However, it was all very well for Danglars to think that, but the secrets of nature are beyond our understanding and it may be that the crudest of victuals can address a tangible invitation in quite eloquent terms to a hungry stomach.
Suddenly Danglars felt that at this moment his was a bottomless pit: the man seemed less ugly, the bread less black and the cheese less rancid.
Finally, those raw onions, the repulsive foodstuff of savages, began to evoke certain sauces Robert,1 certain dishes of boiled beef and onions which his cook had adapted to more refined palates when Danglars would tell him: ‘Monsieur Deniseau, give us a spot of plain home cooking today.’
He got up and went to bang on the door. The bandit looked up. Danglars saw that he had been heard and banged louder.
‘Che cosa?’ the bandit asked.
‘I say, I say, my good fellow,’ Danglars said, tapping his fingers against the door. ‘Isn’t it about time someone thought of feeding me as well, eh?’
But either because he did not understand or because he had no orders regarding Danglars’ breakfast, the giant went back to his meal.
Danglars’ pride was wounded and, not wishing to compromise himself any further with this brute, he lay down once more on the goatskin without uttering another word.
Four hours went by. The giant was replaced by another bandit. Danglars, who was suffering dreadful stomach cramps, quietly got up, put his eye to the door and recognized the intelligent face of his guide. It was indeed Peppino who was preparing to enjoy his guard duty in as much comfort as possible, sitting down opposite the door and placing between his legs an earthenware casserole which contained some chick peas tossed in pork fat, hot and redolent. Beside these chick peas, Peppino set down another pretty little basket of Velletri grapes and a flask of Orvieto wine. Peppino was something of a gourmet.
Danglars’ mouth began to water as he watched these gastronomic preparations. ‘Ah, ha,’ he thought. ‘Let’s see if this one is any more amenable than the last.’ And he hammered gently on his door.
‘On y va,’ the bandit said. Thanks to his association with Signor Pastrini’s house, he had eventually learned even idiomatic French; so he came and opened the door.
Danglars recognized him as the man who had shouted at him in such an enraged tone: ‘Put your head in!’ However, this was no time for recriminations. On the contrary, he adopted his most pleasant manner and said, with a gracious smile: ‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but am I not also to be given some dinner?’
‘What!’ Peppino exclaimed. ‘Is Your Excellency hungry, by any chance?’
‘I like that “by any chance”,’ Danglars thought. ‘It is now fully twenty-four hours since I last ate anything.’ And he added aloud, shrugging his shoulders: ‘Yes, I am hungry; in fact, very hungry.’
‘So would Your Excellency like to eat?’
‘Immediately, if possible.’
‘Nothing simpler,’ said Peppino. ‘Here one can get whatever one wishes, if one pays, of course, as is customary among honest Christians.’
‘Of course,’ said Danglars. ‘Though the fact is that people who arrest you and throw you in jail should at least feed their prisoners.’
‘Oh, Excellency,’ Peppino replied, ‘that’s not customary.’
‘That’s no argument,’ Danglars said, hoping to tame his keeper with his good humour. ‘But I shall have to make do with it. Now then, let me have something to eat.’
‘At once, Excellency. What is your pleasure?’ And Peppino put his bowl on the ground so that the fumes found their way directly into Danglars’ nostrils. ‘Give me your order.’
‘Do you have kitchens here, then?’ the banker asked.
‘What! Do we have kitchens? The finest kitchens.’
‘And cooks?’
‘Superb cooks.’
‘Well, then: fowl, fish or flesh – anything, as long as I can eat.’
‘As Your Excellency pleases. Shall we say a chicken?’
‘Yes, a chicken.’
Peppino drew himself up and cried as loudly as he could: ‘A chicken for His Excellency!’ His voice was still echoing under the vaults when a young man appeared, handsome, slim and half naked, like a fish porter in Antiquity. He bore in the chicken on a silver plate, balancing it on his head.
‘This is just like the Café de Paris,’ Danglars muttered.
