Danglars listened very closely to this declaration, which he had been expecting for two or three days. Now that it had come, his eyes shone, just as they had darkened and narrowed while he listened to Morcerf. Even so, he did not want to accept the young man’s proposal without making some conscientious observations.
‘Monsieur Andrea,’ he said, ‘aren’t you a little young to be thinking of marriage?’
‘Not at all, Monsieur,’ Cavalcanti replied. ‘Or at least, not in my view. In Italy, noblemen generally marry young; it is a reasonable custom: life is so uncertain that one should grasp happiness as soon as it comes within reach.’
‘Very well, Monsieur,’ said Danglars. ‘Let us suppose that your proposal, which honours me, is acceptable to my wife and daughter; then with whom shall we discuss terms? It seems to me that this is an important matter which only fathers can properly negotiate in the interests of their children’s happiness.’
‘Monsieur, my father is a wise man, possessing much reason and a good sense of propriety. He anticipated that I might well feel some desire to settle in France, so, as he was going, he left me – as well as all the papers which confirm my identity – a letter in which he guarantees me an income of one hundred and fifty thousand livres, from the day of my marriage onwards, provided I make a choice acceptable to him. As far as I can tell, this is one-quarter of my father’s own income.’
‘It was always my intention,’ Danglars said, ‘to give my daughter five hundred thousand francs when I married her. In any event, she is my only heir.’
‘Very well,’ Andrea said, ‘as you see, it would be for the best, always assuming that my proposal is not rejected by Madame the Baroness and Mademoiselle Eugénie. This would give us an income of one hundred and seventy-five thousand livres. Now let us further suppose that I were to persuade the marquis that, instead of paying me the income, he were to give me the capital – it will not be easy, I know, but it could be done – then you would invest these two or three millions for us; and two or three millions in skilled hands can bring in a good ten per cent.’
‘I never take money at more than four,’ said the banker, ‘or even three and a half; but for my son-in-law, I would agree to five, and we could share the profits fifty-fifty.’
‘That’s perfect, father-in-law,’ said Cavalcanti, letting himself be carried away by the slightly vulgar instincts which, despite his efforts, occasionally cracked the aristocratic varnish beneath which he attempted to conceal them. But he at once remembered himself and said: ‘Oh, please forgive me, Monsieur! You see, hope itself is enough to drive me almost mad; what will be the effect of the reality?’
‘But surely, there is a part of your fortune that your father cannot refuse you?’ said Danglars, not noticing how quickly this conversation, which had started so disinterestedly, had turned to the management of business matters.
‘What is that?’ the young man asked.
‘Why, the part that comes from your mother.’
‘Ah, yes, indeed; that which comes from my mother, Leonora Corsinari.’
‘And what might be the amount of this portion?’
‘My goodness, Monsieur,’ said Andrea, ‘I must confess that I’ve never thought much about it, but I would judge it to be at least two million.’
Danglars felt that suffocating sense of joy that is experienced either by a miser unearthing a lost treasure or by a drowning man whose feet touch solid ground instead of the emptiness that was about to engulf him.
Andrea bowed to the banker with warm respect: ‘Then, Monsieur, may I hope…’
‘Monsieur Andrea,’ Danglars said, ‘hope on and believe that, provided no obstacle from your side halts the progress of the matter, it is signed and sealed.’ Then he continued thoughtfully: ‘Why is it that the Count of Monte Cristo, your patron in our Parisian society, did not accompany you to make this request?’
Andrea blushed imperceptibly. ‘I have just come from the count’s, Monsieur,’ he said, ‘and he is undoubtedly a charming man, but also unbelievably eccentric. He approved of my plan; he even said that he did not think that my father would hesitate for a moment to give me the capital instead of the income; and he promised me to use his influence to that end; but he told me that personally he had never taken on himself – and never would take on – the responsibility of being the bearer of a proposal of marriage. I must grant him this, however: he was kind enough to add that, if he had ever deplored his prejudice in the matter, it was in my case, since he thought that we would be happy and well matched in our union. Moreover, while he does not want to do anything in an official capacity, he told me that he fully expected to answer any of your questions, when you wished to discuss them with him.’
