Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  “No, my lord.”

  “Call him, then; I wish to speak to him.” The concierge went to seek the valet de chambre, and returned with him in an instant.

  “My good friend,” said Albert, “I beg pardon for my intrusion, but I was anxious to know from your own mouth if your master was really out or not.”

  “He is really out, sir,” replied Baptistin.

  “Out, even to me?”

  “I know how happy my master always is to receive the vicomte,” said Baptistin; “and I should therefore never think of including him in any general order.”

  “You are right; and now I wish to see him on an affair of great importance. Do you think it will be long before he comes in?”

  “No, I think not, for he ordered his breakfast at ten o’clock.”

  “Well, I will go and take a turn in the Champs Elysees, and at ten o’clock I will return here; meanwhile, if the count should come in, will you beg him not to go out again without seeing me?”

  “You may depend on my doing so, sir,” said Baptistin.

  Albert left the cab in which he had come at the count’s door, intending to take a turn on foot. As he was passing the Allee des Veuves, he thought he saw the count’s horses standing at Gosset’s shooting gallery; he approached, and soon recognized the coachman. “Is the count shooting in the gallery?” said Morcerf.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the coachman. While he was speaking, Albert had heard the report of two or three pistol-shots. He entered, and on his way met the waiter. “Excuse me, my lord,” said the lad; “but will you have the kindness to wait a moment?”

  “What for, Philip?” asked Albert, who, being a constant visitor there, did not understand this opposition to his entrance.

  “Because the person who is now in the gallery prefers being alone, and never practices in the presence of any one.”

  “Not even before you, Philip? Then who loads his pistol?”

  “His servant.”

  “A Nubian?”

  “A negro.”

  “It is he, then.”

  “Do you know this gentleman?”

  “Yes, and I am come to look for him; he is a friend of mine.”

  “Oh, that is quite another thing, then. I will go immediately and inform him of your arrival.” And Philip, urged by his own curiosity, entered the gallery; a second afterwards, Monte Cristo appeared on the threshold. “I ask your pardon, my dear count,” said Albert, “for following you here, and I must first tell you that it was not the fault of your servants that I did so; I alone am to blame for the indiscretion. I went to your house, and they told me you were out, but that they expected you home at ten o’clock to breakfast. I was walking about in order to pass away the time till ten o’clock, when I caught sight of your carriage and horses.”

  “What you have just said induces me to hope that you intend breakfasting with me.”

  “No, thank you, I am thinking of other things besides breakfast just now; perhaps we may take that meal at a later hour and in worse company.”

  “What on earth are you talking of?”

  “I am to fight to-day.”

  “For what?”

  “I am going to fight”—

  “Yes, I understand that, but what is the quarrel? People fight for all sorts of reasons, you know.”

  “I fight in the cause of honor.”

  “Ah, that is something serious.”

  “So serious, that I come to beg you to render me a service.”

  “What is it?”

  “To be my second.”

  “That is a serious matter, and we will not discuss it here; let us speak of nothing till we get home. Ali, bring me some water.” The count turned up his sleeves, and passed into the little vestibule where the gentlemen were accustomed to wash their hands after shooting. “Come in, my lord,” said Philip in a low tone, “and I will show you something droll.” Morcerf entered, and in place of the usual target, he saw some playing cards fixed against the wall. At a distance Albert thought it was a complete suit, for he counted from the ace to the ten. “Ah, ha,” said Albert, “I see you were preparing for a game of cards.”

  “No,” said the count, “I was making a suit.”

  “How?” said Albert.

  “Those are really aces and twos which you see, but my shots have turned them into threes, fives, sevens, eights, nines, and tens.” Albert approached. In fact, the bullets had actually pierced the cards in the exact places which the painted signs would otherwise have occupied, the lines and distances being as regularly kept as if they had been ruled with pencil. “Diable,” said Morcerf.