‘Here we are, Excellency,’ Peppino said, taking the chicken from the young bandit and putting it down on a worm-eaten table which, with a stool and the goatskin bed, made up the entire furniture of the cell.
Danglars asked for a knife and fork.
‘There you are, Excellency,’ Peppino said, offering him a little knife with a rounded end and a boxwood fork. Danglars took the knife in one hand and the fork in the other, and set to work cutting up the piece of poultry.
‘Excuse me, Excellency,’ Peppino said, putting a hand on the banker’s shoulder. ‘Here we pay before eating: the customer may not be happy when he leaves…’
‘Oh, I see,’ thought Danglars. ‘It’s not like in Paris, quite apart from the fact that they are probably going to fleece me; but let’s do things in style. Come now, I’ve always been told how cheap it is living in Italy. A chicken must be worth some twelve sous in Rome.’
‘Here you are,’ he said, throwing a louis to Peppino.
Peppino picked up the louis, and Danglars again put the knife on the bird.
‘One moment, Excellency,’ said Peppino, getting up. ‘Your Excellency still owes me something.’
‘Didn’t I say they would fleece me?’ Danglars muttered. But, resolving to make the best of this extortion, he asked: ‘So, how much do I still owe you for this skinny old boiler?’
‘Your Excellency has given me a louis on account.’
‘A louis, on account, for a chicken?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Come, you’re joking.’
‘That leaves only four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine louis that Your Excellency still owes me.’
Danglars stared wide-eyed at the announcement of this enormous pleasantry. ‘Oh, very funny,’ he muttered. ‘Very funny indeed.’ He was about to go back to cutting up the chicken, but Peppino grasped his right hand with his own left hand, while holding out the other.
‘Come,’ he said.
‘You’re not joking?’ Danglars asked.
‘We never joke, Excellency,’ said Peppino, as serious as a Quaker.
‘What! A hundred thousand francs for this chicken!’
‘Excellency, you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to raise poultry in these confounded caves.’
‘Come, come,’ said Danglars. ‘I find this very entertaining… Very amusing, I must say. But, as I’m hungry, let me eat. Here, there’s another louis for yourself, my friend.’
‘Then that will be only four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight louis,’ Peppino said, with unaltered equanimity. ‘If we are patient, we’ll get there in the end.’
‘Now, see here,’ said Danglars, disgusted by this persistent determination to make fun of him, ‘as far as that goes, never. Go to hell! You don’t know the person you’re dealing with.’
Peppino made a sign, and the young boy reached out and snatched away the chicken. Danglars threw himself back on the goatskin bed and Peppino shut the door, then went back to eating his chick peas.
Danglars could not see what Peppino was doing, but the clatter of the bandit’s teeth left the prisoner in no doubt as to the nature of the exercise he was engaged in. It was quite clear that he was eating, and even that he was eating very noisily, like a badly brought-up young man.
‘Brute!’ Danglars said. Peppino pretended not to hear. Without even turning around, he went on eating at a very sensible pace. Danglars’ stomach seemed to have as many holes in it as the barrel of the Danaids.2 He couldn’t believe that he would ever manage to fill it. However, he lasted for another half-hour, though it is true to say that that half-hour seemed to him li
ke a century.
Then he got up again and went to the door.
‘Come, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘Don’t keep me on tenterhooks like this any longer. Just tell me straight away what you want of me.’
‘But, Excellency, why not rather say what you want of us? Give us your orders and we shall carry them out.’
‘Well, first, open the door.’
Peppino opened it.
‘I want,’ Danglars said, ‘by God, I want to eat!’
‘You’re hungry?’
‘As you very well know.’
‘What would Your Excellency like to eat?’
‘A piece of dry bread, since chicken is priceless in these accursed caves.’
‘Bread! Very well,’ said Peppino. And he called out: ‘Ho, there, bring some bread!’
A young boy brought a roll.
‘There you are,’ said Peppino.
