The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (127 page)

‘What was that?’

‘It was indiscreet of me to tell you about Monsieur Danglars.’

‘On the contrary, please keep telling me, talk about him as much as you like, as long as the message remains the same.’

‘Well, you make me feel better about it. So when is Monsieur d’Epinay arriving back?’

‘In five or six days at the latest.’

‘And when is he getting married?’

‘As soon as Monsieur and Madame de Saint-Méran are here.’

‘When he gets to Paris, bring him to see me. Even though you say that I don’t like him, I assure you I shall be happy to see him.’

‘Very well, m’lud. Your orders shall be carried out.’

‘Au revoir!’

‘Until Saturday, at least – it’s agreed?’

‘Of course! I’ve given my word.’ The count watched and waved. Then, when Albert had got into his phaeton, he turned around and saw Bertuccio behind him. ‘Well?’ he asked.

‘She went to the law courts,’ the steward answered.

‘Did she stay long?’

‘An hour and a half.’

‘Then returned home?’

‘Without stopping.’

‘Very good,’ said the count. ‘And now, my dear Monsieur Bertuccio, if I have a piece of advice for you, it is to go to Normandy and see if you can’t find the little estate I mentioned.’

Bertuccio bowed and, the count’s command being entirely coincidental with his own wishes, left that very evening.

M. de Villefort kept his word to Mme Danglars (and most of all to himself) by trying to find out how the Count of Monte Cristo could have learnt the story of the house in Auteuil. That same day he wrote to a certain M. de Boville who, after once being an inspector of prisons, had been transferred at a higher rank to the detective branch of the police, enquiring whether he could provide the necessary information. Boville asked for two days to hunt down the best sources. When the two days were up, M. de Villefort received the following note:

The person described as the Count of Monte Cristo is known particularly to Lord Wilmore, a rich foreigner and an occasional visitor to Paris, who is here at the moment; and also to Abbé Busoni, a Sicilian priest who is highly reputed in the East, where he accomplished many good works.

M. de Villefort replied, ordering that the most precise information should be obtained at once on these two persons. By the next evening, his orders had been carried out and he received the following news:

The abbé was only in Paris for one month. He lived behind the church of Saint-Sulpice in a little house consisting of a single storey above the ground floor, the entire accommodation, of which he was the sole tenant, being made up of four rooms altogether, two up and two down. The two downstairs rooms consisted of a
dining-room with a table, two chairs and a walnut sideboard; and a drawing-room, painted white, with no ornaments, no carpet and no clock. It could be seen that, for himself, the abbé was content with the bare necessities.

Admittedly, he preferred to live in the first-floor living-room, which was entirely furnished with theological texts and parchments in which, according to his valet, he was accustomed to bury himself for months on end, making this less a living-room than a library.

This valet examined visitors through a kind of judas window. If their faces were unknown or unpleasing to him, he would tell them that M. l’Abbé was not in Paris. Most were satisfied with this reply, knowing that the abbé often travelled and sometimes spent long periods abroad. In any case, whether or not he was at home, whether he was in Paris or in Cairo, the abbé always gave alms, so the little window in his door served as a passage for the gifts that the valet constantly distributed in his master’s name.

The other room, close to the library, was a bedroom. The furnishings here were entirely made up of a bed with no curtains, four armchairs and a sofa covered in yellow Utrecht velvet, together with a prie-dieu.

As for Lord Wilmore, he lived in the Rue Fontaine-Saint-Georges. He was one of those touring Englishmen who spend all their inheritance on travel. He rented the apartment, furnished, where he lived, but spent only two or three hours a day there and slept there rarely. One of his eccentricities was that he refused to speak French, even though it was reported that he could write the language very correctly.

The day after the crown prosecutor received this precious information, a man, getting down from his carriage at the corner of the Rue Férou, went and knocked on a door painted in olive green and asked for Abbé Busoni.

‘Monsieur l’Abbé went out early this morning,’ said the valet.

‘I cannot be satisfied by that answer,’ the visitor said. ‘For I come on behalf of a person to whom everyone is at home. But kindly give Abbé Busoni…’

‘I already told you: he is not here,’ the valet repeated.

‘Then when he gets back, give him this card and this sealed paper. Will the abbé be at home this evening at eight?’

‘Undoubtedly, Monsieur, unless he is working, in which case it is as if he was out.’

‘So I shall come back this evening at the time we mentioned,’ the visitor said, then went away.

That evening, at the appointed hour, the same man returned in the same carriage, which this time, instead of stopping on the corner of the Rue Férou, drew up in front of the green door. He knocked, it was opened and he went in. From the valet’s obsequious behaviour, he realized that his letter had had the desired effect.

‘Is Monsieur l’Abbé at home?’ he asked.

‘Yes, he is working in his library, but he is expecting you, sir,’ the servant replied.

The stranger climbed a fairly rough staircase. Sitting behind a table, the whole surface of which was flooded in the light concentrated on it by a huge lampshade, while the rest of the apartment was in shadow, he saw the abbé, in ecclesiastical dress, his head hooded in one of those hoods with which medieval scholars used to cover their skulls.

‘Do I have the honour of speaking to Monsieur Busoni?’ the visitor asked.

‘Yes, Monsieur,’ the abbé replied. ‘And you are the person sent to me by Monsieur de Boville, former inspector of prisons, on behalf of the prefect of police?’

‘Precisely, Monsieur.’

‘One of those agents appointed to look after security in Paris?’

‘Yes, Monsieur,’ the stranger replied, with momentary hesitation and, above all, a blush.

The abbé adjusted the large glasses that covered not only his eyes but also his temples; and, sitting down again, he motioned to the visitor to do likewise.