  “What would you have, my dear viscount?” said Monte Cristo, wiping his hands on the towel which Ali had brought him; “I must occupy my leisure moments in some way or other. But come, I am waiting for you.” Both men entered Monte Cristo’s carriage, which in the course of a few minutes deposited them safely at No. 30. Monte Cristo took Albert into his study, and pointing to a seat, placed another for himself. “Now let us talk the matter over quietly,” said the count.

  “You see I am perfectly composed,” said Albert.

  “With whom are you going to fight?”

  “With Beauchamp.”

  “One of your friends!”

  “Of course; it is always with friends that one fights.”

  “I suppose you have some cause of quarrel?”

  “I have.”

  “What has he done to you?”

  “There appeared in his journal last night—but wait, and read for yourself.” And Albert handed over the paper to the count, who read as follows:—

  “A correspondent at Yanina informs us of a fact of which until now we had remained in ignorance. The castle which formed the protection of the town was given up to the Turks by a French officer named Fernand, in whom the grand vizier, Ali Tepelini, had reposed the greatest confidence.”

  “Well,” said Monte Cristo, “what do you see in that to annoy you?”

  “What do I see in it?”

  “Yes; what does it signify to you if the castle of Yanina was given up by a French officer?”

  “It signifies to my father, the Count of Morcerf, whose Christian name is Fernand!”

  “Did your father serve under Ali Pasha?”

  “Yes; that is to say, he fought for the independence of the Greeks, and hence arises the calumny.”

  “Oh, my dear viscount, do talk reason!”

  “I do not desire to do otherwise.”

  “Now, just tell me who the devil should know in France that the officer Fernand and the Count of Morcerf are one and the same person? and who cares now about Yanina, which was taken as long ago as the year 1822 or 1823?”

  “That just shows the meanness of this slander. They have allowed all this time to elapse, and then all of a sudden rake up events, which have been forgotten to furnish materials for scandal, in order to tarnish the luster of our high position. I inherit my father’s name, and I do not choose that the shadow of disgrace should darken it. I am going to Beauchamp, in whose journal this paragraph appears, and I shall insist on his retracting the assertion before two witnesses.”

  “Beauchamp will never retract.”

  “Then he must fight.”

  “No he will not, for he will tell you, what is very true, that perhaps there were fifty officers in the Greek army bearing the same name.”

  “We will fight, nevertheless. I will efface that blot on my father’s character. My father, who was such a brave soldier, whose career was so brilliant”—

  “Oh, well, he will add, ‘We are warranted in believing that this Fernand is not the illustrious Count of Morcerf, who also bears the same Christian name.’“

  “I am determined not to be content with anything short of an entire retractation.”

  “And you intend to make him do it in the presence of two witnesses, do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You do wrong.”

  “Which means, I suppose, that you re
fuse the service which I asked of you?”

  “You know my theory regarding duels; I told you my opinion on that subject, if you remember, when we were at Rome.”

  “Nevertheless, my dear count, I found you this morning engaged in an occupation but little consistent with the notions you profess to entertain.”

  “Because, my dear fellow, you understand one must never be eccentric. If one’s lot is cast among fools, it is necessary to study folly. I shall perhaps find myself one day called out by some harebrained scamp, who has no more real cause of quarrel with me than you have with Beauchamp; he may take me to task for some foolish trifle or other, he will bring his witnesses, or will insult me in some public place, and I am expected to kill him for all that.”

  “You admit that you would fight, then? Well, if so, why do you object to my doing so?”

  “I do not say that you ought not to fight, I only say that a duel is a serious thing, and ought not to be undertaken without due reflection.”

  “Did he reflect before he insulted my father?”

  “If he spoke hastily, and owns that he did so, you ought to be satisfied.”

  “Ah, my dear count, you are far too indulgent.”

  “And you are far too exacting. Supposing, for instance, and do not be angry at what I am going to say”—

  “Well.”

  “Supposing the assertion to be really true?”

