The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (83 page)

‘Between thirty-five and thirty-six, mother.’

‘So young! It’s impossible,’ Mercédès exclaimed, replying at once to what Albert was saying and to her own thoughts.

‘It is true, even so. Three or four times he said to me, assuredly without any premeditation: at that time I was five; at this other, I was ten; and at another, twelve. I was so curious about the smallest detail that I compared the dates and never found any discrepancy. This remarkable man is ageless, but I can assure you that he is thirty-five. In any case, mother, remember the brightness of his eye, the darkness of his hair and how his brow, though pale, is unfurrowed. This is someone who is not only active, but still young.’

The countess lowered her head as if bowed under a mass of ideas that completely absorbed her.

‘And this man has conceived a liking for you, Albert? He wants to be your friend?’ she asked, with a nervous shudder.

‘I believe so, mother.’

‘Do you also like him?’

‘I do, in spite of Franz d’Epinay trying to make me believe he was a spectre returning from the Beyond.’

The countess shrank back in terror and said, in a strained voice: ‘Albert, I have always warned you against new acquaintances. Now you are a man and old enough to advise me. Yet I repeat: Albert, beware.’

‘My dear mother, to profit from your advice, I should need to know in advance what I am supposed to beware of. The count never gambles, the count only ever drinks water, coloured with a little Spanish wine, and the count has declared himself to be so
rich that he could not borrow money from me without appearing ridiculous. What can I fear from the count?’

‘You are right,’ his mother said. ‘My anxiety is foolish, especially when directed towards the man who saved your life. By the way, Albert, did your father receive him suitably? It is important for us to be more than polite with the count. Monsieur de Morcerf is sometimes so busy and his work preoccupies him so, that he may involuntarily have…’

‘My father was perfect, mother,’ Albert interrupted. ‘I would go further: he seemed greatly flattered by two or three very subtle compliments that the count made – as finely turned and surely aimed as if he had known him for the past thirty years. Each of these eulogistic little darts must have flattered my father so much,’ he added, with a laugh, ‘that they separated the best friends in the world and Monsieur de Morcerf even wanted to take him to the House so that he could listen to his speech.’

The countess said nothing; she was absorbed in such a profound reverie that her eyes gradually closed. The young man, standing in front of her, watched with that filial love that is more tender and affectionate in children whose mothers are still young and beautiful. Then, after seeing her eyes close, he listened for a moment to her breathing, sweetly still, and then, thinking her asleep, tiptoed away, cautiously opening the door of the room where he left her.

‘Damn the man,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘I predicted to him in Rome that he would be a sensation in Parisian society; now I can measure his effect on an infallible thermometer. My mother remarked on him, so he must indeed be remarkable.’

He went down to his stables, harbouring a secret feeling of pique at the fact that, without thinking, the Count of Monte Cristo had obtained a team of horses that would outshine his bays in the eyes of any connoisseur.

‘Men,’ he said, ‘are most certainly not equal. I must get my father to expound this theory in the Upper House.’

Meanwhile the count had arrived at his house. The journey had taken him six minutes, and these six minutes had been enough for him to be seen by twenty young men who, recognizing the cost of a team that was well beyond their means, had spurred their mounts to a gallop so that they could catch a glimpse of this noble lord who paid ten thousand francs apiece for his horses.

The residence that Ali had chosen to serve as Monte Cristo’s town house was situated on the right as you go up the Champs-Elysées, with a courtyard on one side and a garden on the other. A leafy clump of trees in the courtyard shielded part of the façade and, around it, like two enclosing arms, were two avenues directing carriages to right and left from the front gate towards a double stairway, every step of which supported a vase full of flowers. The house, standing alone in quite ample grounds, had another entrance apart from the main one on the Rue de Ponthieu.

