‘Me?’ said Caderousse, rising with the ridiculous movement of a drunken man. ‘Me! Not be able to stand up! I wager I could go up the belfry of Les Accoules, and without wavering.’
‘Well, if you wish,’ said Danglars. ‘I accept the wager, but for tomorrow. Today it is time to go home, so give me your arm and we’ll get started.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Caderousse, ‘but I don’t need your arm for it. Are you coming, Fernand? Come with us to Marseille.’
‘No,’ said Fernand. ‘I’m going back to Les Catalans.’
‘Don’t be silly. Come with us to Marseille. Come on.’
‘I have no business in Marseille and I don’t want to go there.’
‘What did you say? You don’t want to, my lad! Well, do as you wish. Everyone can do as he wishes. Come on, Danglars, and let this gentleman go back to the Catalans, since that’s what he wants.’
Danglars took advantage of Caderousse’s momentary amenability to drag him towards Marseille; but, to leave a shorter and easier way free for Fernand, instead of going back via the Quai de la Rive-Neuve, he went through the Porte Saint-Victor. Caderousse followed, swaying and gripping his arm.
When he had gone some twenty yards, Danglars turned around and saw Fernand grab the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. Then, running out of the arbour, the young man immediately went in the direction of Le Pillon.
‘There, now! What’s he up to?’ said Caderousse. ‘He lied to us. He said he was going to Les Catalans, and he’s headed into town. Hey, Fernand, my boy! You’re going the wrong way!’
‘It’s you who can’t see properly,’ said Danglars. ‘He has gone straight down the road to the Vieilles-Infirmeries.’
‘Has he?’ said Caderousse. ‘Well, now, I could have sworn that he turned to the right. Wine really is a deceiver.’
‘Come on, come on,’ Danglars muttered. ‘I think that the matter is properly under way now, and all we have to do is to let it take its course.’
V
THE BETROTHAL
The next day, the weather was fine. The sun rose, brilliant and clear, and its first purple rays glistened like rubies on the foamy crests of the waves.
The meal had been set out on the first floor of the same inn, La Réserve, with the terrace of which we are already acquainted. It was a large room, lit by five or six windows, above each of which (for some inexplicable reason) was inscribed the name of one of the great towns of France. A gallery – of wood, like the rest of the building – ran the whole length of the room under the windows.
Although the meal was due to begin only at noon, this gallery was crowded with impatient onlookers from eleven o’clock in the morning. These were a few chosen sailors from the Pharaon and some soldiers who were Dantès’ friends. All of them were in their Sunday best, in honour of the engaged couple.
The rumour circulating among these expectant guests was that the owners of the Pharaon were to honour its first mate’s betrothal feast with their presence, but this would have been to do such a great honour to Dantès that no one yet dared believe it. However, Danglars, when he arrived with Caderousse, confirmed the news: he had seen M. Morrel himself, that morning, and M. Morrel had said that he would be dining at La Réserve.
Indeed, a moment later, M. Morrel made his entrance into the room and was saluted by the crew of the Pharaon with a unanimous burst of applause and shouts of ‘Hurrah!’ The owner’s presence was seen by them as confirmation of a rumour, already going about, that Dantès was to be appointed captain; and, since Dantès was much liked on board, the men took this way of thanking the owner because, for once, his choice was concordant with their wishes. Hardly had M. Morrel entered than Danglars and Caderousse were, by general agreement, dispatched to find the fiancé, with orders to advise him of the arrival of this important person whose appearance had caused such a stir, and to tell him to hurry.
Danglars and Caderousse set off at full speed, but had hardly gone any distance before they saw the little band approaching, just coming past the powder magazine. It was made up of four young women, friends of Mercédès and Catalans like her, who were accompanying the fiancée while Edmond gave her his arm. Next to her walked Old Dantès and behind them came Fernand, with his sour smile.
Neither Mercédès nor Edmond could see the smile on Fernand’s face. The poor children were so happy that they saw nothing except one another and the pure, clear sky that showered its blessing on them.
