Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  • • •

  “Oh, you are a thorough democrat,” said Monte Cristo, smiling.

  “But do you see to what you are exposing yourself?” said the baroness.

  “If, perchance, M. de Morcerf came, he would find M. Cavalcanti in that room, where he, the betrothed of Eugenie, has never been admitted.”

  “You may well say, perchance,” replied the banker; “for he comes so seldom, it would seem only chance that brings him.”

  “But should he come and find that young man with your daughter, he might be displeased.”

  “He? You are mistaken. M. Albert would not do us the honor to be jealous; he does not like Eugenie sufficiently. Besides, I care not for his displeasure.”

  “Still, situated as we are”—

  “Yes, do you know how we are situated? At his mother’s ball he danced once with Eugenie, and M. Cavalcanti three times, and he took no notice of it.” The valet announced the Vicomte Albert de Morcerf. The baroness rose hastily, and was going into the study, when Danglars stopped her. “Let her alone,” said he. She looked at him in amazement. Monte Cristo appeared to be unconscious of what passed. Albert entered, looking very handsome and in high spirits. He bowed politely to the baroness, familiarly to Danglars, and affectionately to Monte Cristo. Then turning to the baroness: “May I ask how Mademoiselle Danglars is?” said he.

  “She is quite well,” replied Danglars quickly; “she is at the piano with M. Cavalcanti.” Albert retained his calm and indifferent manner; he might feel perhaps annoyed, but he knew Monte Cristo’s eye was on him. “M. Cavalcanti has a fine tenor voice,” said he, “and Mademoiselle Eugenie a splendid soprano, and then she plays the piano like Thalberg. The concert must be a delightful one.”

  “They suit each other remarkably well,” said Danglars. Albert appeared not to notice this remark, which was, however, so rude that Madame Danglars blushed.

  “I, too,” said the young man, “am a musician—at least, my masters used to tell me so; but it is strange that my voice never would suit any other, and a soprano less than any.” Danglars smiled, and seemed to say, “It is of no consequence.” Then, hoping doubtless to effect his purpose, he said,—“The prince and my daughter were universally admired yesterday. You were not of the party, M. de Morcerf?”

  “What prince?” asked Albert. “Prince Cavalcanti,” said Danglars, who persisted in giving the young man that title.

  “Pardon me,” said Albert, “I was not aware that he was a prince. And Prince Cavalcanti sang with Mademoiselle Eugenie yesterday? It must have been charming, indeed. I regret not having heard them. But I was unable to accept your invitation, having promised to accompany my mother to a German concert given by the Baroness of Chateau-Renaud.” This was followed by rather an awkward silence. “May I also be allowed,” said Morcerf, “to pay my respects to Mademoiselle Danglars?”

  “Wait a moment,” said the banker, stopping the young man; “do you hear that delightful cavatina? Ta, ta, ta, ti, ta, ti, ta, ta; it is charming, let them finish—one moment. Bravo, bravi, brava!” The banker was enthusiastic in his applause.

  “Indeed,” said Albert, “it is exquisite; it is impossible to understand the music of his country better than Prince Cavalcanti does. You said prince, did you not? But he can easily become one, if he is not already; it is no uncommon thing in Italy. But to return to the charming musicians—you should give us a treat, Danglars, without telling them there is a stranger. Ask them to sing one more song; it is so delightful to hear music in the distance, when the musicians are unrestrained by observation.”

  Danglars was quite annoyed by the young man’s indifference. He took Monte Cristo aside. “What do you think of our lover?” said he.

  “He appears cool. But, then your word is given.”

  “Yes, doubtless I have promised to give my daughter to a man who loves her, but not to one who does not. See him there, cold as marble and proud like his father. If he were rich, if he had Cavalcanti’s fortune, that might be pardoned. Ma foi, I haven’t consulted my daughter; but if she has good taste”—

  “Oh,” said Monte Cristo, “my fondness may blind me, but I assure you I consider Morcerf a charming young man who will render your daughter happy and will sooner or later attain a certain amount of distinction, and his father’s position is good.”

