Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  “Certainly it is not mine.”

  “Once for all, sir,” replied the baroness sharply, “I tell you I will not hear cash named; it is a style of language I never heard in the house of my parents or in that of my first husband.”

  “Oh, I can well believe that, for neither of them was worth a penny.”

  “The better reason for my not being conversant with the slang of the bank, which is here dinning in my ears from morning to night; that noise of jingling crowns, which are constantly being counted and recounted, is odious to me. I only know one thing I dislike more, which is the sound of your voice.”

  “Really?” said Danglars. “Well, this surprises me, for I thought you took the liveliest interest in all my affairs!”

  “I? What could put such an idea into your head?”

  “Yourself.”

  “Ah?—what next?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  “I should like to know upon what occasion?”

  “Oh, mon Dieu, that is very easily done. Last February you were the first who told me of the Haitian funds. You had dreamed that a ship had entered the harbor at Havre, that this ship brought news that a payment we had looked upon as lost was going to be made. I know how clear-sighted your dreams are; I therefore purchased immediately as many shares as I could of the Haitian debt, and I gained 400,000 francs by it, of which 100,000 have been honestly paid to you. You spent it as you pleased; that was your business. In March there was a question about a grant to a railway. Three companies presented themselves, each offering equal securities. You told me that your instinct,—and although you pretend to know nothing about speculations, I think on the contrary, that your comprehension is very clear upon certain affairs,—well, you told me that your instinct led you to believe the grant would be given to the company called the Southern. I bought two thirds of the shares of that company; as you had foreseen, the shares trebled in value, and I picked up a million, from which 250,000 francs were paid to you for pin-money. How have you spent these 250,000 francs?—It is no business of mine.”

  “When are you coming to the point?” cried the baroness, shivering with anger and impatience.

  “Patience, madame, I am coming to it.”

  “That’s fortunate.”

  “In April you went to dine at the minister’s. You heard a private conversation respecting Spanish affairs—on the expulsion of Don Carlos. I bought some Spanish shares. The expulsion took place and I pocketed 600,000 francs the day Charles V. repassed the Bidassoa. Of these 600,000 francs you took 50,000 crowns. They were yours, you disposed of them according to your fancy, and I asked no questions; but it is not the less true that you have this year received 500,000 livres.”

  “Well, sir, and what then?”

  “Ah, yes, it was just after this that you spoiled everything.”

  “Really, your manner of speaking”—

  “It expresses my meaning, and that is all I want. Well, three days after that you talked politics with M. Debray, and you fancied from his words that Don Carlos had returned to Spain. Well, I sold my shares, the news got out, and I no longer sold—I gave them away, next day I find the news was false, and by this false report I have lost 700,000. francs.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, since I gave you a fourth of my gains, I think you owe me a fourth of my losses; the fourth of 700,000 francs is 175,000 francs.”

  “What you say is absurd, and I cannot see why M. Debray’s name is mixed up in this affair.”

  “Because if you do not possess the 175,000 francs I reclaim, you must have lent them to your friends, and M. Debray is one of your friends.”

  “For shame!” exclaimed the baroness.

  “Oh, let us have no gestures, no screams, no modern drama, or you will oblige me to tell you that I see Debray leave here, pocketing the whole of the 500,000 livres you have handed over to him this year, while he smiles to himself, saying that he has found what the most skillful players have never discovered—that is, a roulette where he wins without playing, and is no loser when he loses.”

  The baroness became enraged. “Wretch!” she cried, “will you dare to tell me you did not know what you now reproach me with?”