Even before the coachman had called out to the concierge, the huge gate was swinging back on its hinges: the count had been seen approaching and, in Paris as in Rome (as, indeed, everywhere else), his needs were met with lightning rapidity. So the coach entered and described the half-circle without slowing down. The gate had already shut while the wheels were crunching on the gravel of the path.

The carriage stopped on the left-hand side of the stairway and two men appeared at its door. One was Ali, giving his master a smile of joy that was astonishing in its sincerity; it was rewarded with a simple glance from Monte Cristo.

The other man bowed humbly and offered the count his arm to get down from the carriage.

‘Thank you, Monsieur Bertuccio,’ the count said, lightly jumping over the three steps. ‘What about the notary?’

‘In the little drawing-room, Your Excellency,’ Bertuccio replied.

‘And the visiting cards that I asked you to have printed as soon as you knew the number of the house?’

‘They are already done, Monsieur le Comte. I went to the finest printer in the Palais-Royal and he engraved the plate in front of
me. The first card struck off from it was sent, as you required, to Monsieur le Baron Danglars,
député
, at number seven, Rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin. The others are on the mantelpiece of Your Excellency’s bedroom.’

‘Good. What time is it?’

‘Four o’clock.’

Monte Cristo gave his gloves, his hat and his cane to the same French lackey who had sprung out of the Comte de Morcerf’s antechamber to call the carriage; then he went into the smaller drawing-room, with Bertuccio showing him the way.

‘The statues in this antechamber are very poor stuff,’ Monte Cristo said. ‘I sincerely hope that they will be removed.’

Bertuccio bowed.

As the steward had said, the notary was waiting in the antechamber – a respectable-looking Parisian assistant solicitor elevated to the insurmountable dignity of a pettifogging suburban lawyer.

‘You are the notary appointed by the vendors of the country house that I wish to buy?’ Monte Cristo asked.

‘Yes, Monsieur le Comte,’ the notary answered.

‘Is the deed of sale ready?’

‘Yes, Monsieur le Comte.’

‘You have it with you?’

‘Here it is.’

‘Splendid. And where is this house that I’m buying?’ Monte Cristo asked casually, addressing the question partly to M. Bertuccio and partly to the notary.

The steward made a sign that meant: ‘I don’t know.’ The notary stared at Monte Cristo in astonishment. ‘What!’ he exclaimed. ‘Does Monsieur le Comte not even know the location of the house that he is buying?’

‘Why, no,’ said the count.

‘Monsieur le Comte is not acquainted with the property?’

‘How on earth could I be? I arrived from Cadiz this morning, I have never been to Paris; this is the first time that I have even set foot in France.’

‘That is a different matter,’ the notary replied. ‘The house that Monsieur le Comte is buying is located in Auteuil.’

On hearing this, Bertuccio went pale.

‘And where is this Auteuil of yours?’ Monte Cristo asked.

‘No distance at all, Monsieur le Comte,’ said the notary. ‘A little beyond Passy, charmingly situated in the middle of the Bois de Boulogne.’

‘So close!’ Monte Cristo said. ‘But this is not the country. The devil take it! How did you manage to choose me a house on the outskirts of Paris, Monsieur Bertuccio?’

‘I!’ cried the steward, with unusual haste. ‘No, no! I am not the one whom Monsieur le Comte asked to choose this house. If Monsieur le Comte would be so good as to remember, to rake his memory, to cast his mind back…’

‘Oh, yes. Quite correct,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Now I recall. I read the advertisement in a newspaper and allowed myself to be taken in by the mendacious heading: “country house”.’

‘There is still time,’ Bertuccio said in a lively voice. ‘If Your Excellency would like me to look everywhere else, I shall find him the very best, whether in Enghien, Fontenay-aux-Roses or Bellevue.’

‘No, no,’ Monte Cristo said idly. ‘I’ve got this one, so I’ll keep it.’