‘How much?’ Danglars asked.
‘Four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight louis: You have two louis’ credit.’
‘What! A bread roll is a hundred thousand francs?’
‘A hundred thousand,’ said Peppino.
‘But you asked me the same price for a chicken.’
‘We don’t offer an à la carte menu; only prix fixe. Whether you eat a lot or a little, ask for ten dishes or just one, it’s still the same amount.’
‘This joke again! My good friend, I tell you, this is absurd, it’s ridiculous! Why not tell me at once that you want me to die of starvation: it would be quicker.’
‘No, Excellency. You are the one who wants to commit suicide. Pay up and eat up.’
‘What can I pay with, you frightful creature?’ Danglars said in exasperation. ‘Do you think I carry a hundred thousand francs around in my pocket?’
‘You have five million and fifty thousand francs in your pocket, Excellency,’ said Peppino. ‘That is a hundred chickens at a hundred thousand francs and half a chicken at fifty thousand.’
Danglars shuddered and the scales fell from his eyes. It was still a joke, but he understood it at last. It is even true to say that he found it more piquant than he had a moment before.
‘Come, come, now,’ he said. ‘If I give you those hundred thousand francs, will you at least consider us quits and let me eat in peace?’
‘Of course,’ said Peppino.
‘But how can I give them to you?’ Danglars asked, breathing more freely.
‘Nothing could be easier. You have a credit with Messrs Thomson and French, Via dei Banchi, in Rome. Give us a bill for four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight louis on those gentlemen, and our banker will cash it for us.’
Danglars at least wanted to show willing. He took the pen and paper which Peppino offered him, wrote out the order and signed it.
‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s a bill, payable to bearer.’
‘And that’s your chicken.’
Danglars cut into the fowl with a sigh. It seemed to him very thin for such a large sum of money. As for Peppino, he read the paper carefully, put it in his pocket and went on eating his chick peas.
CXVI
THE PARDON
The next day, Danglars was hungry again. The air of this cave was decidedly stimulating to the appetite, but the prisoner thought that today he would have no further expense. Being a thrifty man, he had hidden half of his chicken and a piece of his bread in the corner of the cell. But no sooner had he eaten them than he was thirsty. He had not thought of that.
He struggled against his thirst until he felt his parched tongue sticking to his palate. Then, unable to resist the fire devouring him, he called out.
The sentry opened the door; it was a new face. Danglars felt that it would be better to deal with a more familiar one and called for Peppino.
‘Here I am, Excellency,’ the bandit said, arriving promptly (which seemed a good omen to the banker). ‘What would you like?’
‘Something to drink,’ the prisoner said.
‘Excellency, you know that wine is ridiculously expensive in the region around Rome.’
‘Then give me water,’ said Danglars, trying to parry the blow.
‘Oh, Excellency, water is even scarcer than wine. The drought has been so bad!’
‘I see,’ said Danglars. ‘It appears that we are going to start that again.’ Though he was smiling, to give the impression that he was joking, the wretch felt sweat beading on his forehead.
‘Now, now, friend,’ he continued, when Peppino made no response. ‘I’m asking you for a glass of wine. Will you refuse me?’
‘I’ve already told Your Excellency that we don’t sell retail or by the glass,’ said Peppino.
‘Very well, give me a bottle.’
‘Of which?’
‘The cheaper.’
‘They are both the same price.’
‘Which is… ?’
‘Twenty-five thousand francs a bottle.’
‘Tell me,’ said Danglars, with a bitterness that only Harpagon1 could have noted on the scale of the human voice, ‘Tell me that you want to skin me alive, it would be quicker than devouring me piecemeal.’
‘Perhaps that is what the master intends,’ said Peppino.
‘Who is the master?’
‘The one to whom you were taken the day before yesterday.’
‘And where is he?’
‘Here.’
‘Let me see him.’
‘That’s easy.’
A moment later, Luigi Vampa was standing in front of Danglars. ‘Did you call for me?’ he asked his prisoner.
