Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  “Come, come, my little fellow, don’t be angry. See, I have thought about you—look at the good breakfast we are going to have; nothing but what you are fond of.” Andrea, indeed, inhaled the scent of something cooking which was not unwelcome to him, hungry as he was; it was that mixture of fat and garlic peculiar to provincial kitchens of an inferior order, added to that of dried fish, and above all, the pungent smell of musk and cloves. These odors escaped from two deep dishes which were covered and placed on a stove, and from a copper pan placed in an old iron pot. In an adjoining room Andrea saw also a tolerably clean table prepared for two, two bottles of wine sealed, the one with green, the other with yellow, a supply of brandy in a decanter, and a measure of fruit in a cabbage-leaf, cleverly arranged on an earthenware plate.

  “What do you think of it, my little fellow?” said Caderousse. “Ay, that smells good! You know I used to be a famous cook; do you recollect how you used to lick your fingers? You were among the first who tasted any of my dishes, and I think you relished them tolerably.” While speaking, Caderousse went on peeling a fresh supply of onions.

  “But,” said Andrea, ill temperedly, “by my faith, if it was only to breakfast with you, that you disturbed me, I wish the devil had taken you!”

  “My boy,” said Caderousse sententiously, “one can talk while eating. And then, you ungrateful being, you are not pleased to see an old friend? I am weeping with joy.” He was truly crying, but it would have been difficult to say whether joy or the onions produced the greatest effect on the lachrymal glands of the old innkeeper of the Pont-du-Gard. “Hold your tongue, hypocrite,” said Andrea; “you love me!”

  “Yes, I do, or may the devil take me. I know it is a weakness,” said Caderousse, “but it overpowers me.”

  “And yet it has not prevented your sending for me to play me some trick.”

  “Come,” said Caderousse, wiping his large knife on his apron, “if I did not like you, do you think I should endure the wretched life you lead me? Think for a moment. You have your servant’s clothes on—you therefore keep a servant; I have none, and am obliged to prepare my own meals. You abuse my cookery because you dine at the table d’hote of the Hotel des Princes, or the Cafe de Paris. Well, I too could keep a servant; I too could have a tilbury; I too could dine where I like; but why do I not? Because I would not annoy my little Benedetto. Come, just acknowledge that I could, eh?” This address was accompanied by a look which was by no means difficult to understand. “Well,” said Andrea, “admitting your love, why do you want me to breakfast with you?”

  “That I may have the pleasure of seeing you, my little fellow.”

  “What is the use of seeing me after we have made all our arrangements?”

  “Eh, dear friend,” said Caderousse, “are wills ever made without codicils? But you first came to breakfast, did you not? Well, sit down, and let us begin with these pilchards, and this fresh butter; which I have put on some vine-leaves to please you, wicked one. Ah, yes; you look at my room, my four straw chairs, my images, three francs each. But what do you expect? This is not the Hotel des Princes.”

  “Come, you are growing discontented, you are no longer happy; you, who only wish to live like a retired baker.” Caderousse sighed. “Well, what have you to say? You have seen your dream realized.”

  “I can still say it is a dream; a retired baker, my poor Benedetto, is rich—he has an annuity.”

  “Well, you have an annuity.”

  “I have?”

  “Yes, since I bring you your two hundred francs.” Caderousse shrugged his shoulders. “It is humiliating,” said he, “thus to receive money given grudgingly,—an uncertain supply which may soon fail. You see I am obliged to economize, in case your prosperity should cease. Well, my friend, fortune is inconstant, as the chaplain of the regiment said. I know your prosperity is great, you rascal; you are to marry the daughter of Danglars.”

  “What? of Danglars?”

  “Yes, to be sure; must I say Baron Danglars? I might as well say Count Benedetto. He was an old friend of mine and if he had not so bad a memory he ought to invite me to your wedding, seeing he came to mine. Yes, yes, to mine; gad, he was not so proud then,—he was an under-clerk to the good M. Morrel. I have dined many times with him and the Count of Morcerf, so you see I have some high connections and were I to cultivate them a little, we might meet in the same drawing-rooms.”