‘Ah, that’s very good.’
‘And now,’ Andrea said, with his most charming smile, ‘I should like to turn from the father-in-law to the banker.’
‘And what do you want with him, then?’ said Danglars, laughing.
‘The day after tomorrow I am to draw something like four thousand francs on your bank, but the count realized that the coming month might bring an excess of expenditure which would not be covered by my small bachelor’s income, so here is a bill for twenty thousand francs which he gave me, more as a present than as a contribution to expenses. It is signed by him, as you see. Will that do?’
‘Bring me one like this for a million and I’ll cash it for you,’ said Danglars, putting the bill into his pocket. ‘Give me a time tomorrow, and my cashier will come to you with a bond for twenty-four thousand francs.’
‘At ten in the morning then, if you don’t mind. The earlier, the better; I should like to go to the country tomorrow.’
‘Very well, ten o’clock; still at the Hôtel des Princes?’
‘Yes.’
The next day, with a punctuality that was a tribute to the banker’s conscientiousness, the twenty-four thousand francs were in the young man’s hands and he went out, as he had said, leaving two hundred francs for Caderousse.
As far as Andrea was concerned, the main aim of this excursion was to avoid meeting his dangerous friend, so he came home as late as possible. But no sooner had he set foot on the flagstones of the courtyard than he found the concierge of the building waiting for him, cap in hand.
‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘that man called.’
‘What man?’ Andrea asked – casually, as if he had forgotten someone whom in fact he remembered only too well.
‘The man to whom Your Excellency gave that little subscription.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Andrea said. ‘That former servant of my father’s. Well, did you give him the two hundred francs I left for him?’
‘Yes, Excellency.’ (Andrea demanded to be addressed as ‘Excellency’.) ‘Just as you said,’ the concierge went on, ‘but he refused to take them.’
Andrea paled but, since it was dark, no one saw the colour drain from his face.
‘What! He wouldn’t take them?’ he said, a slight quaver in his voice.
‘No, he wanted to speak to Your Excellency. I told him that you had gone out, but he insisted. Eventually, he did seem to let himself be persuaded and he gave me this letter, which he had brought, already sealed.’
‘Let me see,’ said Andrea; and by the lamp on his phaeton, he read: ‘You know where I live. I shall expect you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.’
Andrea looked at the seal to see if it had been tampered with, and if any prying eyes could have seen inside the letter; but it was folded in such a way, with so many wafers and overlaps, that it could not have been read without breaking the seal, and this was quite intact.
‘That’s very good,’ he said. ‘Poor man! He’s such a fine creature.’ And he left the concierge to digest these edifying words, not knowing whom he admired the most: the young master or the old retainer.
‘Quickly attend to the horses, then come up and see me,’ Andrea said to his groom. Then, in two bounds, he was inside his room, where he burned Caderousse’s le
tter, even disposing of the ashes. He was just completing this task when the servant came in.
‘Pierre, you are about my size, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘I do have that honour, Excellency,’ the man answered.
‘You must have fresh livery which was given to you yesterday?’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘I’m involved with a pretty little creature, but I don’t want her to know my title or my position. Lend me your livery and your papers so that, if necessary, I can sleep at an inn.’
Pierre did as he was asked. Five minutes later, Andrea, completely disguised, left the house without being recognized, took a cab and had himself driven to the inn of the Cheval-Rouge in Picpus. The next day he left the inn as he had left the Hôtel des Princes (that is, unnoticed), followed the boulevard to the Rue Ménilmontant and, stopping at the door of the third house on the left, looked around to see where he could get information, there being no concierge.
‘What are you looking for, luv?’ asked the woman from the fruiterer’s opposite.
‘Monsieur Pailletin, if you please, grandma?’ Andrea answered.