  “Hem,” said Danglars.

  “Why do you doubt?”

  “The past—that obscurity on the past.”

  “But that does not affect the son.”

  “Very true.”

  “Now, I beg of you, don’t go off your head. It’s a month now that you have been thinking of this marriage, and you must see that it throws some responsibility on me, for it was at my house you met this young Cavalcanti, whom I do not really know at all.”

  “But I do.”

  “Have you made inquiry?”

  “Is there any need of that! Does not his appearance speak for him? And he is very rich.”

  “I am not so sure of that.”

  “And yet you said he had money.”

  “Fifty thousand livres—a mere trifle.”

  “He is well educated.”

  “Hem,” said Monte Cristo in his turn.

  “He is a musician.”

  “So are all Italians.”

  “Come, count, you do not do that young man justice.”

  “Well, I acknowledge it annoys me, knowing your connection with the Morcerf family, to see him throw himself in the way.” Danglars burst out laughing. “What a Puritan you are!” said he; “that happens every day.”

  “But you cannot break it off in this way; the Morcerfs are depending on this union.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Positively.”

  “Then let them explain themselves; you should give the father a hint, you are so intimate with the family.”

  “I?—where the devil did you find out that?”

  “At their ball; it was apparent enough. Why, did not the countess, the proud Mercedes, the disdainful Catalane, who will scarcely open her lips to her oldest acquaintances, take your arm, lead you into the garden, into the private walks, and remain there for half an hour?”

  “Ah, baron, baron,” said Albert, “you are not listening—what barbarism in a megalomaniac like you!”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me, Sir Mocker,” said Danglars; then turning to the count he said, “but will you undertake to speak to the father?”

  “Willingly, if you wish it.”

  “But let it be done explicitly and positively. If he demands my daughter let him fix the day—declare his conditions; in short, let us either understand each other, or quarrel. You understand—no more delay.”

  “Yes, sir, I will give my attention to the subject.”

  “I do not say that I await with pleasure his decision, but I do await it. A banker must, you know, be a slave to his promise.” And Danglars sighed as M. Cavalcanti had done half an hour before. “Bravi, bravo, brava!” cried Morcerf, parodying the banker, as the selection came to an end. Danglars began to look suspiciously at Morcerf, when some one came and whispered a few words to him. “I shall soon return,” said the banker to Monte Cristo; “wait for me. I shall, perhaps, have something to say to you.” And he went out.

  The baroness took advantage of her husband’s absence to push open the door of her daughter’s study, and M. Andrea, who was sitting before the piano with Mademoiselle Eugenie, started up like a jack-in-the-box. Albert bowed with a smile to Mademoiselle Danglars, who did not appear in the least disturbed, and returned his bow with her usual coolness. Cavalcanti was evidently embarrassed; he bowed to Morcerf, who replied with the most impertinent look possible. Then Albert launched out in praise of Mademoiselle Danglars’ voice, and on his regret, after what he had just heard, that he had been unable to be present the previous evening. Cavalcanti, being left alone, turned to Monte Cristo.

  “Come,” said Madame Danglars, “leave music and compliments, and let us go and take
tea.”

  “Come, Louise,” said Mademoiselle Danglars to her friend. They passed into the next drawing room, where tea was prepared. Just as they were beginning, in the English fashion, to leave the spoons in their cups, the door again opened and Danglars entered, visibly agitated. Monte Cristo observed it particularly, and by a look asked the banker for an explanation. “I have just received my courier from Greece,” said Danglars.

  “Ah, yes,” said the count; “that was the reason of your running away from us.”

  “Yes.”

  “How is King Otho getting on?” asked Albert in the most sprightly tone. Danglars cast another suspicious look towards him without answering, and Monte Cristo turned away to conceal the expression of pity which passed over his features, but which was gone in a moment. “We shall go together, shall we not?” said Albert to the count.

  “If you like,” replied the latter. Albert could not understand the banker’s look, and turning to Monte Cristo, who understood it perfectly,—“Did you see,” said he, “how he looked at me?”

