The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (175 page)

‘I have a seraglio in Cairo, another in Smyrna and another in Constantinople… And you ask me to preside at a wedding! Never!’

‘So you are refusing me?’

‘Outright. Even if you were my son, or my brother, I should refuse in the same way.’

‘Well, I never!’ Andrea said, disappointed. ‘So what is to be done?’

‘You have a hundred friends, as you said yourself.’

‘Yes, but you were the person who introduced me to Monsieur Danglars.’

‘Not at all! Let’s get the facts straight: I arranged for you to have dinner with him in Auteuil, and you introduced yourself. Why, it’s entirely different!’

‘Yes, but my marriage… you helped…’

‘I did? In no way, believe me. Remember what I said to you when you came to ask me to make the proposal: I never matchmake, my dear Prince, it’s an absolute rule with me.’

Andrea bit his lips. ‘But you will at least be there?’

‘All of Parisian society will be coming?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then I shall be there with the rest,’ the count said.

‘Will you sign the contract?’

‘I see no objection; my scruples don’t extend that far.’

‘Well, then, if you will not agree to anything more, I shall have to make do with what you will give me. But one final word, Count.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I need some advice.’

‘Beware! A piece of advice is worse than a helping hand.’

‘Oh, you can give me this without compromising yourself.’

‘Tell me, then.’

‘My wife’s dowry is five hundred thousand
livres
.’

‘That’s the figure that Monsieur Danglars told me himself.’

‘Should I take it or deposit it with the lawyers?’

‘Here is how things are usually done, when the parties want to show some gallantry: at the time of the contract, your two notaries agree to meet the following day or the one after. On the appointed day, they exchange the two dowries, each giving the other a receipt. Then, once the marriage has been celebrated, they put the millions at your disposal, as the one in charge of the joint estate.’

‘The reason I ask,’ Andrea said, with ill-disguised unease, ‘is that I thought I understood my father-in-law to say that he intended to invest our funds in the famous railway that you were speaking about a little while ago.’

‘So?’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Everyone agrees that it should allow you to triple your capital in a year. Baron Danglars is a good father and knows how to add up.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Andrea. ‘Everything’s fine except your refusal, which wounds me deeply.’

‘Just put it down to what are, in the circumstances, quite natural scruples.’

‘As you wish, then,’ said Andrea. ‘This evening at nine?’

‘Until this evening.’ And, though the count shrank back slightly and his lips paled, while still preserving his polite smile, Andrea seized his hand, pressed it, leapt into his phaeton and rode off.

He spent the last four or five hours until nine o’clock in shopping and in visits to drum up interest among the friends whom he had asked to appear at the banker’s in their finest carriages, dazzling them with the promise of shares – which were later to turn every head, but in which for the time being Danglars had the initiative.

At half-past eight, accordingly, Danglars’ main reception room,
the gallery leading to it and the three other reception rooms on the same floor were full of a crowd of scented people, very few of whom were attracted by sympathy, and very many by an irresistible urge to be where they knew something was going on. A self-conscious stylist would say that society receptions are a bed of flowers that attracts capricious butterflies, hungry bees and buzzing hornets.

Needless to say, the rooms were resplendent with candles and light poured from the gilt mouldings on to the silk hangings; and all the bad taste of furnishings which expressed nothing but wealth shone out in its full glory.

Mlle Eugénie was dressed with the most elegant simplicity: a white silk dress embroidered in white, and a white rose half hidden in her jet-black hair, made up her entire costume, enriched by not a single jewel. Yet her eyes shone with perfect self-assurance, contradicting what she saw as the vulgarly virginal significance of this outfit.

Thirty yards away, Mme Danglars was talking to Debray, Beauchamp and Château-Renaud. Debray had made his entry into the house for this solemn occasion, but like everyone else and with no special privileges.

M. Danglars, surrounded by members of parliament and men of money, was explaining a new theory of taxation which he intended to introduce when circumstances compelled the government to call him to ministerial office.

Andrea, arm-in-arm with one of the most dashing young dandies from the opera, was explaining his future plans to him – somewhat impertinently, given that he needed to be bold to appear at ease – and how he intended to advance the cause of Parisian fashions with his income of 75,000
livres
.

The main crowd was ebbing and flowing around the rooms, like a tide of turquoises, rubies, emeralds, opals and diamonds.

As always, it was the oldest women who were the most heavily adorned and the ugliest who were most determined to make an exhibition of themselves. If there was any fine white lily, or any sweet-scented, velvety rose, she had to be hunted down and revealed, hidden in a corner behind a mother in a turban or an aunt with a bird of paradise.

At intervals, above this crush, this hum, this laughter, the voices of the ushers could be heard announcing the name of someone well
known in the financial world, respected in the army or illustrious in the world of letters; and, at that, a faint movement in the clusters of people would greet the name. But for each one who had the privilege of causing a stir in this ocean of human waves, how many were greeted with indifference or a snigger of contempt!

Just as the hand of the massive clock – of the clock showing the sleeping Endymion – reached nine on the gold face and the bell, faithfully translating the thought of the machine, struck nine times, the Count of Monte Cristo’s name rang out in its turn and everyone in the crowd, as if drawn by an electric flash, turned towards the door.

The count was dressed, with his usual simplicity, in black. A white waistcoat covered his broad and noble chest and his black collar seemed unusually neat, outlined against the masculine pallor of his complexion. His only ornament was a watch-chain so fine that the slender band of gold was barely visible against the white stitching.

A crowd immediately assembled round him. At a glance, the count observed Mme Danglars at one end of the room, Monsieur Danglars at the other and Mlle Eugénie in front of him.