‘Are you the leader of those who brought me here, Monsieur?’
‘Yes, Excellency.’
‘What ransom do you want from me? Tell me.’
‘Just the five million you have on you.’
Danglars felt a dreadful shudder run through his heart. ‘That is all I have in the world, Monsieur,’ he said, ‘and the remains of a vast fortune. If you take that away from me, take my life.’
‘We have been forbidden to shed your blood, Excellency.’
‘By whom?’
‘By the person whom we obey.’
‘So you do obey somebody?’
‘Yes, a leader.’
‘I thought that you yourself were the leader.’
‘I am the leader of these men, but another is my leader.’
‘And does this leader obey anyone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whom?’
‘God.’
Danglars thought for a moment. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
‘Possibly.’
‘Did the leader tell you to treat me in this way?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But my money will run out.’
‘Probably.’
‘Come, come,’ said Danglars. ‘Would you like a million?’
‘No.’
‘Two?’
‘No.’
‘Three million? Four? Come now, four million? I’ll give it to you on condition you let me go.’
‘Why do you offer us four million for something that is worth five?’ said Vampa. ‘That’s usury, Signor Banker, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Take it all! Take it all, I say!’ Danglars said. ‘And kill me!’
‘Come, come, Excellency, calm yourself. You will whip up your blood, and that will give you an appetite to eat a million a day. Be more economical, please!’
‘But when I have no more money to pay you… !’ Danglars said in exasperation.
‘Then you’ll go hungry.’
‘Go hungry?’ said Danglars, turning pale.
‘Quite probably,’ said Vampa with admirable equanimity.
‘But you said you did not wish to kill me?’
‘No.’
‘Yet you do want to let me starve to death?’
‘That’s different.’
‘Well, you wretches,’ Danglars cried, ‘I shall foil your vi
le schemes! If I have to die, I should rather get it over at once. Make me suffer, torture me, kill me, but you shall not have my signature again!’
‘As you wish, Excellency,’ said Vampa. And he left the cell.
With a roar of frustration Danglars threw himself down on his goatskin.
Who were these men? Who was their invisible leader? What plan were they carrying out against him? And when everyone else was able to buy freedom, why could he not do the same?
Oh, certainly, death, sudden and violent, was a good way to foil his implacable enemies, who seemed to be pursuing him with some incomprehensible desire for vengeance. Yes, but that meant dying! Perhaps for the first time in his long career, Danglars thought of death with a simultaneous desire and a fear of dying: the moment had come for him to look directly at the implacable spectre which hovers over every living creature and which, at every heartbeat, says to itself: You will die!
Danglars was like one of those wild animals that at first are excited by the hunt, then are driven to desperation and which sometimes, in their very desperation, manage to escape. It was of escape that Danglars was thinking.
But the walls were solid rock and in front of the only entrance to the cell a man was reading. Behind him could be seen the shapes of others with rifles, passing back and forth.
His determination not to sign lasted for two days, after which he asked for food and offered a million. He was served a magnificent dinner and they took his million.
From then on the unfortunate prisoner’s life was one of continual rambling. He had suffered so much that he no longer wished to expose himself to suffering and he gave in to every demand. After twelve days, one afternoon when he had just eaten as he used to in the days when he had been rich, he did his accounts and discovered that he had signed so many bills to bearer that he had only 50,000 francs left.
His reaction to this discovery was an odd one. Having just given up five million, he tried to save these last 50,000 francs. Rather than give up his 50,000 francs, he resolved to suffer a life of privation; he had glimmers of hope that were close to madness. Having long forgotten God, he recalled only that God had sometimes performed miracles: that the cave might collapse, that the pontifical carabinieri might discover this accursed retreat and come to his aid; that then he would have 50,000 francs left and that this was enough to prevent a man dying of hunger. He begged God to let him keep these 50,000 francs and, as he prayed, he wept.
The Count of Monte Cristo (Penguin Classics eBook) Page 151
