‘What would Your Excellency like us to do?’ said Gaetano.
‘Firstly, to light me a torch.’
‘Ah, yes! I understand. You want to look for the entrance to the enchanted dwelling. With great pleasure, Excellency: if it amuses you, I shall give you the torch you ask for. I, too, once had the same idea as you, and I gave in to it three or four times, but eventually I abandoned the attempt. Giovanni,’ he added, ‘light a torch and bring it to His Excellency.’
Giovanni obeyed. Franz took the torch and went into the underground cavern, followed by Gaetano.
He recognized the place where he had woken up by his bed of heather, which was still crumpled. But, however much he ran the torch over the walls of the cavern, he could find nothing except traces of smoke, showing where others had investigated before him in vain.
However, he did not leave a single foot of the granite wall un-examined, even though it was as impenetrable as futurity. He did not notice a single crack without putting the blade of his knife into it, or a lump jutting out of the surface without pressing it, in the hope that it would give way; but all was futile and he spent two hours on this fruitless search. After that, he gave up. Gaetano was triumphant.
When Franz returned to the shore, the yacht was only a little white dot on the horizon. He tried his glass, but even with that it was impossible to make anything out.
Gaetano reminded him that he had come here to hunt the goats, something that he had completely forgotten. He took his gun and began to scour the island like a man accomplishing a duty rather than one enjoying a pleasure; after a quarter of an hour, he had killed a goat and two kids. But, though the goats were as wild and shy as chamois, they bore too great a resemblance to the domestic variety and Franz did not consider them true game.
And anyway, there were far more powerful ideas on his mind. Since the previous evening he had effectively been the hero of a tale from the Thousand and One Nights, and he was irresistibly drawn back to the cave. So, even though the first investigation had failed, he began a second one, after telling Gaetano to have the two kids roasted. This second visit must have lasted a fairly long time because, when he returned, the kid was cooked and the meal was ready.
Franz sat down on the spot where, the evening before, they had come to invite him to supper with this mysterious host; and he could still see the little yacht, like a seagull rocking on the crest of a wave, continuing on its path to Corsica.
‘But, Gaetano,’ he said, ‘you informed me that Milord Sinbad was heading for Malaga, while it seems to me that he is going directly towards Porto Vecchio.’
‘Don’t you remember,’ the master said, ‘my telling you that, with his crew, there were for the time being two Corsican bandits?’
‘Of course! So is he going to put them off on the coast?’
‘Just as you say. Ah,’ Gaetano exclaimed, ‘there’s a man who doesn’t fear either God or the devil, so they say, and who would go fifty leagues out of his way to help a poor soul.’
‘That sort of help could get him into trouble with the authorities of the country where he performs this kind of philanthropic deed,’ Franz said.
‘Huh! The authorities!’ said Gaetano. ‘What does he care about the authorities? He couldn’t give a damn for them! Let them just try to catch him. To start with, his yacht is not a ship, it’s a bird, and he could gain three knots on a frigate for every twelve. Then he has only to put off at the coast himself. He would find plenty of friends of his own there.’
What was most clear in all this was that Milord Sinbad, Franz’s host, had the honour to be associated with every smuggler and bandit on every coast around the Mediterranean, which could only make his position seem even more peculiar. As for Franz, there was nothing further to keep him on Monte Cristo, since he had lost all hope of finding the secret of the cavern; so he hastened to finish his lunch, while ordering the men to prepare the boat for when he was ready.
Half an hour later, he was on board.
He cast a final glance at the yacht. It was about to vanish into the Gulf of Porto Vecchio. He gave the signal to depart.
At the moment when his boat set off, the yacht disappeared.
With it vanished the last link with the reality of the previous night: the supper, Sinbad, the hashish and the statues – all were beginning for Franz to merge into a single dream.
The boat sailed all day and all night. The next morning, at sunrise, it was the island of Monte Cristo itself that had disappeared.
Once Franz had landed, he put aside all memory of recent events, at least temporarily, in order to complete his personal and social affairs in Florence and concentrate on joining his friend, who was waiting in Rome. So he left for there, and on the Saturday evening arrived by stage-coach on the Piazza della Dogana.
