“It seems that your memory is equally short in everything, Vampa,” said the Count, “and that, not only do you forget people’s faces, but also the conditions you make with them.”
“What conditions have I forgotten, Count?” inquired the bandit with the air of a man who, having committed an error, is anxious to repair it.
“Was it not agreed,” asked the Count, “that not only my person but that of my friends, should be respected by you?”
“And how have I broken faith, Your Excellency?”
“You have this evening carried off and conveyed hither the Viscount Albert de Morcerf. Well,” continued the Count, in a tone which made Franz shudder, “this young gentleman is one of my friends, this young gentleman is staying in the same hotel as myself, this young gentleman has done the Corso for a week in my carriage, and yet, I repeat to you, you have carried him off and conveyed him hither, and,” added the Count, taking a letter from his pocket, “you have set a ransom on him as if he were just anybody.”
“Why didn’t some of you tell me all this?” inquired the brigand chief, turning toward his men, who all retreated before his look. “Why have you allowed me to fail thus in my word toward a gentleman like the Count who has all our lives in his hands? By heavens! if I thought that one of you knew that the gentleman was a friend of His Excellency’s, I would blow his brains out with my own hand!”
“You see,” said the Count, turning toward Franz, “I told you there was some mistake.”
“Are you not alone?” asked Vampa with uneasiness.
“I am with the person to whom this letter was addressed, and to whom I desired to prove that Luigi Vampa was a man of his word. Come, Your Excellency, here is Luigi Vampa, who will himself express to you his regret at the mistake he has made.”
Franz approached; the chief advanced several steps toward him.
“Your Excellency is right welcome,” he said to him. “You heard what the Count just said and also my reply; let me add that I would not have had such a thing happen, not even for the four thousand piastres at which I had fixed your friend’s ransom.”
“But where is the Viscount?” said Franz, looking round anxiously.
“Nothing has happened to him, I hope?” asked the Count, with a frown.
“The prisoner is there,” replied Vampa, pointing to the recess in front of which the bandit sentry was on guard, “and I will go myself and tell him he is free.”
The chief went toward the place he had pointed out as Albert’s prison, and Franz and the Count followed. Vampa drew back a bolt and pushed open a door.
By the gleam of a lamp Albert was seen wrapped up in a cloak which one of the bandits had lent him, lying in a corner of the room in profound slumber.
“Well, I never!” said the Count, smiling in his own peculiar way. “That is not so bad for a man who is to be shot at seven o’clock tomorrow morning!”
Vampa looked at Albert in admiration. “You are right, Count,” he said, “this must be one of your friends.”
Then, going up to Albert, he touched him on the shoulder, saying: “Will Your Excellency please to awaken?”
Albert stretched out his arms, rubbed his eyes, and said: “Ah, is that you, captain? Well, you might have let me sleep. I was having such a delightful dream. I was dancing the galop at the Duke’s with the Countess G—”
Then he drew from his pocket his watch, which he had kept by him that he might see how the time sped.
“Half-past one only!” said he. “Why the devil do you rouse me at this hour?”
“To tell you that you are free, Excellency! A gentleman to whom I can refuse nothing has come to demand your liberty.”
“Come here?”
“Yes, here.”
“Really, that’s very kind of him!”
Albert looked round and perceived Franz.
“What! is it you, Franz, who have been so friendly . . . ?”
“No, not I, but our friend the Count of Monte Cristo.”
“You, Count?” said Albert gaily, the while arranging his neck-band and cuffs. “You are really a most valuable friend, and I hope you will consider me as eternally obliged to you, in the first place for the carriage and now for this service!” And he put out his hand; the Count shuddered as he gave his own, but he gave it nevertheless.
The bandit gazed on this scene with amazement; he was evidently accustomed to see his prisoners grovel before him, yet here was one whose gay spirits never faltered, even for one moment. As for Franz, he was delighted at the way in which Albert had maintained the honour of his country, even in the presence of death.