Danglars and Caderousse discharged their diplomatic mission, then exchanged a warm and energetic handshake with Edmond, and took up their places, Danglars next to Fernand and Caderousse beside Old Dantès, who was the general centre of attention.
The old man was wearing his fine coat of fluted taffeta, decorated with large-faceted steel buttons. His lanky but vigorous legs were clothed in a splendid pair of spotted stockings that cried out English contraband. A mass of white and blue ribbons hung from his three-cornered hat. Finally, he was supported by a stick of twisted wood, bent at the top like a classical staff or pedum. He looked like one of those dandies who used to parade in 1796 in the newly re-opened gardens of the Luxembourg or the Tuileries.
As we said, Caderousse had slipped into step beside him – Caderousse, entirely reconciled with the Dantès by the prospect of a good meal, Caderousse whose mind retained some vague memory of what had happened the previous day, as one’s brain on waking in the morning may hold a shadow of the dream that it experienced in sleep.
As he came up to Fernand, Danglars searched deep into the disappointed lover’s soul. He was walking behind the engaged couple, entirely forgotten by Mercédès, who, with the childlike and endearing egoism of love, had eyes only for her Edmond. Fernand was pale, then his colour would heighten suddenly, only to give way again to a deepening pallor. From time to time he looked towards Marseille, and an involuntary nervous tremor would shake his limbs. He seemed to be expecting, or at least to anticipate the possibility of, some important event.
Dantès was dressed simply. Since he belonged to the merchant marine, his clothes were halfway between military uniform and civilian dress; in this habit, his evident good health, set off against the happiness and beauty of his fiancée, was perfect.
Mercédès was as lovely as one of those Greek women of Cyprus or Chios, with jet-black eyes and coral lips. She stepped out with the frankness and freedom of an Arlésienne or an Andalusian woman. A city girl might perhaps have tried to conceal her joy under a veil or at least beneath the velvet shade of her eyelids, but Mercédès smiled and looked at all those around her; and her look and her smile said as plainly as she could have in words: if you are my friends, rejoice with me, because I am truly happy!
As soon as the couple and those accompanying them were in sight of La Réserve, M. Morrel came down and set out to meet them, followed by the sailors and soldiers: he had stayed with them to renew the promise he had already made to Dantès himself, that he would succeed Captain Leclère. Seeing him approach, Edmond let go of his fiancée’s arm, which he placed under M. Morrel’s. Thus the shipowner and the young woman gave a lead by going first up the wooden stairs leading to the room where dinner was served, and the staircase groaned for five minutes under the heavy feet of the guests.
‘Father,’ Mercédès said, stopping at the middle of the table, ‘you go on my right, I pray you; and on my left, I shall place the one who has been a brother to me.’ She spoke with such softness that it struck Fernand to the depth of his soul like a blow from a dagger. His lips paled and, under the tanned colouring of his masculine features, you could once more see the blood draining bit by bit as it flooded into his heart.
Meanwhile Dantès had done the same: on his right, he placed M. Morrel, and on his left Danglars. Then he signalled to everyone to sit down wherever they wished.
Already the guests were passing round the strong-smelling Arles sausage with its brown flesh, crayfish in their dazzling armour, pink-shelled clams, sea-urchins looking like chestnuts in thei
r spiny cases, and clovisses, those shellfish that gourmets from the South claim are more than an adequate substitute for the oysters of northern waters; in short, all the delicate hors-d’oeuvres that are washed up by the waves on these sandy shores and to which grateful fishermen accord the general appellation of fruits de mer.
‘Why this silence?’ the old man exclaimed, sipping a glass of a wine as yellow as topaz, which Père Pamphile in person had just set down in front of Mercédès. ‘Who would imagine that there are thirty people here who ask nothing better than to be merry?’
‘Huh! A husband is not always merry,’ said Caderousse.
‘The fact is,’ Dantès said, ‘that I am too happy at this moment to be merry. If that’s what you mean, neighbour, you are right. Joy may sometimes produce strange effects and be as oppressive as sorrow.’
Danglars was watching Fernand, whose impressionable nature absorbed and reflected his every feeling.
‘Come now,’ he said. ‘Have you anything to fear? It seems to me, on the contrary, that everything is working out as you would wish.’
