The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (92 page)

‘What use would a million be to me?’ said the count. ‘Good heavens, Monsieur! If all I wanted was a million, I should not have bothered to open a credit for such a paltry sum. A million? But I always carry a million in my portfolio or my wallet.’ And, opening a little box where he kept his visiting cards, he took out two bonds for five hundred thousand francs each, drawn on the Treasury and payable to bearer.

A man like Danglars needed to be bludgeoned, rather than
pricked. The blow had the desired effect: the banker reeled and felt faint. He looked at Monte Cristo with amazement, the pupils of his dazed eyes terrifyingly dilated.

‘Come now,’ said Monte Cristo, ‘admit it! You have no faith in the firm of Thomson and French. Well, that’s no problem. I anticipated it and, though I know little about business, I took the necessary precautions. Here are two other letters like the one addressed to you. The first comes from the firm of Arnstein and Eskeles, in Vienna, drawn on the Baron de Rothschild, the other from the house of Baring in London, drawn on Monsieur Laffitte. Just say the word, Monsieur, and I shall relieve you of any anxiety by going to one or other of those two firms.’

That was it: Danglars was defeated. With hands visibly trembling, he opened the letter from Vienna and the other from London, which the count was holding out to him, verified the signatures with a degree of attention that would have been insulting to Monte Cristo if he had not made allowance for the banker’s bewilderment.

‘Ah, Monsieur, here are three signatures that are worth many millions,’ Danglars said, rising to his feet, as though to salute the power of gold personified in the man seated before him. ‘Three unlimited credits on our three firms! Excuse me, Monsieur le Comte, but, while I am no longer suspicious, I may at least be allowed to feel astonishment.’

‘Oh, a firm like yours would not be astonished by such a thing,’ said Monte Cristo, with all the condescension he could muster. ‘So, you can send me some money, I assume?’

‘Name the sum, Monsieur le Comte. I am at your orders.’

‘Very well, then,’ Monte Cristo continued. ‘Now that we are agreed… we are agreed, aren’t we?’

Danglars nodded.

‘And you are no longer at all suspicious?’

‘Monsieur le Comte, please!’ the banker exclaimed. ‘I was never suspicious!’

‘No, you simply wanted some proof, nothing more. Very well, now that we are agreed and you no longer have any suspicion, let us settle on a broad amount for the first year; say, six million?’

‘Six million! Very well then,’ said Danglars, choking.

‘If I should need more,’ Monte Cristo continued, ‘we can increase the amount; but I am only expecting to stay a year in France, and during that year I do not think I shall exceed that amount… Well,
we shall see… So, for a start, please have five hundred thousand francs sent round to me tomorrow. I shall be at home until midday and, in any case, if I were to go out, I should leave a receipt with my steward.’

‘The money will be with you tomorrow at ten in the morning, Monsieur le Comte,’ Danglars replied. ‘Would you like gold, banknotes or coin?’

‘Half gold and half notes, if you please.’

He got up to leave.

‘One thing I must confess, Monsieur le Comte,’ Danglars said. ‘I thought that I was rather well acquainted with all the great fortunes in Europe; but I have to admit that yours, though it seems to be considerable, had entirely escaped my notice. Is it recent?’

‘No, Monsieur,’ Monte Cristo replied. ‘On the contrary, it dates back a long way. It is a sort of family treasure which was not allowed to be touched; the accumulated interest tripled the capital sum. The period allotted under the will only elapsed a few years ago, so I have only been drawing on the money for a short time and your ignorance in the matter is entirely natural. In any event, you will shortly be better informed.’

The count accompanied these last words with one of those faint smiles that so terrified Franz d’Epinay.

‘With your taste and your intentions, Monsieur,’ Danglars continued, ‘you will exhibit in Paris a degree of extravagance before which we shall pale into insignificance, we poor millionaires. However, as you strike me as a connoisseur – I did notice you looking at my pictures when I entered – I beg your permission to show you my collection. All guaranteed old masters. I do not like the modern school.’

‘You are quite right, Monsieur. On the whole, they have one great shortcoming, which is that they have not yet had time to become old masters.’

‘Could I show you some statues by Thorwaldsen, Bartolini or Canova?
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All foreigners: I don’t favour French artists.’

‘You have the right to be unjust towards them, Monsieur, since they are your fellow-countrymen.’

‘But all that can come later, when we know one another better. For the time being, with your permission, of course, I shall be content to introduce you to Baroness Danglars. Forgive my eagerness, Count, but a client such as yourself is almost one of the family.’

Monte Cristo bowed, indicating that he would accept the honour that the financier was offering to accord him.

Danglars rang and a footman appeared, dressed in brightly shining livery.

‘Is the baroness at home?’ Danglars asked.

‘Yes, Monsieur le Baron,’ the footman replied.

‘Is she alone?’

‘No, Madame has company.’

‘It would not be indiscreet of me to introduce you when someone else is present, Count? You are not travelling incognito?’

‘No, Baron,’ Monte Cristo said, smiling. ‘I do not allow myself that privilege.’

‘Who is with madame? Is it Monsieur Debray?’ Danglars asked, with a good humour that made Monte Cristo smile to himself, informed as he already was about the financier’s domestic secrets.

‘Yes, Baron, Monsieur Debray,’ the footman replied.

Danglars nodded, then turned to Monte Cristo.

‘Monsieur Lucien Debray,’ he said, ‘is an old friend of the family and the private secretary to the Minister of the Interior. As for my wife, she had to give up a title when she married me, for she belongs to an old family. She is a Mademoiselle de Servières, the widow from her first marriage, to the Marquis de Nargonne.’

‘I do not have the honour of knowing Madame Danglars, but I have already met Monsieur Lucien Debray.’

