Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  “And so Mademoiselle Danglars”—

  “She could not endure the insult offered to us by that wretch, so she asked permission to travel.”

  “And is she gone?”

  “The other night she left.”

  “With Madame Danglars?”

  “No, with a relation. But still, we have quite lost our dear Eugenie; for I doubt whether her pride will ever allow her to return to France.”

  “Still, baron,” said Monte Cristo, “family griefs, or indeed any other affliction which would crush a man whose child was his only treasure, are endurable to a millionaire. Philosophers may well say, and practical men will always support the opinion, that money mitigates many trials; and if you admit the efficacy of this sovereign balm, you ought to be very easily consoled—you, the king of finance, the focus of immeasurable power.”

  Danglars looked at him askance, as though to ascertain whether he spoke seriously. “Yes,” he answered, “if a fortune brings consolation, I ought to be consoled; I am rich.”

  “So rich, dear sir, that your fortune resembles the pyramids; if you wished to demolish them you could not, and if it were possible, you would not dare!” Danglars smiled at the good-natured pleasantry of the count. “That reminds me,” he said, “that when you entered I was on the point of signing five little bonds; I have already signed two: will you allow me to do the same to the others?”

  “Pray do so.”

  There was a moment’s silence, during which the noise of the banker’s pen was alone heard, while Monte Cristo examined the gilt mouldings on the ceiling. “Are they Spanish, Haitian, or Neapolitan bonds?” said Monte Cristo. “No,” said Danglars, smiling, “they are bonds on the bank of France, payable to bearer. Stay, count,” he added, “you, who may be called the emperor, if I claim the title of king of finance, have you many pieces of paper of this size, each worth a million?” The count took into his hands the papers, which Danglars had so proudly presented to him, and read:—

  “To the Governor of the Bank. Please pay to my order, from the fund deposited by me, the sum of a million, and charge the same to my account.“Baron Danglars.”

  “One, two, three, four, five,” said Monte Cristo; “five millions—why what a Croesus you are!”

  “This is how I transact business,” said Danglars.

  “It is really wonderful,” said the count; “above all, if, as I suppose, it is payable at sight.”

  “It is, indeed, said Danglars.

  “It is a fine thing to have such credit; really, it is only in France these things are done. Five millions on five little scraps of paper!—it must be seen to be believed.”

  “You do not doubt it?”

  “No!”

  “You say so with an accent—stay, you shall be convinced; take my clerk to the bank, and you will see him leave it with an order on the Treasury for the same sum.”

  “No,” said Monte Cristo folding the five notes, “most decidedly not; the thing is so curious, I will make the experiment myself. I am credited on you for six millions. I have drawn nine hundred thousand francs, you therefore still owe me five millions and a hundred thousand francs. I will take the five scraps of paper that I now hold as bonds, with your signature alone, and here is a receipt in full for the six millions between us. I had prepared it beforehand, for I am much in want of money to-day.” And Monte Cristo placed the bonds in his pocket with one hand, while with the other he held out the receipt to Danglars. If a thunderbolt had fallen at the banker’s feet, he could not have experienced greater terror.

  “What,” he stammered, “do you mean to keep that money? Excuse me, excuse me, but I owe this money to the charity fund,—a deposit which I promised to pay this morning.”

  “Oh, well, then,” said Monte Cristo, “I am not particular about these five notes, pay me in a different form; I wished, from curiosity, to take these, that I might be able to say that without any advice or preparation the house of Danglars had paid me five millions without a minute’s delay; it would have been remarkable. But here are your bonds; pay me differently;” and he held the bonds towards Danglars, who seized them like a vulture extending its claws to withhold the food that is being wrested from its grasp. Suddenly he rallied, made a violent effort to restrain himself, and then a smile gradually widened the features of his disturbed countenance.

  “Certainly,” he said, “your receipt is money.”

  “Oh dear, yes; and if you were at Rome, the house of Thomson & French would make no more difficulty about paying the money on my receipt than you have just done.”

  “Pardon me, count, pardon me.”

  “Then I may keep this money?”