‘I am listening,’ he said, in a marked Italian accent.

‘The mission I have to accomplish, Monsieur,’ the visitor resumed, weighing each word as though finding it difficult to get it out, ‘is a confidential mission, both for the person carrying it out and for the one who will assist him in his enquiries.’

The abbé bowed his head.

‘Yes,’ the stranger continued. ‘Your probity, Monsieur l’Abbé, is so well known to the prefect of police that, as a magistrate, he would like to know something touching that same public safety in the name of which I have been sent to you. Consequently, Monsieur l’Abbé, we hope that neither ties of friendship nor any other human
considerations will induce you to hide the truth from the eyes of the law.’

‘Monsieur, as long as whatever you wish to know does not affect any scruple of my conscience. I am a priest and the secrets of the confessional, for example, must remain between me and God’s justice, not between me and human justice.’

‘Oh, Monsieur l’Abbé, you may be quite reassured on that,’ said the stranger. ‘In any case, we shall ensure that your conscience is protected.’

At this, the abbé leant on his side of the lampshade, raising it on the opposite side, so that it lit fully the face of the stranger, while leaving his own still in shadow. ‘I beg your pardon, father,’ the other man said. ‘This light is terribly tiring for my eyes.’

The abbé lowered the green shade and said: ‘Now, Monsieur, I am listening. Speak.’

‘I am coming to the point. Do you know the Count of Monte Cristo?’

‘I suppose you are speaking of Monsieur Zaccone?’

‘Zaccone! So he is not called Monte Cristo!’

‘Monte Cristo is the name of an island, or rather of a rock, not of a family.’

‘Very well. Let’s not argue about words. So, since Monsieur de Monte Cristo and Monsieur Zaccone are the same man…’

‘Absolutely the same.’

‘… then let us talk about Monsieur Zaccone.’

‘Agreed.’

‘I asked if you knew him?’

‘Very well.’

‘Who is he?’

‘The son of a rich shipowner in Malta.’

‘Yes, I know that that’s what they say. But, as you must realize, the police cannot be satisfied with mere hearsay.’

‘And yet,’ the abbé said, with a very pleasant smile, ‘when hearsay is the truth, everyone must be satisfied with it, the police as well as the rest.’

‘But are you sure of what you are saying?’

‘What! Am I sure?’

‘Please understand me, Monsieur. I do not in any way question your good faith. I am merely asking if you are sure.’

‘Come now, I knew Monsieur Zaccone, his father.’

‘Ah!’

‘And while I was still a child I played a dozen times with his son in their shipyards.’

‘But this title: count?’

‘That can be bought, you know.’

‘In Italy?’

‘Everywhere.’

‘But this wealth which, still according to rumour, is immense…’

‘Ah, that!’ said the abbé. ‘Immense is the word.’

‘You know him. How much do you think he owns?’

‘Oh, an income of at least a hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand
livres
.’

‘That’s reasonable,’ the visitor said. ‘There was talk of three or four million.’

‘An income of two hundred thousand
livres
, Monsieur, adds up to a capital of just four million.’

‘But there was talk of an income of three or four million!’

‘Oh, it’s impossible to believe that.’

‘Do you know his island of Monte Cristo?’

‘Of course. Anyone who has come from Palermo, Naples or Rome to France by sea knows it, since he will have sailed past it and seen it as he went.’

‘They say it’s an enchanted spot.’

‘It’s a rock.’

‘Why should the count buy a rock?’

‘Precisely in order to be a count. In Italy, to be a count, you still need a county.’

‘You have doubtless heard of Monsieur Zaccone’s youthful adventures?’

‘The father’s?’

‘No, the son’s.’

‘Ah, this is where I am less certain, because I lost touch with my young friend.’

‘Did he fight in the war?’

‘I think he served in it.’

‘In what force?’

‘In the navy.’

‘Aren’t you his confessor?’

‘No, Monsieur. I think he is a Lutheran.’

‘How is that? A Lutheran?’

‘I say, I think so. I couldn’t swear to it. In any case, I thought there was freedom of worship now in France.’

‘Indeed there is, and we are not concerned with his beliefs at this moment, but with his actions. In the name of the prefect of police, I request you to tell me whatever you know.’

‘He is reputed to be a very charitable man. Our Holy Father the Pope made him a Knight of Christ, a favour that he hardly ever grants except to princes, for his outstanding services to Christians in the East. He has five or six ribbons acquired for services to princes or states.’

‘Does he wear them?’

‘No, but he is proud of them none the less. He says that he prefers awards given to benefactors of mankind to those given to destroyers of men.’

‘Do you mean he is a Quaker?’

‘That’s right, a Quaker, apart from the broad-brimmed hat and brown coat, of course.’

‘Does he have any friends, as far as you know?’

‘Yes, everyone who knows him is his friend.’

‘And any enemies, then?’

‘Only one.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Lord Wilmore.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘He is in Paris at this very moment.’

‘Can he give me any information?’

‘Yes, very valuable. He was in India at the same time as Zaccone.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘Somewhere in the Chaussée-d’Antin. I am not sure of the street or the number of the house.’

‘Are you on bad terms with this Englishman?’

‘I like Zaccone and he detests him, so for that reason we do not get along.’

‘Abbé, do you think that the Count of Monte Cristo has ever been to France before the journey that has brought him to Paris?’

‘Oh, as far as that is concerned, I do know something to the point. No, Monsieur, he has never been here, because six months ago he asked me for the information he needed. And I, since I did not know precisely when I should be returning to Paris myself, I sent him to see Monsieur Cavalcanti.’