“If you make haste, Albert,” he said, “we shall still have time to finish the night at the Duke’s. You can continue your interrupted galop, so that you will owe no ill-will to Signor Luigi, who has, indeed, acted like a gentleman throughout this whole affair.”
“Quite right, we may reach the Palazzo by two o’clock. Signor Luigi,” continued Albert, “is there any formality to fulfil before I take leave of Your Excellency?”
“None, signore,” replied the bandit. “You are as free as the air.”
“Well, then, a happy and merry life to you! Come, messieurs, come! Ah! excuse me! May I?” And he lighted a cigar at a torch which one of the bandits was holding. “Now, Count,” he continued, “let us make all possible speed. I am most anxious to finish my evening at the Duke of Bracciano’s.”
They found the carriage where they had left it. The Count said a word to Ali, and the horses went off at a great speed.
It was just two o’clock by Albert’s watch when the two friends entered the ball-room.
Their return made quite a stir, but, as they entered together, all uneasiness on Albert’s account was instantly dispelled.
“Madame, you were kind enough to promise me a galop,” said Viscount Morcerf, advancing toward the Countess, “I am rather late in claiming this gracious promise, but my friend here, whose truthful character you well know, will assure you the delay was through no fault of mine.”
At this moment the music struck up for a waltz, and Albert put his arm round the Countess’s waist and disappeared with her in the whirl of dancers. Franz in the meanwhile was pondering over the peculiar shudder that shook the Count of Monte Cristo’s whole frame when he had been, in some sort, compelled to give his hand to Albert.
On rising the next morning, Albert’s first thought was to pay a visit to the Count. He had thanked him in the evening, it is true, but it seemed to him it was not too much to thank a man twice for a service such as the Count had rendered him.
The Count of Monte Cristo attracted Franz, yet filled him with terror, and he would not let Albert go alone. They were shown into the salon, where the Count joined them five minutes later.
Albert advanced toward him, saying: “Permit me, Count, to say to you this morning what I expressed so badly yesterday evening. Never shall I forget the way in which you came to my assistance, nor the fact that I practically owe you my life.”
“My dear fellow,” replied the Count smiling, “you are exaggerating your obligations toward me. You are indebted to me for a small economy of some twenty thousand francs in your travelling budget, and that is all; it is scarcely worth mentioning. On the other hand,” he added, “permit me to congratulate you on your admirable coolness and indifference in the face of danger.”
“Oh! tut, tut!” said Albert. “I tried to imagine I had had a quarrel resulting in a duel, and I wanted to show these bandits that though duels are fought in nearly every country of the world, it is only the French who fight with a smile on their lips. This, however, in no way lessens my obligations towards you, and I have come to ask you whether I, my friends, or my acquaintances cannot serve you in any way. My father, the Count of Morcerf, who is of Spanish origin, holds a high position both in France and in Spain, and he and all who love me will be only too pleased to be of any service to you.”
“I will own that I expected your offer, Monsieur de Morcerf,�
�� said the Count, “and I accept it wholeheartedly. I had already decided to ask you a great favour. I have never yet been to Paris. I do not know it at all. I should probably have undertaken this indispensable journey long ago, had I known someone to introduce me into Paris society. Your offer has decided me. When I go to France, my dear Monsieur de Morcerf” (the Count accompanied these words with a peculiar smile), “will you undertake to introduce me to the society of the capital, where I shall be as complete a stranger as though I came from Huron or Cochin China?”
“It would give me great pleasure to do so,” replied Albert. “You can depend on me and mine to do all in our power for you.”
“I accept your offer,” said the Count, “for I assure you I have only been waiting for just such an opportunity to realize a hope I have had in view for some time past.”
“When do you propose going?”
“When shall you be there yourself ?”
“Oh, I shall be there in a fortnight or three weeks at the latest.”