  “Come, your jealousy represents everything to you in the wrong light.”

  “That is all very fine, Benedetto mio, but I know what I am saying. Perhaps I may one day put on my best coat, and presenting myself at the great gate, introduce myself. Meanwhile let us sit down and eat.” Caderousse set the example and attacked the breakfast with good appetite, praising each dish he set before his visitor. The latter seemed to have resigned himself; he drew the corks, and partook largely of the fish with the garlic and fat. “Ah, mate,” said Caderousse, “you are getting on better terms with your old landlord!”

  “Faith, yes,” replied Andrea, whose hunger prevailed over every other feeling.

  “So you like it, you rogue?”

  “So much that I wonder how a man who can cook thus can complain of hard living.”

  “Do you see,” said Caderousse, “all my happiness is marred by one thought?”

  “What is that?”

  “That I am dependent on another, I who have always gained my own livelihood honestly.”

  “Do not let that disturb you, I have enough for two.”

  “No, truly; you may believe me if you will; at the end of every month I am tormented by remorse.”

  “Good Caderousse!”

  “So much so, that yesterday I would not take the two hundred francs.”

  “Yes, you wished to speak to me; but was it indeed remorse, tell me?”

  “True remorse; and, besides, an idea had struck me.” Andrea shuddered; he always did so at Caderousse’s ideas. “It is miserable—do you see?—Always to wait till the end of the month.”—“Oh,” said Andrea philosophically, determined to watch his companion narrowly, “does not life pass in waiting? Do I, for instance, fare better? Well, I wait patiently, do I not?”

  “Yes; because instead of expecting two hundred wretched francs, you expect five or six thousand, perhaps ten, perhaps even twelve, for you take care not to let any one know the utmost. Down there, you always had little presents and Christmas-boxes, which you tried to hide from your poor friend Caderousse. Fortunately he is a cunning fellow, that friend Caderousse.”

  “There you are beginning again to ramble, to talk again and again of the past! But what is the use of teasing me with going all over that again?”

  “Ah, you are only one and twenty, and can forget the past; I am fifty, and am obliged to recollect it. But let us return to business.”

  “Yes.”

  “I was going to say, if I were in your place”—

  “Well.”

  “I would realize”—

  “How would you realize?”

  “I would ask for six months’ in advance, under pretense of being able to purchase a farm, then with my six months I would decamp.”

  “Well, well,” said Andrea, “that isn’t a bad idea.”

  “My dear friend,” said Caderousse, “eat of my bread, and take my advice; you will be none the worse off, physically or morally.”

  “But,” said Andrea, “why do you not act on the advice you gave me? Why do you not realize a six months’, a year’s advance even, and retire to Brussels? Instead of living the retired baker, you might live as a bankrupt, using his privileges; that would be very good.”

  “But how the devil would you have me retire on twelve hundred francs?”

  “Ah, Caderousse,” said Andrea, “how covetous you are! Two months ago you were dying with hunger.”

  “The appetite grows by what it feeds on,” said Caderousse, grinning and showing his teeth, like a monkey laughing or a tiger growling. “And,” added he, biting off with his lar
ge white teeth an enormous mouthful of bread, “I have formed a plan.” Caderousse’s plans alarmed Andrea still more than his ideas; ideas were but the germ, the plan was reality. “Let me see your plan; I dare say it is a pretty one.”

  “Why not? Who formed the plan by which we left the establishment of M——! eh? was it not I? and it was no bad one I believe, since here we are!”

  “I do not say,” replied Andrea, “that you never make a good one; but let us see your plan.”

  “Well,” pursued Caderousse, “can you without expending one sou, put me in the way of getting fifteen thousand francs? No, fifteen thousand are not enough,—I cannot again become an honest man with less than thirty thousand francs.”

