The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (179 page)

The brigadier came towards him, holding his sabre.

‘Come, come,’ said Cavalcanti. ‘Put up your sword, my good fellow; there’s no sense in getting so worked up about it. I’ll come quietly.’ And he held out his hands for the handcuffs.

The two young women looked in horror at the hideous transformation taking place before their eyes, as the man of the world shuffled off his outer shell and became once more the convict.

Andrea turned around to them and, with an impudent smile, said: ‘Do you have any message for your father, Mademoiselle Eugénie? Because, in all probability, I shall be returning to Paris.’

Eugénie buried her head in both hands.

‘Oh, come, now!’ said Andrea. ‘There’s no need to be ashamed. I don’t blame you for catching the mail coach to chase after me… Why! I was almost your husband!’ And with this quip he went out, leaving the two fugitives a prey to the agonies of shame and the remarks of the crowd.

An hour later, both dressed in women’s clothes, they climbed into their travelling barouche. The door of the inn had been shut
to keep them from constant scrutiny; but when the door was opened they still had to pass along a double line of onlookers, muttering and staring with eager eyes.

Eugénie lowered the blinds but, even though she could no longer see, she could still hear, and the sound of sniggering reached her. ‘Oh, why is the world not a desert!’ she exclaimed, throwing herself into the arms of Mlle d’Armilly, her eyes blazing with that fury which made Nero wish that the Roman world had one neck, so that he could cut it with a single blow.

The following day they arrived at the Hôtel de Flandre, in Brussels. By then, Andrea had already spent one night as a prisoner in the conciergerie.

We have seen how Mlle Danglars and Mlle d’Armilly were left in peace to undergo their transformation and make their escape: the reason is that everyone was too preoccupied with his or her own affairs to bother with theirs.

We shall leave the banker in a cold sweat as he drew up the huge columns of his liabilities to confront the spectre of bankruptcy, and follow the baroness who, after remaining momentarily crushed by the blow that had fallen on her, had gone to seek advice from her usual counsellor, Lucien Debray.

The baroness had been counting on the marriage to give up finally a guardianship which, with a daughter of Eugénie’s character, could not be anything but a burden; because, in those sorts of tacit agreements that establish the hierarchical links in a family, the mother is only truly able to command her daughter when she can offer her a continual example of wisdom and a model of perfection.

Now Madame Danglars was in awe of Eugénie’s perspicacity and the advice of Mlle d’Armilly. She had intercepted certain contemptuous looks cast by her daughter in the direction of Debray – looks which seemed to indicate that Eugénie knew all about her amorous and financial relations with the private secretary. In fact, a better-informed and closer examination would have told her that
Eugénie detested Debray, not as a cause of disruption and scandal in her father’s house, but quite simply because she classed him among those bipeds whom Diogenes tried to avoid describing as ‘men’ and Plato designated under the circumlocution ‘two-footed animals without feathers’.

From her own point of view – and unfortunately in this world everyone has his or her own point of view which obscures that of others – from her point of view, then, Mme Danglars regretted infinitely that Eugénie’s marriage had been broken off, not because the match was suitable, compatible and destined to make her daughter happy, but because it would have given her back her own freedom.

Consequently, as we have said, she hurried round to Debray’s. Like everyone else in Paris, he had been present on the evening of the contract and had witnessed the scandal that followed, and had now lost no time in retiring to his club, where he was discussing with a few friends the event which was by now a subject of conversation for three-quarters of the inhabitants of the supremely talkative town, known as the capital of the world.

Just as Mme Danglars, dressed in a black robe and hidden behind a veil, was climbing the stairs to Debray’s apartment, despite the concierge’s assurance that the young gentleman was not at home, Debray was engaged in refuting the arguments of a friend who had tried to persuade him that, after the dreadful scandal that had taken place, it was his duty as a friend of the house to marry Mlle Eugénie Danglars and her two million francs.

Debray was defending himself like a man who asks nothing better than to be defeated. The idea had often occurred to him of its own accord. But then from time to time, knowing Eugénie, with her independent and haughty character, he would adopt a completely defensive attitude, saying that the match was impossible; yet meanwhile allowing himself to be secretly titillated by the wicked thought that (if moralists are to be believed) incessantly worries at the most honest and the purest of man, lurking in the depth of his soul like Satan behind the Cross. The conversation, as one can see, was interesting, since it involved matters of such gravity and, with tea and gambling, lasted until one in the morning.

Meanwhile the valet had shown Mme Danglars into Lucien’s apartment, where she waited, veiled and tremulous, in the little green drawing-room between two baskets of flowers that she herself
had sent that morning and which Debray, it must be said, had trimmed and set in tiers with a care that made the poor woman forgive his absence.

At twenty to twelve, Mme Danglars grew tired of waiting, got back in her cab and had herself driven home.

Society women have this in common with successful courtesans: they do not usually return home after midnight. The baroness slipped back into the house as unobtrusively as Eugénie had left it: her heart beating, she tiptoed up the stairs to her apartment which, as we know, was next to Eugénie’s. She was so afraid of causing tongues to wag and, poor woman – respectable at least in this respect – believed so firmly in her daughter’s innocence and attachment to the paternal home!

When she got in, she listened at Eugénie’s door and then, hearing no sound, tried to open it; but the bolts were shut.

Mme Danglars assumed that Eugénie, exhausted by the dreadful emotions of the evening, had gone to bed and was sleeping. She called the chambermaid and questioned her.

‘Mademoiselle Eugénie went to her room,’ the chambermaid said, ‘with Mademoiselle d’Armilly. Then they took tea together and after that sent me away, saying that they had no further need of me.’