“Very well,” said the Count, “I will give you three months, which would be allowing a wide margin.” Then examining a calendar that was hanging near the mirror, he continued: “To day is the twenty-first of February. Will it suit you if I call on you on the twenty-first of May at half-past ten in the morning?”
“Splendid!” said Albert, “breakfast will be ready.”
“Where do you live?”
“Rue du Helder, number twenty-seven.”
“Very well,” said the Count. He took his notebook from his pocket and wrote: “Rue du Helder, number twenty-seven, May the twenty-first at 10.30 a.m.” “And now,” said he, replacing his notebook, “you may rely on me. The hand of your timepiece will not be more accurate than I shall be.”
“Shall I see you again before I leave?” Albert asked.
“That depends upon when you leave.”
“I leave at five o’clock to-morrow evening.”
“In that case I must bid you farewell. I have to go to Naples on business, and shall not be back until Saturday or Sunday. What about you, Baron?” the Count asked Franz. “Are you leaving Rome too?”
“Yes, I am going to Venice. I intend staying in Italy for another year or two.”
“We shall not see you in Paris, then?”
“I regret that I shall not have that pleasure.”
“Well then, I wish you a safe journey, messieurs,” said the Count to the two friends shaking hands with them both.
It was the first time Franz had touched this man’s hand, and he felt a shudder go through him, for his hand was as cold as a corpse.
“It is quite understood then,” said Albert, “that on your honour, you will visit me at number twenty-seven, Rue du Helder, at ten-thirty on the morning of the twenty-first of May, is it not?”
“At ten-thirty on the morning of the twenty-first of May,” repeated the Count.
Upon this the two young men took their leave of the Count and went to their own quarters.
“What is the matter with you?” Albert asked Franz. “You have a somewhat worried look!”
“I must own,” said Franz, “that the Count is a peculiar man, and I feel very uneasy about the appointment he has made with you in Paris.”
“Uneasy about our appointment! Really, my dear Franz, you must be mad!” exclaimed Albert.
“Whether I am mad or not, that’s what I feel about it,” said Franz.
Chapter XXX
THE GUESTS
In the house in the Rue du Helder, to which Albert de Morcerf had invited the Count of Monte Cristo, great preparations were being made on the morning of the twenty-first of May to do honour to the guest.
Albert de Morcerf’s house was at the corner of a large courtyard opposite another building set apart for the servants’ quarters. Only two of the windows faced the street; three others overlooked the courtyard, and two at the back overlooked the garden. Between the court and the garden was the spacious and fashionable residence of the Count and Countess of Morcerf, built in the unsightly Imperial style. A high wall ran the whole length of the property facing the street, and was surmounted at intervals by vases, and divided in the middle by a large wrought-iron gate, with gilt scrollings, which served as a carriage entrance; while pedestrians passed in and out of the building through a small door next to the porter’s lodge.
In the choice of a house for Albert it was easy to discern the delicate foresight of a mother, who, while not wishing to be separated from her son, realized that a young man of the Viscount’s age needed entire liberty. On the other hand, the intelligent egotism of a young man enchanted with the free and easy life of an only son who had been thoroughly pam pered could also be recognized.
On the morning of the appointed day the young man was sitting in a small salon on the ground floor. A valet entered. He had in one hand a bundle of newspapers, which he deposited on a table and in the other a packet of letters, which he gave to his young master.
Albert glanced carelessly at the different missives, selected two perfumed envelopes which were written in a small, neat handwriting, opened them and perused their contents with a certain amount of attention.
“How did these letters come?” he asked.
“The one came by post, and the other one was brought by Madame Danglars’ valet.”
“Inform Madame Danglars that I accept the seat she offers me in her box. Wait a moment . . . some time during the day tell Rosa that when I leave the Opera, I will sup with her as she asks. Take her six bottles of assorted wines, Cyprus, sherry, and Malaga, and a barrel of Ostend oysters; get the oysters from Borel’s, and be sure to tell him they are for me.”
“What time do you wish breakfast, monsieur?”
“What time is it now?”
“A quarter to ten.”