  “A son ought not to submit to such a stain on his father’s honor.”

  “Ma foi, we live in times when there is much to which we must submit.”

  “That is precisely the fault of the age.”

  “And do you undertake to reform it?”

  “Yes, as far as I am personally concerned.”

  “Well, you are indeed exacting, my dear fellow!”

  “Yes, I own it.”

  “Are you quite impervious to good advice?”

  “Not when it comes from a friend.”

  “And do you account me that title?”

  “Certainly I do.”

  “Well, then, before going to Beauchamp with your witnesses, seek further information on the subject.”

  “From whom?”

  “From Haidee.”

  “Why, what can be the use of mixing a woman up in the affair?—what can she do in it?”

  “She can declare to you, for example, that your father had no hand whatever in the defeat and death of the vizier; or if by chance he had, indeed, the misfortune to”—

  “I have told you, my dear count, that I would not for one moment admit of such a proposition.”

  “You reject this means of information, then?”

  “I do—most decidedly.”

  “Then let me offer one more word of advice.”

  “Do so, then, but let it be the last.”

  “You do not wish to hear it, perhaps?”

  “On the contrary, I request it.”

  “Do not take any witnesses with you when you go to Beauchamp—visit him alone.”

  “That would be contrary to all custom.”

  “Your case is not an ordinary one.”

  “And what is your reason for advising me to go alone?”

  “Because then the affair will rest between you and Beauchamp.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “I will do so. If Beauchamp be disposed to retract, you ought at least to give him the opportunity of doing it of his own free will,—the satisfaction to you will be the same. If, on the contrary, he refuses to do so, it will then be quite time enough to admit two strangers into your secret.”

  “They will not be strangers, they will be friends.”

  “Ah, but the friends of to-day are the enemies of tomorrow; Beauchamp, for instance.”

  “So you recommend”—

  “I recommend you to be prudent.”

  “Then you advise me to go alone to Beauchamp?”

  “I do, and I will tell you why. When you wish to obtain some concession from a man’s self-love, you must avoid even the appearance of wishing to wound it.”

  “I believe you are right.”

  “I am glad of it.”

  “Then I will go alone.”

  “Go; but you would do better still by not going at all.”

  “That is impossible.”

  “Do so, then; it will be a wiser plan than the first which you proposed.”

  “But if, in spite of all my precautions, I am at last obliged to fight, will you not be my second?”

  “My dear viscount,” said Monte Cristo gravely, “you must have seen before to-day that at all times and in all places I have been at your disposal, but the service which you have just demanded of me is one which it is out of my power to render you.”

  “Why?”

  “Perhaps you may know at some future period, and in the mean time I request you to excuse my declining to put you in possession of my reasons.”

  “Well, I will have Franz and Chateau-Renaud; they will be the very men for it.”

  “Do so, then.”

  “But if I do fight, you will surely not object to giving me a lesson or two in shooting and fencing?”

  “That, too, is impossible.”

  “What a singular being you are!—you will not interfere in anything.”

  “You are right—that is the principle on which I wish to act.”

  “We will say no more about it, then. Good-by, count.” Morcerf took his hat, and left the room. He found his carriage at the door, and doing his utmost to restrain his anger he went at once to find Beauchamp, who was in his office. It was a gloomy, dusty-looking apartment, such as journalists’ offices have always been from time immemorial. The servant announced M. Albert de Morcerf. Beauchamp repeated the name to himself, as though he could scarcely believe that he had heard a right, and then gave orders for him to be admitted. Albert entered. Beauchamp uttered an exclamation of surprise on seeing his friend leap over and trample under foot all the newspapers, which were strewed about the room. “This way, this way, my dear Albert!” said he, holding out his hand to the young man. “Are you out of your senses, or do you come peaceably to take breakfast with me? Try and find a seat—there is one by that geranium, which is the only thing in the room to remind me that there are other leaves in the world besides leaves of paper.”