‘That is precisely what terrifies me,’ said Dantès. ‘I cannot think that man is meant to find happiness so easily! Happiness is like one of those palaces on an enchanted island, its gates guarded by dragons. One must fight to gain it; and, in truth, I do not know what I have done to deserve the good fortune of becoming Mercédès’ husband.’
‘Husband! Husband!’ Caderousse said, laughing. ‘Not yet, Captain. Try behaving like her husband right now and you’ll see how she treats you.’
Mercédès blushed.
Fernand was shuffling on his chair, starting at the slightest noise and, from time to time, wiping large beads of sweat from his forehead, which seemed to have fallen there like the first drops of rain before a storm.
‘By heaven, neighbour,’ said Dantès, ‘you have no need to give me the lie for so little. It’s true, Mercédès is not yet my wife, but…’ (he took out his watch) ‘… in an hour and a half, she will be!’
There was a gasp of surprise from everyone, except Old Dantès, who exhibited his fine set of teeth in a broad laugh. Mercédès smiled and was no longer blushing. Fernand made a convulsive lunge towards the handle of his dagger.
‘In an hour!’ said Danglars, himself going pale. ‘How is that?’
‘Yes, friends,’ Dantès replied. ‘Thanks to an advance from Monsieur Morrel, the man to whom – after my father – I owe the most in the world, all our difficulties have been overcome. We have paid for the banns and at half-past two the Mayor of Marseille is expecting us at the Town Hall. Now, since it has just sounded a quarter past one, I think I am not much mistaken in saying that in one hour and thirty minutes Mercédès will be Madame Dantès.’
Fernand closed his eyes. A fiery cloud was burning behind their lids and he grasped the table to keep himself from fainting; but, despite his efforts to do so, he could not repress a deep groan that was drowned by laughter and the congratulations of the guests.
‘That’s the way to do it, no?’ Old Dantès said. ‘What would you say? Has he wasted any time? Disembarked yesterday morning, married today at three o’clock! Trust a sailor to get the job done without messing around.’
‘But,’ Danglars put in timidly, ‘what about the other formalities: the contract, the settlement?’
‘The contract!’ Dantès said with a laugh. ‘The contract is already made: Mercédès has nothing, and neither have I! We shall be married under a settlement of common estate, that’s all. It took little time to write out and won’t be expensive.’
This sally brought a further round of applause and hurrahs.
‘So, what we thought was a betrothal is nothing less than a wedding feast,’ said Danglars.
‘Not so,’ said Dantès. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t be missing anything. Tomorrow morning, I leave for Paris: four days to travel there, four days to return and a day to carry out my errand conscientiously. On March the first I shall be back; on March the second, then, we shall have the real wedding feast.’
The prospect of a second meal increased the level of hilarity to such a point that Old Dantès, who had complained of the silence at the start of the dinner, was now making futile efforts, in the midst of the general hubbub, to propose a toast to the prosperity of the happy couple.
Dantès guessed what was in his father’s mind and replied with a smile full of filial love. Mercédès had started to watch the time on the cuckoo clock in the room, and she made a sign to Edmond.
Around the table reigned the noisy merriment and freedom of manners that, among people of the lower orders, are common accompaniments to the end of a meal. Those who were dissatisfied with their places had got up from the table and gone to find new neighbours. Everyone had started to speak at once, and no one was bothering to listen to what the person next to him was saying, but was concerned only with his own thoughts.
Fernand’s pallor was almost reflected on the cheeks of Danglars; as for Fernand himself, all life appeared to have left him and he was like one of the damned in a lake of fire. He had been among the first to get up and was striding backwards and forwards across the room, trying to block his ears to the sound of songs and clinking glasses.
Caderousse went over to him, just as Danglars, whom he had apparently been trying to avoid, caught up with him in a corner of the room.
‘I must say,’ Caderousse remarked, the last remnants of the hatred which Dantès’ unexpected good fortune had sowed in his mind having succumbed to Dantès’ joviality and, above all, to Père Pamphile’s excellent wine. ‘Dantès is a good fellow and when I see him like this beside his fiancée I feel that it would have been a pity to play the unkind trick on him that you were plotting yesterday.’