“Very well, have it ready punctually by half-past. By the way, is the Countess up yet?”
“If the Viscount wishes, I will inquire.”
“Do—and ask her for one of her liqueur cellarets, mine is incomplete; tell her also that I shall have the honour of calling on her at about three o’clock, and that I ask permission to introduce someone to her.”
The valet left the room. Albert threw himself on the divan, opened two or three newspapers, looked at the theatre page, turned up his nose on perceiving that an opera and not a ballet was to be given, looked in vain amongst the advertisements for a toothpowder of which he had heard, and finally threw down one after the other the three leading papers of Paris, muttering between his yawns: “Really these newspapers become more and more boring every day!”
Just then a carriage drew up at the door, and a moment later the valet announced M. Lucien Debray. A tall, fair young man with a pale face, clear grey eyes, and thin, compressed lips, wearing a blue suit with chased gold buttons, a white necktie, and tortoise-shell eyeglasses on a fine silk cord, entered the room with a semi-official air, without a smile and without saying a word.
“Good morning, Lucien! Good morning!” said Albert. “What punctuality! Did I say punctuality? Why, I expected you last, and you have arrived at five minutes to ten, whereas the time fixed was half-past ten. It is really marvellous!”
“Monsieur Beauchamp,” announced the servant.
“Come in, come in! you wielder of the terrible pen!” said Albert, rising and advancing to meet the young man. “Here is Debray, who detests you and will not read your works. Anyhow, that is what he says.”
“Quite right too, for I criticize his works without even knowing what he does,” said Beauchamp. “Good morning.” Then, turning to Albert, he asked: “What sort of people are you expecting for breakfast?”
“A gentleman and a diplomat,” was the reply.
“That means waiting another two hours for the gentleman and about three hours for the diplomat.”
“Nonsense, Beauchamp,” said Albert, “we shall sit down to breakfast punctually at half-past ten. In the meantime, follow Debray’s good example and taste my sherry and bis
cuits.”
“Well, then, I will stay. I must do something to distract my thoughts this morning.”
“Monsieur de Château-Renaud! Monsieur Maximilian Morrel!” said the valet, announcing two fresh guests.
“Now we are all here and can go in to breakfast,” said Beauchamp. “If I remember rightly, you only expected two more guests.”
“Morrel?” Albert murmured, surprised. “Morrel? Who is that?”
But before he had finished speaking, Monsieur de Château-Renaud, a handsome young man of thirty, and a gentleman to his fingertips, took Albert by the arm, saying:
“Allow me to introduce to you Monsieur Maximilian Morrel, Captain of Spahis,bd my friend and, what is more, my saviour. Salute my hero, Viscount!”
So saying, he stepped to one side and disclosed to the view of all present the tall and noble-looking young man with the wide brow, penetrating eyes and black moustache, whom our readers will remember having seen at Marseilles in circumstances sufficiently dramatic to prevent his being forgotten. A handsome uniform, partly French and partly Oriental, set off to perfection his broad chest decorated with the cross of the Legion of Honour, and showed up his graceful and stalwart figure. The young officer bowed with easy politeness. Being strong, he was graceful in his every movement.
“The Baron of Château-Renaud knew what pleasure it would give me, monsieur, to make your acquaintance,” said Albert courteously. “You are his friend, be mine too.”
“Well said!” remarked Château-Renaud, “and I hope that, given the occasion, he will do as much for you, Viscount, as he has done for me.”
“What has he done for you?”
“Oh, nothing worth mentioning!” said Morrel. “My friend is exaggerating.”
“What? Not worth mentioning!” said Château-Renaud. “Is life, then, not worth mentioning? Upon my word, that is rather too philosophical, my dear Morrel.”
“It is evident from all this that Captain Morrel saved your life. Tell us all about it,” said Beauchamp.
“Beauchamp, old fellow, you know I am dying of hunger,” said Debray. “Don’t begin any of your stories now.”
Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 25
