‘Well, no matter: if he were to come, and find this young man with your daughter, he might be displeased.’
‘He? Huh! You are mistaken. Monsieur Albert does not do us the honour of being jealous of his fiancée – he doesn’t love her enough for that. In any case, what do I care if he is displeased or not?’
‘Even so, at the stage we have reached…’
‘Yes, at the stage we have reached. Shall I tell you what stage we have reached? The stage is that at his mother’s ball he only danced with my daughter once, while Monsieur Cavalcanti danced with her three times, and Albert didn’t even notice.’
‘Viscount Albert de Morcerf!’ the footman announced.
The baroness leapt to her feet. She was about to go through to the little drawing-room to warn her daughter, but Danglars put his hand on her arm. ‘Leave it,’ he said.
She looked at him in astonishment.
Monte Cristo pretended not to have seen this little piece of stage business. Albert came in, very handsome and very pleased with life. He greeted the baroness in an easy manner, Danglars in a familiar one and Monte Cristo with affection. Then, turning to the baroness, he asked: ‘May I be permitted to enquire after the health of Mademoiselle Danglars?’
‘Excellent, Monsieur,’ Danglars replied sharply. ‘At the moment she is music-making in her private study with Monsieur Cavalcanti.’
Albert preserved his air of calm indifference. He may perhaps have felt some inner annoyance, but he felt Monte Cristo’s eyes on him.
‘Monsieur Cavalcanti has a very fine tenor voice,’ he said, ‘and Mademoiselle Eugénie a superb soprano, not to mention the fact that she plays the piano like Thalberg.5 It must be a delightful concert.’
‘The fact is,’ Danglars said, ‘that they harmonize wonderfully well together.’
Blatant though it was, Albert pretended not to have noticed the ambiguity in this remark, but Mme Danglars blushed.
‘I am a musician myself,’ the young man went on; ‘or, at least, so my teachers say. So it’s an odd thing, but I have never yet been able to make my voice harmonize with any other – and with soprano voices least of all.’
Danglars gave a little smile that meant: but why aren’t you annoyed? And, doubtless hoping to achieve his goal, he said: ‘Which is why the prince and my daughter were universally admired yesterday. Weren’t you there yesterday, Monsieur de Morcerf?’
‘What prince is that?’ Albert asked.
‘Prince Cavalcanti,’ Danglars said, still persisting in giving the young man this title.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ said Albert. ‘I was not aware that he was a prince. So! Prince Cavalcanti sang with Mademoiselle Eugénie yesterday? It must have been truly delightful to hear and I am very sorry to have missed it. I could not accept your invitation; I had to accompany Madame de Morcerf to the Baroness de Château-Renaud – the mother, that is – where the Germans were singing.’ Then, after a short pause, he added, quite casually: ‘Might I be allowed to present my respects to Mademoiselle Danglars?’
‘Oh, wait, wait, I beg you,’ said the banker, putting a hand on his arm. ‘Can’t you hear: what an exquisite cavatina? Ta, ta, ta, ti, ta, ti, ta, ta! Charming! Just a moment, and they will have finished… Perfect! Bravo! Bravi! Brava!’ Danglars launched into a frenetic round of applause.
‘Truly delightful,’ said Albert. ‘No one could understand the music of his country better than Prince Cavalcanti. You did say “prince”, didn’t you? In any case, even if he isn’t a prince, he can be made one: it’s easy in Italy. But to come back to our delightful songsters – you should do something for us, Monsieur Danglars: without telling them that there is a stranger here, you should ask Mademoiselle Danglars and Monsieur Cavalcanti to begin another piece. It is such an exquisite pleasure to enjoy music from a distance, in the shadows, without seeing or being seen, and so without embarrassing the musician, who can thus abandon himself or herself to all the impulses of genius and the transports of the heart.’
This time, the young man’s sang-froid left even Danglars speechless. He drew Monte Cristo aside. ‘Well, I never. What do you think of our lover?’ he asked him.
‘I have to admit, he does seem a trifle cold. But what can you do? You’re committed.’