  “I do not say that I did know it, and I do not say that I did not know it. I merely tell you to look into my conduct during the last four years that we have ceased to be husband and wife, and see whether it has not always been consistent. Sometime after our rupture, you wished to study music, under the celebrated baritone who made such a successful appearance at the Theatre Italien; at the same time I felt inclined to learn dancing of the danseuse who acquired such a reputation in London. This cost me, on your account and mine, 100,000 francs. I said nothing, for we must have peace in the house; and 100,000 francs for a lady and gentleman to be properly instructed in music and dancing are not too much. Well, you soon become tired of singing, and you take a fancy to study diplomacy with the minister’s secretary. You understand, it signifies nothing to me so long as you pay for your lessons out of your own cashbox. But to-day I find you are drawing on mine, and that your apprenticeship may cost me 700,000 francs per month. Stop there, madame, for this cannot last. Either the diplomatist must give his lessons gratis, and I will tolerate him, or he must never set his foot again in my house;—do you understand, madame?”

  “Oh, this is too much,” cried Hermine, choking, “you are worse than despicable.”

  “But,” continued Danglars, “I find you did not even pause there”—

  “Insults!”

  “You are right; let us leave these facts alone, and reason coolly. I have never interfered in your affairs excepting for your good; treat me in the same way. You say you have nothing to do with my cashbox. Be it so. Do as you like with your own, but do not fill or empty mine. Besides, how do I know that this was not a political trick, that the minister enraged at seeing me in the opposition, and jealous of the popular sympathy I excite, has not concerted with M. Debray to ruin me?”

  “A probable thing!”

  “Why not? Who ever heard of such an occurrence as this?—a false telegraphic dispatch—it is almost impossible for wrong signals to be made as they were in the last two telegrams. It was done on purpose for me—I am sure of it.”

  “Sir,” said the baroness humbly, “are you not aware that the man employed there was dismissed, that they talked of going to law with him, that orders were issued to arrest him and that this order would have been put into execution if he had not escaped by flight, which proves that he was either mad or guilty? It was a mistake.”

  “Yes, which made fools laugh, which caused the minister to have a sleepless night, which has caused the minister’s secretaries to blacken several sheets of paper, but which has cost me 700,000 francs.”

  “But, sir,” said Hermine suddenly, “if all this is, as you say, caused by M. Debray, why, instead of going direct to him, do you come and tell me of it? Why, to accuse the man, do you address the woman?”

  “Do I know M. Debray?—do I wish to know him?—do I wish to know that he gives advice?—do I wish to follow it?—do I speculate? No; you do all this, not I.”

  “Still it seems to me, that as you profit by it—”

  Danglars shrugged his shoulders. “Foolish creature,” he exclaimed. “Women fancy they have talent because they have managed two or three intrigues without being the talk of Paris! But know that if you had even hidden your irregularities from your husband, who has but the commencement of the art—for generally husbands will not see—you would then have been but a faint imitation of most of your friends among the women of the world. But it has not been so with me,—I see, and always have seen, during the last sixteen years. You may, perhaps, have hidden a thought; but not a step, not an action, not a fault, has escaped me, while you flattered yourself upon your address, and firmly believed you had deceived me. What has been the result?—That, thanks to my pretended ignorance, there is none of your friends, from M. de Villefort to M. Debray, who has not t
rembled before me. There is not one who has not treated me as the master of the house,—the only title I desire with respect to you; there is not one, in fact, who would have dared to speak of me as I have spoken of them this day. I will allow you to make me hateful, but I will prevent your rendering me ridiculous, and, above all, I forbid you to ruin me.”

  The baroness had been tolerably composed until the name of Villefort had been pronounced; but then she became pale, and, rising, as if touched by a spring, she stretched out her hands as though conjuring an apparition; she then took two or three steps towards her husband, as though to tear the secret from him, of which he was ignorant, or which he withheld from some odious calculation,—odious, as all his calculations were. “M. de Villefort!—What do you mean?”

