, dear Signor Pastrini,’ said Franz, ‘since I am not our neighbour the millionaire, I must warn you that this is my fourth visit to Rome, and consequently I know the price of a barouche on weekdays, Sundays and holidays. We shall give you twelve
piastres
for today, tomorrow and the day after, and you will still have a very handsome bonus.’

‘But, Excellency!’ said Signor Pastrini, trying to protest.

‘Come, my dear fellow, come,’ said Franz, ‘or else I’ll go myself and bargain with your
affettatore
,
²
who also happens to be mine. We are old friends, he has already stolen quite a bit of money from me in his time and, in the hope of stealing some more, will accept an even lower price than the one I am offering you: so you will lose the difference and it will be your own fault.’

‘Do not put yourself to so much trouble, Excellency,’ said Signor Pastrini, with the smile of an Italian speculator admitting defeat. ‘I shall do my best and I hope that it will be to your satisfaction.’

‘Completely! Now we’re talking.’

‘When would you like the carriage?’

‘In an hour.’

‘In one hour it will be at the door.’

And, indeed, an hour later the carriage was waiting for the two young men: it was a simple cab which, in view of the solemnity of the occasion, had been elevated to the rank of barouche. But, despite its unassuming appearance, the two men would have been very pleased to have such a vehicle for the last three days of carnival.

‘Excellency!’ the guide cried, seeing Franz looking out of the window. ‘Should we bring the coach to the palace door?’

Even though Franz was accustomed to Italian exaggeration, his first impulse was to look around; but the words were indeed addressed to him. He, Franz, was the Excellency; the hackney cab was the coach; and the palace was the Hôtel de Londres. In that single phrase was contained the whole genius of a nation that knows how to turn a compliment better than any other.

Franz and Albert went out, the coach drove up to the palace, Their Excellencies arranged themselves across the seats and the guide jumped up behind. ‘Where do Their Excellencies wish to be driven?’

‘First of all to Saint Peter’s, of course, then to the Colosseum,’ said Albert, like a true Parisian. However, there was one thing that Albert did not know, which is that you need a day to see St Peter’s and a month to study it. The day was consequently spent solely in visiting St Peter’s.

Suddenly the two friends noticed that the sun was starting to go down. Franz took out his watch: it was half-past four, so they immediately set off back to the hotel. At the door, Franz ordered the driver to be ready at eight. He wanted to show Albert the Colosseum by moonlight, as he had shown him St Peter’s in broad daylight. When one is showing a friend round a city that one already knows, one does so with the same coquetry as when showing off a woman who has been one’s mistress.

Franz consequently told the driver which route he should take: he was to go out through the Porta del Popolo, follow the outer wall, then come back into the city through the Porta San Giovanni. In this way, the Colosseum would appear before them with no prior rehearsal – that is to say, without the Capitol, the Forum, the Arch of Septimus Severus, the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina and the Via Sacra serving as so many steps on the road, to reduce its magnificence.

They sat down at table. Signor Pastrini had promised his guests a splendid feast. He gave them a passable dinner, so they couldn’t complain. At the end of it he came in himself. Franz at first imagined that it was to accept their compliments and he prepared to make them, but he was interrupted after the first few words.

‘Excellency,’ Signor Pastrini said, ‘I am flattered by your approval, but that is not the reason that I came up to see you.’

‘Was it to tell us that you have found a carriage?’ asked Albert, lighting a cigar.

‘Still less – and I suggest, Excellency, that you would do better not to think about this any more, but to accept the inevitable. In Rome, either things can be done, or they cannot. When someone tells you that they cannot, there’s an end to it.’

‘In Paris, it’s much more convenient: when something can’t be done, you pay double and immediately you get what you wanted.’

‘I hear all Frenchmen say this,’ said Signor Pastrini, a trifle stung by it. ‘So I don’t understand how they manage to travel.’

‘But, then,’ said Albert, unhurriedly blowing his smoke towards the ceiling and leaning backwards, balancing on the two rear legs of his chair, ‘it is only fools and innocents like ourselves who travel. Sensible men stay in their apartments in the Rue du Helder, and don’t stray beyond the Boulevard de Gand and the Café de Paris.’ It goes without saying that Albert lived in the aforementioned street, took his daily walk down the said fashionable thoroughfare and dined every day in the only café where one does dine – at least, assuming one is on good terms with the waiters.

Signor Pastrini said nothing for a moment, obviously considering this reply and no doubt not finding it altogether clear.

‘The point is,’ said Franz, interrupting his host’s geographical musings, ‘that you did come here for some reason, so perhaps you would be good enough to tell us why?’

‘Ah, that’s right! Here it is: you ordered the barouche for eight o’clock?’

‘Just so.’

‘You intend to visit the Colosseo?’

‘You mean the Colosseum?’

‘They are the same place.’

‘As you say.’