‘Certainly, I’m committed, to give my daughter to a man who loves her, not to one who doesn’t. Just look at him: cold as marble, arrogant like his father… If only he were rich, if he had a fortune like the Cavalcantis, then one might overlook it. As yet I have not spoken to my daughter, but if she has any taste…’
‘Oh, come!’ said Monte Cristo. ‘I may be blinded by my friendship for him, but I assure you that Monsieur de Morcerf is a delightful young man, who will make your daughter happy and eventually make something of himself. After all, his father moves in the highest circles.’
‘Hum!’ Danglars said.
‘Why these reservations?’
‘There is still his past… shrouded in obscurity…’
‘But the father’s past does not affect the son.’
‘No, no, indeed!’
‘Come now, don’t be carried away. A month ago you thought it was a splendid match. You understand, I’m deeply mortified: it was at my house that you met young Cavalcanti – and, as I told you, I do not know him.’
‘I do,’ said Danglars. ‘That’s all I need.’
‘You know him? Have you made enquiries into his background?’ asked Monte Cristo.
‘Do I need to? Can’t you tell what kind of a man he is just by looking at him? To start with, he’s rich.’
‘I can’t swear to it.’
‘But you’re standing surety for him, even so?’
‘For fifty thousand livres; a mere trifle.’
‘He is well educated.’
It was Monte Cristo’s turn to say: ‘Hum!’
‘He’s a musician.’
‘Just like all Italians.’
‘Come now, Count, you are not fair to the young man.’
‘Well, no, I confess I am sorry to see that, knowing your arrangement with the Morcerfs, he should interfere with it in this way and take advantage of his wealth.’
Danglars began to laugh. ‘What a Puritan you are!’ he said. ‘It happens every day in society!’
‘But, my dear Monsieur Danglars, you cannot just break it off like that: the Morcerfs are counting on the match.’
‘They’re counting on it?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then let them explain what’s going on. You should have a word about this with the father, my dear Count, since you are such a good friend of the family.’
‘Me? What on earth made you think that?’
‘Their ball, I think. I mean to say: the countess, the proud Mercédès, the haughty Catalan, who barely deigns to open her mouth to her oldest acquaintances, took your arm and went out into the garden with you, led you off to the far corner and only reappeared half an hour later.’
‘Please, Baron, please!’ said Albert. ‘We can’t hear a thing. What an outrage – from a music-lover like yourself, too!’
‘Oh, yes, very witty! Young Mister Sarcasm!’ he said; then, turning back to Monte Cristo: ‘Would you be good enough to say that to the father?’
‘Certainly, if you wish.’
‘And this time let’s have it all done clearly and definitely: he can ask me for my daughter’s hand, set a date, talk about the dowry… In short, let’s shake hands on it or shake fists, but no more delays; you understand…’
‘Very well, I’ll talk to him for you.’
‘I’m not saying that I await the outcome with pleasure, but I shall expect to hear from him. As you know, a banker is bound by his word.’ And he gave one of those sighs that had been heard from the younger Cavalcanti half an hour earlier.
‘Bravi! Bravo! Brava!’ Morcerf yelled, applauding the end of the piece, in parody of the banker.
Danglars was starting to bristle at this when a footman came and whisper
ed in his ear.
‘I’ll be back shortly,’ he said to Monte Cristo. ‘Wait for me: I may have something to tell you before you leave.’ And he went out.
The baroness took advantage of her husband’s absence to throw open the door to her daughter’s study and they saw M. Andrea, who had been seated at the piano with Mlle Eugénie, leap to his feet as if powered by a spring. Albert smiled and bowed to Mlle Danglars, who did not appear in the slightest embarrassed but returned her usual cold curtsey.
Cavalcanti, on the other hand, did show signs of evident embarrassment. He greeted Morcerf, who returned the greeting with a look of the utmost impertinence, then started to pour out a torrent of praise for Mlle Danglars’ voice, saying how much he regretted not having been able to attend the previous evening’s soirée, having heard an account of it…
Cavalcanti, left to himself, took Monte Cristo aside.