  “I mean that M. de Nargonne, your first husband, being neither a philosopher nor a banker, or perhaps being both, and seeing there was nothing to be got out of a king’s attorney, died of grief or anger at finding, after an absence of nine months, that you had been enceinte six. I am brutal,—I not only allow it, but boast of it; it is one of the reasons of my success in commercial business. Why did he kill himself instead of you? Because he had no cash to save. My life belongs to my cash. M. Debray has made me lose 700,000 francs; let him bear his share of the loss, and we will go on as before; if not, let him become bankrupt for the 250,000 livres, and do as all bankrupts do—disappear. He is a charming fellow, I allow, when his news is correct; but when it is not, there are fifty others in the world who would do better than he.”

  Madame Danglars was rooted to the spot; she made a violent effort to reply to this last attack, but she fell upon a chair thinking of Villefort, of the dinner scene, of the strange series of misfortunes which had taken place in her house during the last few days, and changed the usual calm of her establishment to a scene of scandalous debate. Danglars did not even look at her, though she did her best to faint. He shut the bedroom door after him, without adding another word, and returned to his apartments; and when Madame Danglars recovered from her half-fainting condition, she could almost believe that she had had a disagreeable dream.

  The Count of Monte Cristo: The Wild and Wanton Edition

  Volume 4

  Monica Corwin and Alexandre Dumas

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2014 by Monica Corwin and Alexandre Dumas

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-6889-8

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6889-3

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-6890-1

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6890-9

  Cover art © istock.com/Yuri_Arcurs and istock.com/wragg

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1. Matrimonial Projects.

  Chapter 2. At the Office of the King’s Attorney.

  Chapter 3. A Summer Ball.

  Chapter 4. The Inquiry.

  Chapter 5. The Ball.

  Chapter 6. Bread and Salt.

  Chapter 7. Madame de Saint-Meran.

  Chapter 8. The Promise.

  Chapter 9. The Villefort Family Vault.

  Chapter 10. A Signed Statement.

  Chapter 11. Progress of Cavalcanti the Younger.

  Chapter 12. Haidee.

  Chapter 13. We hear From Yanina.

  Chapter 14. The Lemonade.

  Chapter 15. The Accusation.

  Chapter 16. The Room of the Retired Baker.

  Chapter 17. The Burglary.

  Chapter 18. The Hand of God.

  Chapter 19. Beauchamp.

  Chapter 20. The Journey.

  Chapter 21. The Trial.

  Chapter 22. The Challenge.

  Chapter 23. The Insult.

  Chapter 1. Matrimonial Projects.

  The day following this scene, at the hour the banker usually chose to pay a visit to Madame Danglars on his way to his office, his coupe did not appear. At this time, that is, about half-past twelve, Madame Danglars ordered her carriage, and went out. Danglars, hidden behind a curtain, watched the departure he had been waiting for. He gave orders that he should be informed as soon as Madame Danglars appeared; but at two o’clock she had not returned. He then called for his horses, drove to the Chamber, and inscribed his name to speak against the budget. From twelve to two o’clock Danglars had remained in his study, unsealing his dispatches, and becoming more and more sad every minute, heaping figure upon figure, and receiving, among other visits, one from Major Cavalcanti, who, as stiff and exact as ever, presented himself precisely at the hour named the night before, to terminate his business with the banker. On leaving the Chamber, Danglars, who had shown violent marks of agitation during the sitting, and been bitterer than ever against the ministry, reentered his carriage, and told the coachman to drive to the Avenue des Champs-Elysees, No. 30.

  Monte Cristo was at home; only he was engaged with some one and begged Danglars to wait for a moment in the drawing room. While the banker was waiting in the anteroom, the door opened, and a man dressed as an abbe and doubtless more familiar with the house than he was, came in and instead of waiting, merely bowed, passed on to the farther apartments, and disappeared. A minute after the door by which the priest had entered reopened, and Monte Cristo appeared. “Pardon me,” said he, “my dear baron, but one of my friends, the Abbe Busoni, whom you perhaps saw pass by, has just arrived in Paris; not having seen him for a long time, I could not make up my mind to leave him sooner, so I hope this will be sufficient reason for my having made you wait.”