  “No,” replied Andrea, dryly, “no, I cannot.”

  “I do not think you understand me,” replied Caderousse, calmly; “I said without your laying out a sou.”

  “Do you want me to commit a robbery, to spoil all my good fortune—and yours with mine—and both of us to be dragged down there again?”

  “It would make very little difference to me,” said Caderousse, “if I were retaken, I am a poor creature to live alone, and sometimes pine for my old comrades; not like you, heartless creature, who would be glad never to see them again.” Andrea did more than tremble this time, he turned pale.

  “Come, Caderousse, no nonsense!” said he.

  “Don’t alarm yourself, my little Benedetto, but just point out to me some means of gaining those thirty thousand francs without your assistance, and I will contrive it.”

  “Well, I’ll see—I’ll try to contrive some way,” said Andrea.

  “Meanwhile you will raise my monthly allowance to five hundred francs, my little fellow? I have a fancy, and mean to get a housekeeper.”

  “Well, you shall have your five hundred francs,” said Andrea; “but it is very hard for me, my poor Caderousse—you take advantage”—

  “Bah,” said Caderousse, “when you have access to countless stores.” One would have said Andrea anticipated his companion’s words, so did his eye flash like lightning, but it was but for a moment. “True,” he replied, “and my protector is very kind.”

  “That dear protector,” said Caderousse; “and how much does he give you monthly?”

  “Five thousand francs.”

  “As many thousands as you give me hundreds! Truly, it is only bastards who are thus fortunate. Five thousand francs per month! What the devil can you do with all that?”

  “Oh, it is no trouble to spend that; and I am like you, I want capital.”

  “Capital?—yes—I understand—everyone would like capital.”

  “Well, and I shall get it.”

  “Who will give it to you—your prince?”

  “Yes, my prince. But unfortunately I must wait.”

  “You must wait for what?” asked Caderousse.

  “For his death.”

  “The death of your prince?”

  “Yes.”

  “How so?”

  “Because he has made his will in my favor.”

  “Indeed?”

  “On my honor.”

  “For how much?”

  “For five hundred thousand.”

  “Only that? It’s little enough.”

  “But so it is.”

  “No it cannot be!”

  “Are you my friend, Caderousse?”

  “Yes, in life or death.”

  “Well, I will tell you a secret.”

  “What is it?”

  “But remember”—

  “Ah, pardieu, mute as a carp.”

  “Well, I think”—Andrea stopped and looked around.

  “You think? Do not fear; pardieu, we are alone.”

  “I think I have discovered my father.”

  “Your true father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not old Cavalcanti?”

  “No, for he has gone again; the true one, as you say.”

  “And that father is”—

  “Well, Caderousse, it is Monte Cristo.”

  “Bah!”

  “Yes, you understand, that explains all. He cannot acknowledge me openly, it appears, but he does it through M. Cavalcanti, and gives him fifty thousand francs for it.”

  “Fifty thousand francs for being your father? I would have done it for half that, for twenty thousand, for fifteen thousand; why did you not think of me, ungrateful man?”

  “Did I know anything about it, when it was all done when I was down there?”

  “Ah, truly? And you say that by his will”—

  “He leaves me five hundred thousand livres.”

  “Are you sure of it?”

  “He showed it me; but that is not all—there is a codicil, as I said just now.”

  “Probably.”

  “And in that codicil he acknowledges me.”

  “Oh, the good father, the brave father, the very honest father!” said Caderousse, twirling a plate in the air between his two hands.

  “Now say if I conceal anything from you?”

  “No, and your confidence makes you honorable in my opinion; and your princely father, is he rich, very rich?”

  “Yes, he is that; he does not himself know the amount of his fortune.”

  “Is it possible?”

  “It is evident enough to me, who am always at his house. The other day a banker’s clerk brought him fifty thousand francs in a portfolio about the size of your plate; yesterday his banker brought him a hundred thousand francs in gold.” Caderousse was filled with wonder; the young man’s words sounded to him like metal, and he thought he could hear the rushing of cascades of louis. “And you go into that house?” cried he briskly.