‘Now then,’ said Mme Danglars, ‘that’s enough music and compliments. Let’s take a cup of tea.’
‘Come on, Louise,’ Mlle Danglars said to her friend, and they all went into the drawing-room next door, where tea was indeed waiting. Just as they were beginning, in the English manner, to leave their spoons in their cups, the door opened and Danglars reappeared, evidently very upset. Monte Cristo particularly noticed it and gave the banker an enquiring look.
‘I have just received my dispatches from Greece,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ said the count. ‘Is that why you were called away?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how is King Otto keeping?’ Albert asked, in his jolliest tone of voice. Danglars looked askance at him without replying, and Monte Cristo turned away to hide a look of pity that had appeared on his face, and which almost immediately vanished.
‘We shall leave together, shan’t we?’ Albert asked the count.
‘Yes, if you wish,’ he replied.
Albert could not understand anything in the expression on the banker’s face; so, turning to Monte Cristo, who understood perfectly well, he said: ‘Did you see how he looked at me?’
‘Yes,’ said the count. ‘Did you find something odd in this look?’
‘I certainly did. But what is all this about news from Greece?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Because I assume you have spies in the country.’
Monte Cristo smiled, as one does when one has no intention of replying.
‘Look, he’s just coming over to you,’ said Albert. ‘I’m going to compliment Mademoiselle Danglars on the cameo she is wearing. Meanwhile the father will have time to tell you all about it.’
‘If you do compliment her, let it be for her voice, at least,’ said Monte Cristo.
‘Not at all: anyone could do that.’
‘My dear Viscount, you have the conceit of impertinence,’ Monte Cristo said.
Albert crossed over to Eugénie with a smile on his lips.
Meanwhile Danglars bent over the count’s ear. ‘You gave me excellent advice,’ he said, ‘and there is a frightful story behind those two words: Fernand and Janina.’
‘No, really?’ said Monte Cristo.
‘Yes, I’ll tell you about it. But take the young man away. For the moment I should be too embarrassed to stay in the room with him.’
‘That’s just what I’m going to do; he’s coming with me. And do you still want me to send the father to you?’
‘More than ever.’
‘Very well.’
The count signalled to Albert, both of them said goodbye to the ladies and left – Albert treating Mlle Danglars’ scorn with utter indifference, Monte Cristo repeating to Mme Danglars his advice on the wisdom for a banker’s wife of ensuring her future.
M. Cavalcanti remained master of the field.
LXXVII
HAYDÉE
Hardly had the count’s horses rounded the corner of the boulevard than Albert turned to him and burst out into a peal of laughter, a little too loud not to be slightly forced.
‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘I might ask you, as King Charles IX asked Catherine de’ Medici after the Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacre: “How do you think I played my little part?” ’
‘In what connection?’ asked Monte Cristo.
‘Why, in connection with setting up my rival with Monsieur Danglars…’
‘What rival?’
‘What rival! Your protégé, Monsieur Andrea Cavalcanti, of course!’
‘You must be joking, Viscount. I do not in any way protect Monsieur Andrea, at least not where Monsieur Danglars is concerned.’
‘That’s a criticism I should make of you, should the young man need protection; but, luckily for me, he doesn’t.’
‘Why? Do you think he’s courting?’
‘I guarantee it. He rolls his eyes and groans like a lover. He aspires to the hand of the proud Eugénie. Huh! That’s a perfect anapaestic line! I promise you, it was unintentional. No matter, I’ll repeat it: he aspires to the hand of the proud Eugénie.’
‘What matter, since you are the only suitor under consideration?’
‘Don’t say that, my dear Count. I’m spurned from both sides.’
‘How do you mean: from both sides.’
‘Of course! Mademoiselle Eugénie hardly spoke to me and her confidante, Mademoiselle d’Armilly, not at all.’
‘Yes, but the father adores you,’ said Monte Cristo.