  “Yes,” said Danglars, while the perspiration started from the roots of his hair. “Yes, keep it—keep it.”

  Monte Cristo replaced the notes in his pocket with that indescribable expression which seemed to say, “Come, reflect; if you repent there is still time.”

  “No,” said Danglars, “no, decidedly no; keep my signatures. But you know none are so formal as bankers in transacting business; I intended this money for the charity fund, and I seemed to be robbing them if I did not pay them with these precise bonds. How absurd—as if one crown were not as good as another. Excuse me;” and he began to laugh loudly, but nervously.

  “Certainly, I excuse you,” said Monte Cristo graciously, “and pocket them.” And he placed the bonds in his pocketbook.

  “But,” said Danglars, “there is still a sum of one hundred thousand francs?”

  “Oh, a mere nothing,” said Monte Cristo. “The balance would come to about that sum; but keep it, and we shall be quits.”

  “Count,” said Danglars, “are you speaking seriously?”

  “I never joke with bankers,” said Monte Cristo in a freezing manner, which repelled impertinence; and he turned to the door, just as the valet de chambre announced,—”M. de Boville, receiver-general of the charities.”

  “Ma foi,” said Monte Cristo; “I think I arrived just in time to obtain your signatures, or they would have been disputed with me.”

  Danglars again became pale, and hastened to conduct the count out. Monte Cristo exchanged a ceremonious bow with M. de Boville, who was standing in the waiting-room, and who was introduced into Danglars’ room as soon as the count had left. The count’s sad face was illumined by a faint smile, as he noticed the portfolio which the receiver-general held in his hand. At the door he found his carriage, and was immediately driven to the bank. Meanwhile Danglars, repressing all emotion, advanced to meet the receiver-general. We need not say that a smile of condescension was stamped upon his lips. “Good-morning, creditor,” said he; “for I wager anything it is the creditor who visits me.”

  “You are right, baron,” answered M. de Boville; “the charities present themselves to you through me: the widows and orphans depute me to receive alms to the amount of five millions from you.”

  “And yet they say orphans are to be pitied,” said Danglars, wishing to prolong the jest. “Poor things!”

  “Here I am in their name,” said M. de Boville; “but did you receive my letter yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have brought my receipt.”

  “My dear M. de Boville, your widows and orphans must oblige me by waiting twenty-four hours, since M. de Monte Cristo whom you just saw leaving here—you did see him, I think?”

  “Yes; well?”

  “Well, M. de Monte Cristo has just carried off their five millions.”

  “How so?”

  “The count has an unlimited credit upon me; a credit opened by Thomson & French, of Rome; he came to demand five millions at once, which I paid him with checks on the bank. My funds are deposited there, and you can understand that if I draw out ten millions on the same day it will appear rather strange to the governor. Two days will be a different thing,” said Danglars, smiling.

  “Come,” said Boville, with a tone of entire incredulity, “five millions to that gentleman who just
left, and who bowed to me as though he knew me?”

  “Perhaps he knows you, though you do not know him; M. de Monte Cristo knows everybody.”

  “Five millions!”

  “Here is his receipt. Believe your own eyes.” M. de Boville took the paper Danglars presented him, and read:—

  “Received of Baron Danglars the sum of five million one hundred thousand francs, to be repaid on demand by the house of Thomson & French of Rome.”

  “It is really true,” said M. de Boville.

  “Do you know the house of Thomson & French?”

  “Yes, I once had business to transact with it to the amount of 200,000 francs; but since then I have not heard it mentioned.”

  “It is one of the best houses in Europe,” said Danglars, carelessly throwing down the receipt on his desk.

  “And he had five millions in your hands alone! Why, this Count of Monte Cristo must be a nabob?”

  “Indeed I do not know what he is; he has three unlimited credits—one on me, one on Rothschild, one on Lafitte; and, you see,” he added carelessly, “he has given me the preference, by leaving a balance of 100,000 francs.” M. de Boville manifested signs of extraordinary admiration. “I must visit him,” he said, “and obtain some pious grant from him.”