‘And Monsieur is right!’ exclaimed the notary, afraid of losing his commission. ‘It is a charming property: running streams, dense woodland, a comfortable house, though long abandoned – not to mention the furniture which, old though it is, is valuable, especially nowadays when antiques are so prized. Forgive me, but I would imagine Monsieur le Comte to have fashionable tastes.’

‘Carry on,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘So it’s acceptable, then?’

‘Oh, Monsieur, much more than that: it’s magnificent!’

‘Let’s not pass up such a bargain, then,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Notary, the contract of sale!’

He signed quickly, after glancing at the point on the deed where the position of the house and the names of the owners were marked.

‘Bertuccio,’ he said. ‘Give this gentleman fifty-five thousand francs.’

The steward went out with faltering steps and returned with a sheaf of notes which the notary counted out like a man who is used to receiving his money only after due legal process.

‘Now,’ said the count. ‘Have all the formalities been completed?’

‘Every one, Monsieur le Comte.’

‘Do you have the keys?’

‘They are held by the concierge who is looking after the house. Here is the order that I have made out to him, requiring him to show Monsieur into his property.’

‘Very good,’ said Monte Cristo, nodding to the notary in a way that meant: ‘I have no further need of you. Go!’

‘But, Monsieur le Comte,’ said the honest pen-pusher. ‘I think Monsieur le Comte has made a mistake. It was only fifty thousand francs,
in toto
.’

‘And your fee?’

‘Included in that amount, Monsieur le Comte.’

‘But did you not come here from Auteuil?’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘Well, you must be paid for your trouble,’ said the count, dismissing him with a gesture.

The notary backed out of the room, bowing to the floor. This was the first time since obtaining his articles that he had ever met such a client.

‘Show this gentleman out,’ the count said to Bertuccio, who followed the notary out.

No sooner was the count alone than he took out of his pocket a locked wallet and opened it with a little key that he kept always around his neck and which never left him. He looked for a moment, then stopped at a page containing some notes, compared the notes with the deed of sale lying on the table and, searching his memory, said: ‘That’s it: Auteuil, number twenty-eight, Rue de la Fontaine. Now, am I relying on a confession extracted by religious terror or physical fear? In any event, I shall know all in an hour’s time. Bertuccio!’ He banged on the table with a sort of little hammer with a folding handle, that gave a high-pitched, resonant sound, like a tom-tom. ‘Bertuccio!’

The steward appeared in the doorway.

‘Monsieur Bertuccio,’ said the count, ‘didn’t you once tell me that you had travelled in France?’

‘In some parts of France, yes, Excellency.’

‘So you doubtless know the country around Paris?’

‘No, Excellency, no,’ the steward replied with a sort of nervous stammer which Monte Cristo, a specialist in the matter of human emotions, rightly attributed to extreme anxiety.

‘It is annoying,’ he said, ‘this fact that you haven’t explored the district around Paris, because I wish to go and see my new property
this very evening, and you would no doubt have been able to accompany me and give me some useful information.’

‘To Auteuil?’ Bertuccio cried, his bronzed features becoming almost livid. ‘Me! Go to Auteuil!’

‘What is it? What is so astonishing about you going to Auteuil, may I ask? When I am living there, you will have to come, since you are part of my household.’

Bertuccio lowered his eyes before his master’s imperious gaze and remained silent and motionless.

‘Well I never! What’s wrong with you? Do you want me to ring again for my carriage?’ Monte Cristo said in the tone of voice adopted by Louis XIV to speak the celebrated words: ‘I was almost made to wait!’
¹

Bertuccio went in a flash from the little drawing-room to the antechamber and called out in a hoarse voice: ‘Prepare His Excellency’s carriage!’

Monte Cristo wrote two or three letters. As he was coming to the end of the last of them, the steward reappeared.

‘You Excellency’s carriage is at the door,’ he said.

‘Well then, get your hat and gloves,’ said the count.

‘Am I to accompany Monsieur le Comte?’ Bertuccio cried.

‘Of course. You must give your orders, for I intend to live in this house.’