  “When I like.”

  Caderousse was thoughtful for a moment. It was easy to perceive he was revolving some unfortunate idea in his mind. Then suddenly,—“How I should like to see all that,” cried he; “how beautiful it must be!”

  “It is, in fact, magnificent,” said Andrea.

  “And does he not live in the Champs-Elysees?”

  “Yes, No. 30.”

  “Ah,” said Caderousse, “No. 30.”

  “Yes, a fine house standing alone, between a courtyard and a garden,—you must know it.”

  “Possibly; but it is not the exterior I care for, it is the interior. What beautiful furniture there must be in it!”

  “Have you ever seen the Tuileries?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it surpasses that.”

  “It must be worth one’s while to stoop, Andrea, when that good M. Monte Cristo lets fall his purse.”

  “It is not worth while to wait for that,” said Andrea; “money is as plentiful in that house as fruit in an orchard.”

  “But you should take me there one day with you.”

  “How can I? On what plea?”

  “You are right; but you have made my mouth water. I must absolutely see it; I shall find a way.”

  “No nonsense, Caderousse!”

  “I will offer myself as floor-polisher.”

  “The rooms are all carpeted.”

  “Well, then, I must be contented to imagine it.”

  “That is the best plan, believe me.”

  “Try, at least, to give me an idea of what it is.”

  “How can I?”

  “Nothing is easier. Is it large?”

  “Middling.”

  “How is it arranged?”

  “Faith, I should require pen, ink, and paper to make a plan.”

  “They are all here,” said Caderousse, briskly. He fetched from an old secretary a sheet of white paper and pen and ink. “Here,” said Caderousse, “draw me all that on the paper, my boy.” Andrea took the pen with an imperceptible smile and began. “The house, as I said, is between the court and the garden; in this way, do you see?” Andrea drew the garden, the court and the house.

  “High walls?”

  “Not more than eight or ten feet.”

  “That is not prudent,” said
Caderousse.

  “In the court are orange-trees in pots, turf, and clumps of flowers.”

  “And no steel-traps?”

  “No.”

  “The stables?”

  “Are on either side of the gate, which you see there.” And Andrea continued his plan.

  “Let us see the ground floor,” said Caderousse.

  “On the ground-floor, dining-room, two drawing-rooms, billiard-room, staircase in the hall, and a little back staircase.”

  “Windows?”

  “Magnificent windows, so beautiful, so large, that I believe a man of your size should pass through each frame.”

  “Why the devil have they any stairs with such windows?”

  “Luxury has everything.”

  “But shutters?”

  “Yes, but they are never used. That Count of Monte Cristo is an original, who loves to look at the sky even at night.”

  “And where do the servants sleep?”

  “Oh, they have a house to themselves. Picture to yourself a pretty coach-house at the right-hand side where the ladders are kept. Well, over that coach-house are the servants’ rooms, with bells corresponding with the different apartments.”

  “Ah, diable—bells did you say?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing! I only say they cost a load of money to hang, and what is the use of them, I should like to know?”

  “There used to be a dog let loose in the yard at night, but it has been taken to the house at Auteuil, to that you went to, you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “I was saying to him only yesterday, ‘You are imprudent, Monsieur Count; for when you go to Auteuil and take your servants the house is left unprotected.’ ‘Well,’ said he, ‘what next?’ ‘Well, next, some day you will be robbed.’“

  “What did he answer?”

  “He quietly said, ‘What do I care if I am?’“

  “Andrea, he has some secretary with a spring.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Yes, which catches the thief in a trap and plays a tune. I was told there were such at the last exhibition.”

  “He has simply a mahogany secretary, in which the key is always kept.”

  “And he is not robbed?”

  “No; his servants are all devoted to him.”

  “There ought to be some money in that secretary?”