Since then the chambermaid had been in the servants’ quarters and, like everyone else, thought that the two young ladies were in their room. So Mme Danglars went to bed without the slightest suspicion; but, though her mind was at rest as far as the participants were concerned, it worried about the events.

As her ideas became clearer, the significance of the incident grew larger. It was no longer a mere scandal, it was a pandemonium; it was no longer a matter of shame, but of ignominy. Now the baroness involuntarily recalled how pitiless she had been towards poor Mercédès, recently afflicted with as great a misfortune through her husband and her son.

‘Eugénie,’ she thought, ‘is ruined, and so are we. The affair, in the way it will be represented, covers us with opprobrium: in a society such as ours, certain forms of ridicule are open wounds, bleeding and incurable.’

‘How fortunate,’ she murmured, ‘that God gave Eugénie that strange character which has so often been a cause of concern to me!’ And she looked gratefully up towards heaven from which some
mysterious Providence arranges everything in advance according to what will occur and sometimes transforms a defect, or even a vice, into a piece of good fortune.

Then her thoughts soared through space, like a bird extending its wings to cross an abyss, and alighted on Cavalcanti. ‘That Andrea was a wretch, a thief, an assassin; yet the same Andrea had manners which indicated at least a half-education, if not a complete one; this same Andrea presented himself to society with an appearance of great wealth and the support of honourable names.’

How could she see her way through this puzzle? Whom could she ask for help in this cruel dilemma?

As a woman, her first instinct, which sometimes proves fatal, had been to look for help from the man she loved, but Debray could only offer advice. She must turn to someone more powerful.

This was when the baroness thought of M. de Villefort.

It was M. de Villefort who had wanted to have Cavalcanti arrested; it was M. de Villefort who had pitilessly brought discord into the heart of her family, as if it had been foreign to him.

But no, on reflection, the crown prosecutor was not a pitiless man. He was a judge and the prisoner of duty, a firm and loyal friend who, with an unrelenting but practised hand, had applied a scalpel to corruption. He was not an executioner but a surgeon, a surgeon who wanted to cut Danglars’ honour free from the ignominy of that irredeemable young man whom they had introduced to society as their son-in-law.

If M. de Villefort, a friend of the Danglars family, acted in that way, there was no further reason to suppose that the crown prosecutor had known anything in advance or had any complicity in Andrea’s intrigues. So, on reflection, Villefort’s conduct still appeared to the baroness in a light that showed it to their mutual advantage. But here his inflexibility must stop. She would go and see him the next day and persuade him to agree, not to fail in his judicial duties, but at least to make full allowances for them.

She would appeal to the past. She would refresh his memories and beg him in the name of a time that was guilty, but happy. M. de Villefort would be flexible about the matter, or at least – for this, he would only need to turn a blind eye – at least he would let Cavalcanti escape and prosecute the crime only against that shadow of a criminal who can be tried
in absentia
.

Then, only then, would she sleep easily.

The following day she got up at nine o’clock and, without ringing for her chambermaid or giving any sign of life to anyone, she dressed, with the same simplicity as on the previous evening, then went down the stairs and out of the Danglars residence, walked as far as the Rue de Provence, got into a cab and had herself driven to M. de Villefort’s house.

For the past month this accursed place had had the mournful appearance of a lazaretto during an outbreak of the plague. Some of the rooms were closed, inside and out. The closed shutters would only open to let in air; and then one might see a lackey’s terrified face at the window, which would then shut like a tombstone falling back on a sepulchre, while the neighbours were whispering: ‘Shall we see another coffin come out of the crown prosecutor’s house today?’

Mme Danglars shuddered at the appearance of this desolate house. She got out of her cab and, her knees giving way beneath her, went up to the closed door and rang the bell.

It was only at the third ring of the bell, whose mournful tinkling seemed to participate in the general sadness, that a concierge appeared, opening the door just wide enough to let out his words.

He saw a woman, a lady, elegantly dressed; but despite this the door remained almost shut.

‘Come on!’ said the baroness. ‘Open up.’

‘Firstly, Madame, who are you?’ the concierge asked.

‘Who am I? But you know me perfectly well.’

‘We don’t know anyone any more, Madame.’

‘But, my good fellow, you’re mad!’ exclaimed the baroness.

‘Where do you come from?’

‘This really is too much!’

‘Excuse me, Madame, it’s orders. Your name?’

‘Baroness Danglars. You’ve seen me twenty times.’

‘Quite possibly, Madame. Now what do you want?’

‘Oh! What a cheek! I’ll complain to Monsieur de Villefort about the impertinence of his staff.’

‘Madame, it’s not impertinence, it’s a precaution. No one comes in here without a word from Monsieur d’Avrigny or without having business with the crown prosecutor.’

‘Well, as it happens I do have business with the crown prosecutor.’

‘Urgent business?’

‘As you must see, since I have not yet got back into my carriage. But let’s make an end of this: here is my card; take it to your master.’

‘Will Madame wait here?’

‘Yes. Go on.’

The concierge closed the door, leaving Mme Danglars in the street.

Admittedly she did not have to wait long. A short time later the door opened wide enough to admit her. She went through and it closed behind her. Once they were in the courtyard, the concierge, without for a moment losing sight of the door, took a whistle out of his pocket and blew it. Monsieur de Villefort’s valet appeared on the steps.

‘Madame must forgive that good fellow,’ he said, coming down to meet her. ‘He has precise orders and Monsieur de Villefort asked me to tell Madame that he could not have done otherwise.’

Also in the courtyard there was a supplier, who had been admitted only after the same precautions and whose merchandise was being examined.

The baroness went up the steps. She was deeply affected by the prevailing mood which seemed, as it were, to extend the circle of her own melancholy. Still guided by the valet, she was shown into the magistrate’s study without her guide once losing sight of her.