  “Oh, you may make sure of him; his charities alone amount to 20,000 francs a month.”

  “It is magnificent! I will set before him the example of Madame de Morcerf and her son.”

  “What example?”

  “They gave all their fortune to the hospitals.”

  “What fortune?”

  “Their own—M. de Morcerf’s, who is deceased.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Because they would not spend money so guiltily acquired.”

  “And what are they to live upon?”

  “The mother retires into the country, and the son enters the army.”

  “Well, I must confess, these are scruples.”

  “I registered their deed of gift yesterday.”

  “And how much did they possess?”

  “Oh, not much—from twelve to thirteen hundred thousand francs. But to return to our millions.”

  “Certainly,” said Danglars, in the most natural tone in the world. “Are you then pressed for this money?”

  “Yes; for the examination of our cash takes place tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Why did you not tell me so before? Why, it is as good as a century! At what hour does the examination take place?”

  “At two o’clock.”

  “Send at twelve,” said Danglars, smiling. M. de Boville said nothing, but nodded his head, and took up the portfolio. “Now I think of it, you can do better,” said Danglars.

  “How do you mean?”

  “The receipt of M. de Monte Cristo is as good as money; take it to Rothschild’s or Lafitte’s, and they will take it off your hands at once.”

  “What, though payable at Rome?”

  “Certainly; it will only cost you a discount of 5,000 or 6,000 francs.” The receiver started back. “Ma foi,” he said, “I prefer waiting till tomorrow. What a proposition!”

  “I thought, perhaps,” said Danglars with supreme impertinence, “that you had a deficiency to make up?”

  “Indeed,” said the receiver.

  “And if that were the case it would be worth while to make some sacrifice.”

  “Thank you, no, sir.”

  “Then it will be tomorrow.”

  “Yes; but without fail.”

  “Ah, you are laughing at me; send tomorrow at twelve, and the bank shall be notified.”

  “I will come myself.”

  “Better still, since it will afford me the pleasure of seeing you.” They shook hands. “By the way,” said M. de Boville, “are you not going to the funeral of poor Mademoiselle de Villefort, which I met on my road here?”

  “No,” said the banker; “I have appeared rather ridiculous since that affair of Benedetto, so I remain in the background.”

  “Bah, you are wrong. How were you to blame in that affair?”

  “Listen—when one bears an irreproachable name, as I do, one is rather sensitive.”

  “Everybody pities you, sir; and, above all, Mademoiselle Danglars!”

  “Poor Eugenie!” said Danglars; “do you know she is going to embrace a religious life?”

  “No.”

  “Alas, it is unhappily but too true. The day after the event, she decided on leaving Paris with a nun of her acquaintance; they are gone to seek a very strict convent in Italy or Spain.”

  “Oh, it is terrible!” and M. de Boville retired with this exclamation, after expressing acute sympathy with the father. But he had scarcely left before Danglars, with an energy of action those can alone understand who have seen Robert Macaire represented by Frederic, exclaimed,—”Fool!” Then enclosing Monte Cristo’s receipt in a little pocketbook, he added:—”Yes, come at twelve o’clock; I shall then be far away.” Then he double-locked his door, emptied all his drawers, collected about fifty thousand francs in banknotes, burned several papers, left others exposed to view, and then commenced writing a letter which he addressed:

  To Madame la Baronne Danglars

  “I will place it on her table myself tonight,” he murmured. Then taking a passport from his drawer he said,—”Good, it is available for two months longer.”

  Chapter 17. The Cemetery of Pere-la-Chaise.

  M. de Boville had indeed met the funeral procession which was taking Valentine to her last home on earth. The weather was dull and stormy, a cold wind shook the few remaining yellow leaves from the boughs of the trees, and scattered them among the crowd which filled the boulevards. M. de Villefort, a true Parisian, considered the cemetery of Pere-la-Chaise alone worthy of receiving the mortal remains of a Parisian family; there alone the corpses belonging to him would be surrounded by worthy associates. He had therefore purchased a vault, which was quickly occupied by members of his family. On the front of the monument was inscribed: “The families of Saint-Meran and Villefort,” for such had been the last wish expressed by poor Renee, Valentine’s mother. The pompous procession therefore wended its way towards Pere-la-Chaise from the Faubourg Saint-Honore. Having crossed Paris, it passed through the Faubourg du Temple, then leaving the exterior boulevards, it reached the cemetery. More than fifty private carriages followed the twenty mourning-coaches, and behind them more than five hundred persons joined in the procession on foot.