‘Really? On the contrary, he thrust a thousand daggers into my heart; admittedly they were stage daggers, with disappearing blades, but he thought they were real enough.’
‘Jealousy implies affection.’
‘Yes, but I am not jealous.’
‘However, he is.’
‘Of whom? Of Debray?’
‘No, of you.’
‘Me? I guarantee that in a week he will have barred his door to me.’
‘You are wrong, Viscount.’
‘Prove it.’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have been asked to request Monsieur de Morcerf to make some definite proposal to the baron.’
‘Who asked you?’
‘The baron himself.’
‘Oh, now,’ Albert said, in the most wheedling tone he could summon. ‘You wouldn’t do that, would you, my dear Count?’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Albert. I have promised and I shall do it.’
‘Well, then,’ Albert said with a sigh, ‘it appears you are determined to see me married.’
‘I am determined to stay on the right side of everyone. But, speaking of Debray, I haven’t seen him recently at the baron’s.’
‘There has been a disagreement.’
‘With Madame?’
‘With Monsieur.’
‘Did he notice something going on?’
‘Huh! That’s a good one!’
‘Do you really think he suspected?’ Monte Cristo asked, with charming innocence.
‘Did he, indeed. Where do you come from, my dear Count?’
‘The Congo, if you wish.’
‘Still not far enough.’
‘What do I know about your Parisian husbands?’
‘Husbands, my dear Count, are the same everywhere. Once you have seen one specimen in a given country, you know the whole breed.’
‘So what can have come between Danglars and Debray? They seemed to get on so well,’ Monte Cristo said, still feigning innocence.
‘Now, there we are talking about one of the mysteries of Isis, and I am not an initiate. When the young Cavalcanti is part of the family, you can ask him that.’
The carriage halted.
‘Here we are,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘It is only half-past ten, why don’t you come up?’
‘I should like to.’
‘My carriage can take you home.’
‘Thank you, but I think my coupé will have followed us.’
‘Yes, here it is,’ said Monte Cristo, jumping down. Both men entered the house where the drawing-ro
om was already lit.
‘Make us some tea, Baptistin,’ Monte Cristo said.
Baptistin went out without a sound. Two seconds later, he reappeared with a plate ready laid which, like a meal in one of those magical entertainments, seemed to have risen out of the ground.
‘I must admit, my dear Count,’ Morcerf said, ‘that what I admire in you is not your wealth, because there may be people richer than you are; it is not your wit, because although Beaumarchais’ was not greater, it was as great; but it is your way of obtaining service, without any answering back, to the minute, no, to the second, as if your people had guessed from the manner of your ring, just what you wanted, and as if what you wanted was always ready waiting.’
‘There is some truth in what you say. They know my habits. For example: isn’t there something you would like to do while you are drinking your tea?’
‘Why, yes: I should like to smoke.’
Monte Cristo went over to the bell-push and sounded it once. A second later, a concealed door opened and Ali appeared with two chibouks, already filled with excellent Latakia.
‘Extraordinary!’
‘No, no: elementary, my dear Morcerf,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Ali knows that, when I take tea or coffee, I usually smoke. He knows that I have called for tea and that I came back with you. He hears me ring for him, guesses the reason and, since he is a native of a country where hospitality is expressed chiefly around the pipe, he brings two chibouks, instead of one.’
‘Agreed, that is as good an explanation as any other, but the fact remains that only you… Ah! What’s that I hear?’ And Morcerf bent his head towards the door, through which wafted sounds which were similar to those of a guitar.
‘There, my dear Viscount: you are condemned to have music this evening. No sooner have you escaped from Mademoiselle Danglars’ piano than you are entrapped by Haydée’s guzla.’
‘Haydée! What a delightful name! Are there really women called Haydée outside the poems of Lord Byron?’1
‘Indeed there are. Haydée may be a rare name in France, but it is common enough in Albania and Epirus. It is as though you were to say: chastity, modesty or innocence. It is a kind of baptismal name, as you Parisians call them.’
The Count of Monte Cristo (Penguin Classics eBook) Page 105