He went across, first of all, to the baroness, who was talking to Mme de Villefort, who had come alone, Valentine still being unwell. Without deviating from his course, the crowd parting before him, he went from the baroness to Eugénie, whom he complimented in a few concise and restrained words which impressed the proud artist.

Mlle Louise d’Armilly was standing close by her; she thanked the count for the letters of recommendation that he had so kindly given her for Italy and which, she said, she intended to make use of very shortly.

On leaving these ladies, he turned around and found himself close to Danglars, who had come over to offer him his hand.

After completing these three social duties, Monte Cristo stopped and looked around him with that self-confident look which bears the stamp of an expression peculiar to people who belong to a particular rank in society and, above all, to those who enjoy a certain influence in it; a look that seems to imply: ‘I have fulfilled my obligations; now let others pay their dues to me.’

Andrea, who was in an adjoining room, felt the sort of shiver that Monte Cristo sent through the crowd and hastened to pay his
respects. He found him entirely surrounded. People were hanging on his every word, as is always the case with those who say little and never waste words.

At that moment the notaries entered and set up their scrawled signs on the gold-embroidered velvet covering on the table that had been prepared for the signing, a table of gilded wood. One notary sat down, the other remained standing.

They were about to proceed to the reading of this contract which half of Paris would sign, having gathered for the occasion.

Everyone took their place; or, rather, the women clustered round while the men, less moved by what Boileau
²
calls the ‘energetic style’, commented on Andrea’s nervous agitation, M. Danglars’ concentration, Eugénie’s impassivity, and the lively and casual way in which the baroness was treating this important business.

There was total silence while the contract was read, but, as soon as the reading was over, the noise resumed in every room, twice as loud as before: the jealous gathering had been deeply impressed by these marvellous amounts, these millions paving the future path of the young couple, complemented by the exhibition of the bride-to-be’s trousseau and diamonds in a room entirely set aside for them. All this doubled Mlle Danglars’ charms, blotting out the light of the sun, in the eyes of the young men. As for the women, it goes without saying that, jealous though they were of the millions, they did not believe them necessary to appear beautiful. Andrea, hemmed in by his friends, complimented, adulated, was beginning to believe in the reality of the dream he was having; Andrea was about to lose his head.

The notary solemnly took the quill, raised it in the air and said: ‘Gentlemen, the contract is about to be signed!’

The baron was to sign first, then the proxy for M. Cavalcanti the elder, then the baroness, then the ‘future spouses’ (as they say in that abominable style commonly used on stamped paper). The baron took the quill and signed, followed by the proxy. The baroness approached, on Mme de Villefort’s arm.

‘My friend,’ she said, taking the quill, ‘isn’t it just too much? An unexpected incident, connected with that business of murder and theft of which the Count of Monte Cristo was so nearly a victim, has deprived us of Monsieur de Villefort’s company.’

‘Oh, good Lord!’ Danglars exclaimed, with no more emotion than he might have said: ‘What? I really couldn’t care less!’

‘Oh, dear,’ Monte Cristo said, coming over. ‘I am very afraid I may be the involuntary cause of his absence.’

‘What, Count? You?’ said Madame Danglars as she signed. ‘If that is so, beware, because I shall never forgive you.’

Andrea pricked up his ears.

‘It is not at all my fault,’ said the count, ‘so I wish it to be put on record.’

Everyone was listening eagerly. Monte Cristo, who so rarely opened his mouth, was about to speak.

‘You remember,’ the count said, in the midst of the most complete silence, ‘that it was in my house that he died, that wretch who came to rob me and who was killed as he left the house, as they believe, by his accomplice?’

‘Yes,’ said Danglars.

‘Well, in order to assist him, they undressed him and threw his clothes into a corner where the police came and collected them. But the police, while taking the coat and jacket as evidence, forgot the waistcoat.’

The colour drained visibly from Andrea’s face and he edged towards the door. He could see a cloud looming on the horizon, and this cloud seemed to be drawing a storm along behind it.

‘So, this miserable waistcoat was found today, covered in blood, with a hole above the heart.’

The ladies cried out and one or two got ready to faint.

‘It was brought to me. No one could guess where the rag came from; only I thought that it probably belonged to the victim. Then suddenly my valet, gingerly and with some disgust looking over this lugubrious relic, felt a piece of paper in the pocket. He took it out and found a letter – addressed to whom? Why, Baron, to you.’

‘To me?’ Danglars exclaimed.

‘Yes, by heaven, to you. Yes, I managed to read your name under the blood with which the paper was stained,’ Monte Cristo replied, in the midst of a general gasp of surprise.

‘But how has this prevented Monsieur de Villefort from being here?’ Mme Danglars asked, looking anxiously at her husband.

‘Quite simple, Madame,’ Monte Cristo replied. ‘The waistcoat and the letter were what are called exhibits in evidence. I sent both of them to the crown prosecutor. You understand, my dear Baron, the legal process is the most reliable in criminal cases. There may be some plot against you.’

Andrea stared hard at Monte Cristo and vanished into the second drawing-room.

‘It could be,’ said Danglars. ‘Was this murdered man not a former convict?’

‘Yes,’ said the count. ‘A former convict named Caderousse.’

Danglars went a little pale. Andrea left the second drawing-room to go into the antechamber.

‘But sign, sign!’ said Monte Cristo. ‘I see that my story has upset everyone and I most humbly beg your pardon, Madame la Baronne, and that of Mademoiselle Danglars.’

The baroness, who had just signed, handed the quill to the notary.

‘Prince Cavalcanti,’ the lawyer said. ‘Prince Cavalcanti, where are you?’

‘Andrea! Andrea!’ repeated several voices of young people who were already on terms of such intimacy with the noble Italian that they called him by his first name.