‘Is it a retired baker?’ she asked.
‘That’s right, the very one.’
‘Bottom of the yard, door on the left, third floor.’
Andrea followed her directions and on the third floor found a bell-pull that he tugged with a feeling of ill-temper which communicated itself to the bell. A moment later, Caderousse’s face appeared at a grilled spyhole cut in the door.
‘You’re punctual,’ he said, drawing back the bolts.
‘Damnation!’ said Andrea, going in and throwing his livery cap ahead of him. It missed the chair, fell to the floor and rolled round the room on its edge.
‘Come, come, now,’ said Caderousse. ‘Don’t get angry, dear boy! There now, I’ve thought of you: just look what a good breakfast we’ll have; all things that you like!’
Breathing in, Andrea could indeed detect the smell of cooking, its gross odours not without charm for a hungry stomach: there was that mixture of fresh oil and garlic which indicates the inferior breed of provençal cuisine, with additionally a hint of breaded fish and, above all, the acrid scent of nutmeg and cloves. All this was exhaled from two covered tureens keeping hot on two stoves and a dish bubbling in the oven of an iron cooker.
In the adjoining room Andrea also observed a moderately clean table with two places laid; two bottles of wine, one with a green and the other with a yellow seal; a good measure of spirits in a decanter; and a fruit salad in a large cabbage leaf, artistically displayed on a porcelain dish.
‘What do you think, dear boy?’ said Caderousse. ‘Smells good, doesn’t it? Ah, by God, I was a good cook in those days! Do you remember how people would lick their fingers – and you most of all. You’ve tried a few of my sauces and not spat them out, I warrant!’ And he began to peel some more onions.
‘Yes, yes, we know all that,’ Andrea said irritably. ‘Huh! If you’ve brought me all this way just to have lunch, then to hell with you!’
‘My son,’ Caderousse said pompously, ‘as one eats, one may speak; and anyway, you ungrateful boy, aren’t you a little pleased to see your old friend? Look: I’m overjoyed.’
Caderousse was actually weeping, though it was hard to tell whether it was joy or onions that had affected the lachrymal glands of the former innkeeper from the Pont du Gard.
‘Get away with you, you hypocrite,’ said Andrea. ‘Are you that fond of me?’
‘Yes, indeed I am, or may the devil take me,’ said Caderousse. ‘I know it’s a weakness on my part, but I can’t help it.’
‘And in spite of it you brought me here for some treachery.’
‘Now, now!’ Caderousse said, wiping his broad knife on his apron. ‘If I wasn’t fond of you, would I put up with the miserable life you make me lead? Just look around: you are wearing your servant’s coat, and that means you have a servant; I have none, so I’m forced to peel my own vegetables. You scoff at my cooking because you dine at the table d’hôte at the Hôtel des Princes or the Café de Paris. Well, now, I too could have a servant, I could have a tilbury and I could dine wherever I wished. And why don’t I? So as not to cause any distress to my poor Benedetto, that’s why. Come on, you must admit that I could, huh?’ And Caderousse gave a perfectly clear look to underline his meaning.
‘Very well, then,’ said Andrea. ‘Let’s accept that you are fond of me; then why have you asked me to lunch?’
‘To see you, of course, dear boy.’
‘Why do you want to see me? We’ve already agreed our terms.’
‘Ah now, dear friend,’ said Caderousse. ‘Was there ever a will without a codicil? But you came to have lunch, first of all, didn’t you? So sit down and let’s start with these sardines and fresh butter, which I put out on vine-leaves especially for you, ungrateful child. I see you’re looking round my room: my four straw-seated chairs, my pictures at three francs apiece… It’s not exactly the Hôtel des Princes here, is it?’
‘So, you’re discontented now, are you? You’re not happy any more, yet at one time you asked nothing better than to live like a retired baker.’
Caderousse sighed, so Andrea continued: ‘Well, what have you to say? Your dream has come true.’
‘I’ll say it’s a dream. A retired baker is rich, my dear Benedetto, he has an income.’