  “Nay,” said Danglars, “it is my fault; I have chosen my visit at a wrong time, and will retire.”

  “Not at all; on the contrary, be seated; but what is the matter with you? You look careworn; really, you alarm me. Melancholy in a capitalist, like the appearance of a comet, presages some misfortune to the world.”

  “I have been in ill-luck for several days,” said Danglars, “and I have heard nothing but bad news.”

  “Ah, indeed?” said Monte Cristo. “Have you had another fall at the Bourse?”

  “No; I am safe for a few days at least. I am only annoyed about a bankrupt of Trieste.”

  “Really? Does it happen to be Jacopo Manfredi?”

  “Exactly so. Imagine a man who has transacted business with me for I don’t know how long, to the amount of 800,000 or 900,000 francs during the year. Never a mistake or delay—a fellow who paid like a prince. Well, I was a million in advance with him, and now my fine Jacopo Manfredi suspends payment!”

  “Really?”

  “It is an unheard-of fatality. I draw upon him for 600,000 francs, my bills are returned unpaid, and, more than that, I hold bills of exchange signed by him to the value of 400,000 francs, payable at his correspondent’s in Paris at the end of this month. Today is the 30th. I present them; but my correspondent has disappeared. This, with my Spanish affairs, made a pretty end to the month.”

  “Then you really lost by that affair in Spain?”

  “Yes; only 700,000 francs out of my cashbox—nothing more!”

  “Why, how could you make such a mistake—such an old stager?”

  “Oh, it is all my wife’s fault. She dreamed Don Carlos had returned to Spain; she believes in dreams. It is magnetism, she says, and when she dreams a thing it is sure to happen, she assures me. On this conviction I allow her to speculate, she having her bank and her stockbroker; she speculated and lost. It is true she speculates with her own money, not mine; nevertheless, you can understand that when 700,000 francs leave the wife’s pocket, the husband
always finds it out. But do you mean to say you have not heard of this? Why, the thing has made a tremendous noise.”

  “Yes, I heard it spoken of, but I did not know the details, and then no one can be more ignorant than I am of the affairs in the Bourse.”

  “Then you do not speculate?”

  “I?—How could I speculate when I already have so much trouble in regulating my income? I should be obliged, besides my steward, to keep a clerk and a boy. But touching these Spanish affairs, I think that the baroness did not dream the whole of the Don Carlos matter. The papers said something about it, did they not?”

  “Then you believe the papers?”

  “I?—not the least in the world; only I fancied that the honest messenger was an exception to the rule, and that it only announced telegraphic dispatches.”

  “Well, that’s what puzzles me,” replied Danglars; “the news of the return of Don Carlos was brought by telegraph.”

  “So that,” said Monte Cristo, “you have lost nearly 1,700,000 francs this month.”

  “Not nearly, indeed; that is exactly my loss.”

  “Diable,” said Monte Cristo compassionately, “it is a hard blow for a third-rate fortune.”

  “Third-rate,” said Danglars, rather humble, “what do you mean by that?”

  “Certainly,” continued Monte Cristo, “I make three assortments in fortune—first-rate, second-rate, and third-rate fortunes. I call those first-rate which are composed of treasures one possesses under one’s hand, such as mines, lands, and funded property, in such states as France, Austria, and England, provided these treasures and property form a total of about a hundred millions; I call those second-rate fortunes, that are gained by manufacturing enterprises, joint-stock companies, viceroyalties, and principalities, not drawing more than 1,500,000 francs, the whole forming a capital of about fifty millions; finally, I call those third-rate fortunes, which are composed of a fluctuating capital, dependent upon the will of others, or upon chances which a bankruptcy involves or a false telegram shakes, such as banks, speculations of the day—in fact, all operations under the influence of greater or less mischances, the whole bringing in a real or fictitious capital of about fifteen millions. I think this is about your position, is it not?”