  “Yes,” said the count; “but did you think there was anything particular in his look?”

  “Indeed, I did; and what does he mean by his news from Greece?”

  “How can I tell you?”

  “Because I imagine you have correspondents in that country.” Monte Cristo smiled significantly.

  “Stop,” said Albert, “here he comes. I shall compliment Mademoiselle Danglars on her cameo, while the father talks to you.”

  “If you compliment her at all, let it be on her voice, at least,” said Monte Cristo.

  “No, every one would do that.”

  “My dear viscount, you are dreadfully impertinent.” Albert advanced towards Eugenie, smiling. Meanwhile, Danglars, stooping to Monte Cristo’s ear, “Your advice was excellent,” said he; “there is a whole history connected with the names Fernand and Yanina.”

  “Indeed?” said Monte Cristo.

  “Yes, I will tell you all; but take away the young man; I cannot endure his presence.”

  “He is going with me. Shall I send the father to you?”

  “Immediately.”

  “Very well.” The count made a sign to Albert and they bowed to the ladies, and took their leave, Albert perfectly indifferent to Mademoiselle Danglars’ contempt, Monte Cristo reiterating his advice to Madame Danglars on the prudence a banker’s wife should exercise in providing for the future. M. Cavalcanti remained master of the field.

  Chapter 12. Haidee.

  Scarcely had the count’s horses cleared the angle of the boulevard, than Albert, turning towards the count, burst into a loud fit of laughter—much too loud in fact not to give the idea of its being rather forced and unnatural. “Well,” said he, “I will ask you the same question which Charles IX. put to Catherine de Medicis, after the massacre of Saint Bartholomew, ‘How have I played my little part?’“

  “To what do you allude?” asked Monte Cristo.

  “To the installation of my rival at M. Danglars’.”

  “What rival?”

  “Ma foi, what rival? Why, your protege, M. Andrea Cavalcanti!”

  “Ah, no joking, viscount, if you please; I do not patronize M. Andrea—at least, not as concerns M. Danglars.”

  “And you would be to blame for not assisting him, if the young man really needed your help in that quarter, but, happily for me, he can dispense with it.”

  “What, do you think he is paying his addresses?”

  “I am certain of it; his languishing looks and modulated tones when addressing Mademoiselle Danglars fully proclaim his intentions. He aspires to the hand of the proud Eugenie.”

  “What does that signify, so long as they favor your suit?”

  “But it is not the case, my dear count: on the contrary. I am repulsed on all sides.”

  “What!”

  “It is so indeed; Mademoiselle Eugenie scarcely answers me, and Mademoiselle d’Armilly, her confidant, does not speak to me at all.”

  “But the father has the greatest regard possible for you,” said Monte Cristo.

  “He? Oh, no, he has plunged a thousand daggers into my heart, tragedy-weapons, I own, which instead of wounding sheathe their points in their own handles, but daggers which he nevertheless believed to be real and deadly.”

  “Jealousy indicates affection.”

  “True; but I am not jealous.”

  “He is.”

  “Of whom?—of Debray?”

  “No, of you.”

  “Of me? I will engage to say that before a week is past the door will be closed against me.”

  “You are mistaken, my dear viscount.”

  “Prove it to me.”

  “Do you wish me to do so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I am charged with the commission of endeavoring to induce the Comte de Morcerf to make some definite arrangement with the baron.”

  “By whom are you charged?”

  “By the baron himself.”

  “Oh,” said Albert with all the cajolery of which he was capable. “You surely will not do that, my dear count?”

  “Certainly I shall, Albert, as I have promised to do it.”

  “Well,” said Albert, with a sigh, “it seems you are determined to marry me.”

  “I am determined to try and be on good terms with everybody, at all events,” said Monte Cristo. “But apropos of Debray, how is it that I have not seen him lately at the baron’s house?”

  “There has been a misunderstanding.”

  “What, with the baroness?”

  “No, with the baron.”

  “Has he perceived anything?”

  “Ah, that is a good joke!”