‘So do you, by God.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes, since I’m bringing two hundred francs with me, right now.’
Caderousse shrugged. ‘It’s humiliating,’ he said, ‘to get money in this way, money that is given reluctantly, ephemeral money, that may cease between one day and the next. You must see how I am forced to economize, to insure against your prosperity failing one day. Well, my friend, fortune is a fickle jade, as the regimental… chaplain said. I know that you’re prospering, you rascal. You are going to marry Danglars’ daughter.’
‘What! Danglars’… ?’
‘Yes, of course, Danglars’. Do I have to call him Baron Danglars? It would be like saying Count Benedetto. He’s an old friend, Danglars, and if his memory were not so short he’d be inviting me to your wedding… since he came to mine. Yes, yes, yes, to mine! My God, he wasn’t so proud in those days. He was a clerk at good Monsieur Morrel’s. I’ve dined more than once with him and the Comte de Morcerf. There! You see what fine friends I have, and if I were to cultivate them a little we should be meeting in the same drawing-rooms.’
‘Come on now, your jealousy is putting rainbows in your head, Caderousse.’
‘Very well, Benedetto mio, but I know what I’m saying. Perhaps one day we’ll put on our Sunday best and go to address some door: “Bell-pull please!” But until then, sit down and eat.’
Caderousse set a good example, lunching hungrily and putting in a good word for each dish as he offered it to his guest. The latter seemed to resign himself to making the best of it, bravely uncorking bottles and tucking into the bouillabaisse and the cod in breadcrumbs with garlic and oil.
‘There now, mate,’ said Caderousse. ‘You seem to be reconciled with your old landlord?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Andrea replied, his youthful and vigorous appetite taking precedence at that moment over everything.
‘Are you enjoying it, you rogue?’
‘So much so that I can’t understand how a man who can fry and eat such good things can possibly be disillusioned with life.’
‘Well, now,’ said Caderousse, ‘the trouble is that all my happiness is ruined by a single thought.’
‘What can that be?’
‘That I am living at the expense of a friend, when I have always sturdily struggled to earn my own bread.’
‘Oh, don’t fret over that,’ said Andrea. ‘I’ve got plenty for two, don’t you worry.’
‘No, no, it’s the truth: believe me or not, but at the end of every month, I feel guilty.’
‘My dear Caderousse!’
‘So
much so that yesterday I didn’t want to take the two hundred francs.’
‘Yes, you wanted to talk about it; but did you really feel guilty, then?’
‘Really! And then I had an idea.’
Andrea shuddered. He always shuddered at Caderousse’s ideas.
‘It’s a miserable business,’ Caderousse went on, ‘always having to wait until the end of the month.’
Andrea shrugged philosophically, deciding to see where this was leading. ‘Isn’t life spent waiting?’ he asked. ‘Look at me: what do I do but wait? Well, I’m patient, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, because instead of waiting for two hundred miserable francs, you are waiting for five or six thousand, perhaps ten, or even twelve. You’re a sly one, you are. Even in the old days you always had your little purses or money-boxes that you tried to hide from your poor friend Caderousse. Luckily, the said Caderousse had a way of sniffing them out.’
‘There you go again, wandering off the subject and turning the past over and over. I ask you, what’s the use of harping on like that?’
‘Oh, you say that because you’re twenty-one; you can forget the past. I’m fifty and obliged to remember it. But no matter, let’s get back to business.’
‘Yes, let’s.’
‘I was saying that in your place…’
‘What?’
‘I should cash in…’
‘What! You’d cash in…’
‘Yes, I’d ask for a six-month advance, on the grounds that I wanted to go into politics and I was going to buy a farm; then, once I had the money, I’d be off.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said Andrea. ‘That’s perhaps not such a bad idea after all.’
‘My dear friend,’ said Caderousse, ‘eat my cooking and digest my words; you won’t be any the worse for it, physically or otherwise.’
The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) Page 112