  “Beauchamp,” said Albert, “it is of your journal that I come to speak.”

  “Indeed? What do you wish to say about it?”

  “I desire that a statement contained in it should be rectified.”

  “To what do you refer? But pray sit down.”

  “Thank you,” said Albert, with a cold and formal bow.

  “Will you now have the kindness to explain the nature of the statement which has displeased you?”

  “An announcement has been made which implicates the honor of a member of my family.”

  “What is it?” said Beauchamp, much surprised; “surely you must be mistaken.”

  “The story sent you from Yanina.”

  “Yanina?”

  “Yes; really you appear to be totally ignorant of the cause which brings me here.”

  “Such is really the case, I assure you, upon my honor! Baptiste, give me yesterday’s paper,” cried Beauchamp.

  “Here, I have brought mine with me,” replied Albert.

  Beauchamp took the paper, and read the article to which Albert pointed in an undertone. “You see it is a serious annoyance,” said Morcerf, when Beauchamp had finished the perusal of the paragraph. “Is the officer referred to a relation of yours, then?” demanded the journalist.

  “Yes,” said Albert, blushing.

  “Well, what do you wish me to do for you?” said Beauchamp mildly.

  “My dear Beauchamp, I wish you to contradict this statement.” Beauchamp looked at Albert with a benevolent expression.

  “Come,” said he, “this matter will want a good deal of talking over; a retractation is always a serious thing, you know. Sit down, and I will read it again.” Al
bert resumed his seat, and Beauchamp read, with more attention than at first, the lines denounced by his friend. “Well,” said Albert in a determined tone, “you see that your paper his insulted a member of my family, and I insist on a retractation being made.”

  “You insist?”

  “Yes, I insist.”

  “Permit me to remind you that you are not in the Chamber, my dear Viscount.”

  “Nor do I wish to be there,” replied the young man, rising. “I repeat that I am determined to have the announcement of yesterday contradicted. You have known me long enough,” continued Albert, biting his lips convulsively, for he saw that Beauchamp’s anger was beginning to rise,—“you have been my friend, and therefore sufficiently intimate with me to be aware that I am likely to maintain my resolution on this point.”

  “If I have been your friend, Morcerf, your present manner of speaking would almost lead me to forget that I ever bore that title. But wait a moment, do not let us get angry, or at least not yet. You are irritated and vexed—tell me how this Fernand is related to you?”

  “He is merely my father,” said Albert—“M. Fernand Mondego, Count of Morcerf, an old soldier who has fought in twenty battles and whose honorable scars they would denounce as badges of disgrace.”

  “Is it your father?” said Beauchamp; “that is quite another thing. Then I can well understand your indignation, my dear Albert. I will look at it again;” and he read the paragraph for the third time, laying a stress on each word as he proceeded. “But the paper nowhere identifies this Fernand with your father.”

  “No; but the connection will be seen by others, and therefore I will have the article contradicted.” At the words “I will,” Beauchamp steadily raised his eyes to Albert’s countenance, and then as gradually lowering them, he remained thoughtful for a few moments. “You will retract this assertion, will you not, Beauchamp?” said Albert with increased though stifled anger.

  “Yes,” replied Beauchamp.

  “Immediately?” said Albert.

  “When I am convinced that the statement is false.”

  “What?”

  “The thing is worth looking into, and I will take pains to investigate the matter thoroughly.”

  “But what is there to investigate, sir?” said Albert, enraged beyond measure at Beauchamp’s last remark. “If you do not believe that it is my father, say so immediately; and if, on the contrary, you believe it to be him, state your reasons for doing so.” Beauchamp looked at Albert with the smile, which was so peculiar to him, and which in its numerous modifications served to express every varied emotion of his mind. “Sir,” replied he, “if you came to me with the idea of demanding satisfaction, you should have gone at once to the point, and not have entertained me with the idle conversation to which I have been patiently listening for the last half hour. Am I to put this construction on your visit?”