  “Do you think he suspects?” said Monte Cristo with charming artlessness.

  “Where have you come from, my dear count?” said Albert.

  “From Congo, if you will.”

  “It must be farther off than even that.”

  “But what do I know of your Parisian husbands?”

  “Oh, my dear count, husbands are pretty much the same everywhere; an individual husband of any country is a pretty fair specimen of the whole race.”

  “But then, what can have led to the quarrel between Danglars and Debray? They seemed to understand each other so well,” said Monte Cristo with renewed energy.

  “Ah, now you are trying to penetrate into the mysteries of Isis, in which I am not initiated. When M. Andrea Cavalcanti has become one of the family, you can ask him that question.” The carriage stopped. “Here we are,” said Monte Cristo; “it is only half-past ten o’clock, come in.”

  “Certainly I will.”

  “My carriage shall take you back.”

  “No, thank you; I gave orders for my coupe to follow me.”

  “There it is, then,” said Monte Cristo, as he stepped out of the carriage. They both went into the house; the drawing room was lighted up—they went in there. “You will make tea for us, Baptistin,” said the count. Baptistin left the room without waiting to answer, and in two seconds reappeared, bringing on a waiter all that his master had ordered, ready prepared, and appearing to have sprung from the ground, like the repasts which we read of in fairy tales. “Really, my dear count,” said Morcerf, “what I admire in you is, not so much your riches, for perhaps there are people even wealthier than yourself, nor is it only your wit, for Beaumarchais might have possessed as much,—but it is your manner of being served, without any questions, in a moment, in a second; it is as if they guessed what you wanted by your manner of ringing, and made a point of keeping everything you can possibly desire in constant readiness.”

  “What you say is perhaps true; they know my habits. For instance, you shall see; how do you wish to occupy yourself during tea-time?”

  “Ma foi, I should like to smoke.”

  Monte Cristo took the gong and struck it once. In about the space of a second a private door opened, and Ali appeared, bringing two chibouques filled with excellent latakia. �
��It is quite wonderful,” said Albert.

  “Oh no, it is as simple as possible,” replied Monte Cristo. “Ali knows I generally smoke while I am taking my tea or coffee; he has heard that I ordered tea, and he also knows that I brought you home with me; when I summoned him he naturally guessed the reason of my doing so, and as he comes from a country where hospitality is especially manifested through the medium of smoking, he naturally concludes that we shall smoke in company, and therefore brings two chibouques instead of one—and now the mystery is solved.”

  “Certainly you give a most commonplace air to your explanation, but it is not the less true that you—Ah, but what do I hear?” and Morcerf inclined his head towards the door, through which sounds seemed to issue resembling those of a guitar.

  “Ma foi, my dear viscount, you are fated to hear music this evening; you have only escaped from Mademoiselle Danglars’ piano, to be attacked by Haidee’s guzla.”

  “Haidee—what an adorable name! Are there, then, really women who bear the name of Haidee anywhere but in Byron’s poems?”

  “Certainly there are. Haidee is a very uncommon name in France, but is common enough in Albania and Epirus; it is as if you said, for example, Chastity, Modesty, Innocence,—it is a kind of baptismal name, as you Parisians call it.”

  “Oh, that is charming,” said Albert, “how I should like to hear my countrywomen called Mademoiselle Goodness, Mademoiselle Silence, Mademoiselle Christian Charity! Only think, then, if Mademoiselle Danglars, instead of being called Claire-Marie-Eugenie, had been named Mademoiselle Chastity-Modesty-Innocence Danglars; what a fine effect that would have produced on the announcement of her marriage!”

  “Hush,” said the count, “do not joke in so loud a tone; Haidee may hear you, perhaps.”

  “And you think she would be angry?”

  “No, certainly not,” said the count with a haughty expression.

  “She is very amiable, then, is she not?” said Albert.

  “It is not to be called amiability, it is her duty; a slave does not dictate to a master.”

  “Come; you are joking yourself now. Are there any more slaves to be had who bear this beautiful name?”

  “Undoubtedly.”