‘Well, then,’ Danglars replied, ‘you can see that the matter went no further. Poor Monsieur Fernand was so upset that, at first, I felt sorry for him; but now that he has made up his mind to accept the situation, to the point of allowing himself to become his rival’s best man, there is nothing more to be said.’
Caderousse looked at Fernand. He was deathly pale.
‘The sacrifice is all the greater,’ Danglars went on, ‘as the girl is so decidedly pretty. Dammit! My future captain is a lucky dog: I wish I could be in his shoes for just half a day.’
‘Shall we go?’ Mercédès said softly. ‘It is striking two and we are expected at a quarter past.’
‘Yes, yes, let’s go,’ Dantès exclaimed, leaping to his feet.
‘Let’s go!’ all the guests repeated in unison.
At that moment Danglars, who had not taken his eyes off Fernand where he was sitting on the window-ledge, saw him look up frantically, rise as though with a convulsive start, then fall back on to his seat in the casement. At almost the same moment a dull sound echoed through the stairway, the sound of heavy footsteps and confused voices, mingled with the clanking of weapons, which rose above the exclamations of the guests (loud though these were) and instantly attracted everybody’s attention, creating an uneasy hush.
The sounds drew closer. Three knocks sounded on the door, and all those in the room looked at their neighbours in astonishment.
‘Open, in the name of the law!’ cried a voice, in a resounding tone. No one answered. At once the door flew open and a commissioner of police,1 wearing his sash, strode into the room, followed by four armed soldiers under the command of a corporal.
Uneasiness gave way to terror.
‘What is wrong?’ the shipowner asked, going over to the commissioner, whom he knew. ‘Monsieur, there must undoubtedly be some mistake.’
‘If there is a mistake, Monsieur Morrel,’ the commissioner replied, ‘you may be sure that it will soon be put right. In the meanwhile, I have a warrant here; and though I do it with regret, I must fulfil my duty. Which of you gentlemen is Edmond Dantès?’
All eyes turned towards the young man who, preserving his dignity despite his astonishment, stepped forward and said: ‘I am, Monsieur. What do you wa
nt with me?’
‘Edmond Dantès,’ the commissioner said, ‘I arrest you in the name of the law.’
‘Arrest me!’ Edmond said, paling slightly. ‘Why are you arresting me?’
‘I have no idea of that, Monsieur, but you will be informed of it in your first interrogation.’
M. Morrel realized that there was no sense in trying to argue in the circumstances: a commissioner wearing his sash is no longer a man but a statue of the law, cold, deaf and dumb. But the old man rushed over to the officer: it is impossible, in some situations, to reason with the heart of a parent.
He begged and prayed: prayers and tears were ineffectual, but his despair was so great that the commissioner was moved by it.
‘My dear sir,’ he said, ‘calm yourself. Perhaps your son has forgotten some formality to do with the Customs or the health authorities; and, as likely as not, when he has given them the information they require, he will be released.’
‘Well, I never! What does this mean?’ Caderousse asked Danglars quizzically, while Danglars feigned surprise.
‘How can I tell?’ he replied. ‘Like you, I can see what is happening, but I am at a loss to understand it.’
Caderousse looked around for Fernand, but he had vanished. At that moment, the whole of the previous evening’s events flashed before his eyes with terrifying clarity. It was as though the catastrophe had lifted the veil that drunkenness had cast over his memory of the day before.
‘Oh! Oh!’ he exclaimed hoarsely. ‘Can this be a consequence of the joke you were speaking about yesterday, Danglars? If that is the case, damnation take the perpetrator, for it is a cruel one.’
‘Nothing of the sort!’ muttered Danglars. ‘Far from it: you know very well that I tore up the paper.’
‘That you did not,’ said Caderousse. ‘You merely threw it into a corner.’
‘Hold your tongue. You were drunk, you saw nothing.’
‘Where is Fernand?’ Caderousse asked.
The Count of Monte Cristo (Penguin Classics eBook) Page 8