‘You told your coachman to leave by the Porta del Popolo, go round the walls and return through the Porta San Giovanni?’

‘My very words.’

‘Well: this itinerary is impossible.’

‘Impossible?’

‘Or, at least, very dangerous.’

‘Dangerous! Why?’

‘Because of the famous Luigi Vampa.’

‘Come, come, my dear fellow, who is this famous Luigi Vampa?’ Albert asked. ‘He may be very famous in Rome, but I must tell you that he is quite unknown in Paris.’

‘What! You don’t know about him?’

‘I don’t have that honour.’

‘You have never heard the name?’

‘Never.’

‘He is a bandit, beside whom Decesaris and Gasparone were mere choirboys.’

‘Careful, Albert!’ cried Franz. ‘Here we have a bandit at last!’

‘Be warned, my good host, I shall not believe a word of what you are about to tell us. And, now that that is clear, speak as long as you like, I am listening. “Once upon a time…” Off you go, then!’

Signor Pastrini turned towards Franz, who seemed to him the more reasonable of the two young men. We must be fair to the good man: he had put up a considerable number of Frenchmen in his life, but there was a side to their wit that he had never understood.

‘Excellency,’ he said, very gravely, turning, as we have said, towards Franz. ‘If you consider me a liar, there is no sense in my telling you what I intended to tell you. But I can assure Your Excellencies that it would be in your interest.’

‘Albert did not say that you are a liar, my dearest Monsieur Pastrini,’ said Franz. ‘He merely said that he would not believe you. But have no fear, I shall believe you, so you may speak.’

‘Nevertheless, Excellency, you must understand that if doubt is to be cast on my veracity…’

‘Dear man,’ said Franz, ‘you are more easily offended than Cassandra, even though she was a prophetess and no one listened to her: you at least can be assured of one-half of your audience. Come, sit down and tell us about this Monsieur Vampa.’

‘As I told you, Excellency, he is a bandit, the like of which we have not seen since the famous Mastrilla.’

‘And what does this bandit have to do with the order I gave my coachman to leave by the Porta del Popolo and to return through the Porta San Giovanni?’

‘He has the following to do with it,’ Signor Pastrini replied, ‘that, while you may well go out by one gate, I very much doubt whether you will return by the other.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, after nightfall, no one is safe within fifty yards of the gates.’

‘Truly?’ Albert exclaimed.

‘Monsieur le Vicomte,’ said Signor Pastrini, still wounded to the very depth of his soul by the doubt Albert had expressed as to his veracity, ‘what I am saying is not for you. It is for your travelling companion, who is acquainted with Rome and knows that one does not mock when speaking of such matters.’

‘Franz,’ said Albert, ‘we have here a splendid adventure ready made for us. All we have to do is fill our carriage with pistols, blunderbusses and repeating rifles. Luigi Vampa will try to seize us, and we will seize him. We’ll bring him back to Rome, offer him as a token of our respect to His Holiness, who will ask what he can do to recompense us for such a great service. Then all we have to do is ask for a coach and two horses from his stables and we can see the carnival by coach. Apart from which, the people of Rome will probably be so grateful to us that we shall be crowned on the Capitol and proclaimed, like Curtius and Horatius Cocles, saviours of the fatherland.’

The expression on Signor Pastrini’s face, while Albert was pursuing this train of thought, would be impossible to describe.

‘And where, for a start,’ Franz asked Albert, ‘would you find these pistols, these blunderbusses and these rifles which you want to cram into our carriage?’

‘The fact is I have no such things in my arsenal,’ he said, ‘because even my dagger was confiscated at Terracina. What about you?’

‘The same was done to me at Aquapendente.’

‘Well, there now!’ Albert said, lighting his second cigar from the stub of the first. ‘My dear host, do you realize how convenient this regulation is for thieves – so much so that I suspect it was introduced in collusion with them?’

Signor Pastrini no doubt found the joke compromising, because he answered only obliquely, still addressing himself to Franz as
the one reasonable person with whom he might reach a proper understanding.

‘His Excellency knows that it is not usual to defend oneself when one is attacked by bandits.’

‘What!’ Albert cried, his courage rebelling at the idea of being robbed without saying a word. ‘What! It’s not usual?’

‘No, because any resistance would be useless. What can you do against a dozen bandits leaping out of a ditch, from behind a hut or an aqueduct, all of whom have their sights trained on you at once?’

‘Well, by all the devils! I’d let myself be killed!’ Albert exclaimed.

The innkeeper turned to Franz with a look that meant: Undoubtedly, Excellency, your companion is mad.

‘Albert,’ Franz continued, ‘that is a magnificent reply, almost as good as old Corneille’s
“Qu’il morût…”
³
But when Horatius said that, Rome itself was at stake and the sacrifice was justified. But in our case, it is just a matter of satisfying a whim; and it would be folly to risk our lives for the sake of a whim.’