  These last consisted of all the young people whom Valentine’s death had struck like a thunderbolt, and who, notwithstanding the raw chilliness of the season, could not refrain from paying a last tribute to the memory of the beautiful, chaste, and adorable girl, thus cut off in the flower of her youth. As they left Paris, an equipage with four horses, at full speed, was seen to draw up suddenly; it contained Monte Cristo. The count left the carriage and mingled in the crowd who followed on foot. Chateau-Renaud perceived him and immediately alighting from his coupe, joined him.

  The count looked attentively through every opening in the crowd; he was evidently watching for some one, but his search ended in disappointment. “Where is Morrel?” he asked; “do either of these gentlemen know where he is?”

  “We have already asked that question,” said Chateau-Renaud, “for none of us has seen him.” The count was silent, but continued to gaze around him. At length they arrived at the cemetery. The piercing eye of Monte Cristo glanced through clusters of bushes and trees, and was soon relieved from all anxiety, for seeing a shadow glide between the yew-trees, Monte Cristo recognized him whom he sought. One funeral is generally very much like another in this magnificent metropolis. Black figures are seen scattered over the long white avenues; the silence of earth and heaven is alone broken by the noise made by the crackling branches of hedges planted around the monuments; then follows the melancholy chant of the priests, mingled now and then with a sob of anguish, escaping from some woman concealed behind a mass of flowers.


  The shadow Monte Cristo had noticed passed rapidly behind the tomb of Abelard and Heloise, placed itself close to the heads of the horses belonging to the hearse, and following the undertaker’s men, arrived with them at the spot appointed for the burial. Each person’s attention was occupied. Monte Cristo saw nothing but the shadow, which no one else observed. Twice the count left the ranks to see whether the object of his interest had any concealed weapon beneath his clothes. When the procession stopped, this shadow was recognized as Morrel, who, with his coat buttoned up to his throat, his face livid, and convulsively crushing his hat between his fingers, leaned against a tree, situated on an elevation commanding the mausoleum, so that none of the funeral details could escape his observation. Everything was conducted in the usual manner. A few men, the least impressed of all by the scene, pronounced a discourse, some deploring this premature death, others expatiating on the grief of the father, and one very ingenious person quoting the fact that Valentine had solicited pardon of her father for criminals on whom the arm of justice was ready to fall—until at length they exhausted their stores of metaphor and mournful speeches.

  Monte Cristo heard and saw nothing, or rather he only saw Morrel, whose calmness had a frightful effect on those who knew what was passing in his heart. “See,” said Beauchamp, pointing out Morrel to Debray. “What is he doing up there?” And they called Chateau-Renaud’s attention to him.

  “How pale he is!” said Chateau-Renaud, shuddering.

  “He is cold,” said Debray.”Not at all,” said Chateau-Renaud, slowly; “I think he is violently agitated. He is very susceptible.”

  “Bah,” said Debray; “he scarcely knew Mademoiselle de Villefort; you said so yourself.”

  “True. Still I remember he danced three times with her at Madame de Morcerf’s. Do you recollect that ball, count, where you produced such an effect?”

  “No, I do not,” replied Monte Cristo, without even knowing of what or to whom he was speaking, so much was he occupied in watching Morrel, who was holding his breath with emotion. “The discourse is over; farewell, gentlemen,” said the count. And he disappeared without anyone seeing whither he went. The funeral being over, the guests returned to Paris. Chateau-Renaud looked for a moment for Morrel; but while they were watching the departure of the count, Morrel had quitted his post, and Chateau-Renaud, failing in his search, joined Debray and Beauchamp.