As we mentioned earlier, the apartment was already reserved, so there was nothing to be done except to repair to Signor Pastrini’s establishment. This was less easy than it sounds: the streets were jammed with people and Rome was already a prey to the dull, feverish hum that precedes great events. And in Rome there are four great events in the year: carnival, Holy Week, Corpus Christi and the Feast of Saint Peter.
The rest of the year, the city slumps back into its melancholic apathy, a limbo between life and death, which makes it comparable to a kind of stopping-place between this life and the next; but a sublime stopping-place, full of character and poetry, that Franz had experienced five or six times before, and which each time he had found more marvellous and more fantastic than the last.
At length he managed to make his way through the swelling and increasingly expectant crowd, and reached the hotel. At his first request, he was told, with that impertinence which is peculiar to cab-drivers when they have already been booked and innkeepers whose establishments are full, that there was no more room for him in the Hôtel de Londres, whereupon he sent his card up to Signor Pastrini and asked to be announced to Albert de Morcerf. This tactic succeeded and Signor Pastrini hurried down in person, begging pardon for having kept His Excellency waiting, scolding his staff, snatching the candlestick from the hand of the guide who had already taken charge of the traveller, and preparing to conduct him to Albert, when the latter himself came to meet them.
The apartment they had rented consisted of two little rooms and a study. Both bedrooms overlooked the street, a feature that Signor Pastrini emphasized, as enormously enhancing their worth. The remainder of the floor was rented to a very rich gentleman, believed to be a Sicilian or a Maltese: the hotelier could not say precisely to which of the two nations the traveller belonged. He was called the Count of Monte Cristo.
‘Very well, Signor Pastrini,’ said Franz, ‘but we shall immediately need some kind of supper for this evening and a barouche for tomorrow and the following days.’
‘As to the supper,’ said the innkeeper, ‘you shall have it at once; but regarding the barouche…’
‘What! What, regarding the barouche?’ Albert exclaimed. ‘Hold on now, one moment! We are not joking, Signor Pastrini! We shall need a barouche.’
‘Monsieur,’ said the innkeeper, ‘everything possible will be done to procure one for you. I cannot say more than that.’
‘And when shall we know?’ asked Franz.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ answered the innkeeper.
‘Damnation!’ said Albert. ‘All this means is that we shall pay dearer for it. You know how it goes: from Drake or Aaron – twenty-five francs on ordinary days, and thirty or thirty-five on Sundays and holidays. Add five francs a day as your own fee, and we are in for a round forty francs.’
‘I very much fear that the gentlemen would not be able to find such a vehicle for double that amount.’
‘Well, then, find some horses and harness them to my own. It is a little the worse for wear after the journey, but no matter.’
‘You won’t find any horses.’
Albert looked at Franz like a man who has just been given an incomprehensible answer.
‘Do you understand this, Franz? No horses! But what about post-horses, aren’t there any of those?’
‘All hired a fortnight ago; all that is left are those which are absolutely essential for the mail.’
‘What do you say to that?’ asked Franz.
‘I say that, when something is beyond my comprehension, I am in the habit of not wasting any more time on it, but of turning to something else. Is the supper ready, Signor Pastrini?’
‘Yes, Excellency.’
‘Well, then, let’s dine first of all.’
‘But what about the barouche and the horses?’ asked Franz.
‘Don’t worry about them, my dear friend, they will come of their own accord. It is simply a matter of finding a price.’
At which, Morcerf, with that admirable philosophy that believes nothing impossible so long as it feels its purse to be fat and its wallet full, supped, went to bed, fell instantly fast asleep and dreamt that he was prancing through the carnival with a carriage and six horses.
XXXIII
ROMAN BANDITS
The next morning Franz was the first to wake up and, as soon as he was awake, rang. The tinkling of the bell could still be heard when Signor Pastrini in person came in.
‘So! It is just as I thought yesterday,’ the innkeeper said triumphantly, without even waiting for Franz to put the question to him, ‘when I didn’t want to promise you anything, Excellency. Your search has begun too late: there is not a single carriage to be had in Rome – for the final three days, of course.’
‘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?’
The Count of Monte Cristo (Penguin Classics eBook) Page 43