‘Huh!’ Danglars exclaimed. ‘Where was that?’

‘At Monsieur de Morcerf’s.’

‘Oh, so you know the little viscount?’ said Danglars.

‘We found ourselves in Rome at the same time, during the carnival.’

‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ said Danglars. ‘Did I not hear a rumour about something like a strange adventure with bandits and robbers in the ruins? He escaped by a miracle. I think he told my wife and daughter something about that when he returned from Italy.’

‘Madame la baronne is expecting Your Lordships,’ said the footman, coming back into the room.

‘I shall lead the way,’ Danglars said with a bow.

‘And I shall follow you,’ said Monte Cristo.

Followed by the count, the baron led the way through a long succession of apartments characterized by tedious ostentation and expensive bad taste, until they reached Mme Danglars’ boudoir, a small octagonal room hung with red satin and trimmed with Indian muslin. The chairs were in antique gilded wood and covered in old fabrics. Above the doors were paintings of shepherds and shepherdesses in the style of Boucher. Two pretty pastels, in oval frames, complementing the rest of the décor, made this little room the only one in the house with some individuality. Admittedly, it had been overlooked in the general design agreed between M. Danglars and his architect, one of the most famous and eminent members of his profession under the empire, so only the baroness and Lucien Debray were involved in doing it up. Danglars, a great admirer of Antiquity – as interpreted by the Directoire
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– consequently had nothing but contempt for this charming little cubbyhole to which, in any case, he was usually admitted only on condition that he brought someone with him to excuse his presence. So in reality it was not Danglars who introduced visitors, but he himself who was introduced, to be received well or ill, depending on how much the visitor’s face pleased or displeased the baroness.

Mme Danglars, who could still be described as beautiful despite her thirty-six years, was at the piano, a little masterpiece of cabinet-making, while Lucien Debray was sitting at an embroidery table, leafing through an album.

Before their arrival, Lucien had had time to tell the baroness several things about the count. The reader knows what an impression Monte Cristo made on Albert’s guests over luncheon; though Debray was not easily susceptible to such impressions, this one had not yet faded, but left its mark on the details he gave to the baroness. Mme Danglars’ curiosity, excited some time before by what she had learned from Morcerf, and now by Lucien, was consequently at its apogee. The tableau with the piano and the album was just one of those little social ruses which help to disguise one’s preparations, and the baroness greeted M. Danglars with a smile, which was unusual on her part. As for the count, he received a
solemn but graceful curtsey in exchange for his bow, while Lucien gave him a nod, acknowledging the brevity of their acquaintanceship, greeting Danglars in more intimate fashion.

‘Baroness,’ Danglars said. ‘Allow me to introduce the Count of Monte Cristo, who has been highly recommended to me by my business associates in Rome. I have only one thing to say about him, but it is one that will instantly make him the darling of all our lovely ladies: he has come to Paris, intending to stay here for a year, and in that time to spend six million francs, so we can expect a series of balls, dinners and feasts, in which I hope the count will not forget us, any more than we shall forget him in our own humble entertainments.’

The flattery in this introduction was fairly gross; however, it is so rare for a man to come to Paris, meaning to spend a prince’s fortune in a single year, that Mme Danglars cast a glance at the count which was not devoid of interest.

‘When did you arrive, Monsieur?’ she asked.

‘Yesterday, Madame.’

‘And you have come, as I am told is your custom, from the ends of the earth?’

‘This time quite simply from Cadiz, Madame.’

‘You find us at an abominable season. Paris is frightful in summer: there are no more balls, no gatherings, no parties. The Italian opera is in London, the French opera is everywhere except in Paris and, as for the Théâtre Français, I suppose you know that it is no longer anywhere. So we have nothing to entertain us except a few miserable races at the Champ-de-Mars and Satory. Will you be racing your horses at all, Monsieur le Comte?’

‘I shall be doing everything, Madame,’ the count said, ‘that is done in Paris, if I am fortunate enough to find someone who can reliably inform me on the customs of the country.’

‘Do you like horses, Monsieur?’

‘I have spent part of my life in the East, Madame, and, as you know, Orientals prize only two things in the world: the nobility of horses and the beauty of women.’

‘My dear Count,’ said the baroness, ‘you might have been gallant enough to put women first.’

‘You see, Madame: I was right a moment ago when I said that I needed a tutor to guide me in the ways of the country.’

At this, Mme Danglars’ favourite chambermaid came in, went
over to her mistress and whispered a few words in her ear. The baroness paled.

‘Impossible!’ she exclaimed.

‘It is the plain truth, Madame, for all that,’ the chambermaid replied.

Mme Danglars turned to her husband.

‘Is this true, Monsieur?’

‘What, Madame?’ asked Danglars, visibly uneasy.

‘What this girl has just told me…’

‘Which is?’

‘She tells me that when my coachman went to harness my horses, they were not in the stable. I ask you, what can this mean?’

‘Madame,’ said Danglars, ‘please listen to me…’

‘Oh, I am listening, Monsieur, because I am curious to know what you have to tell me. I shall let these gentlemen judge between us, and I am going to start by explaining the situation to them. Gentlemen,’ she said, turning to them, ‘Baron Danglars has ten horses in his stables. Among these ten, there were two which belong to me, delightful creatures, the finest horses in Paris. You know them, Monsieur Debray: my dappled greys. Well, just when Madame de Villefort is to borrow my carriage, which I promised to her so that she could go in it tomorrow to the Bois, the two horses suddenly cannot be found! I presume that Monsieur Danglars saw the opportunity to make a few thousand francs, and sold them. Oh, God! What a vile breed they are, these speculators!’

‘Madame,’ Danglars replied, ‘those horses were too lively. They were barely four years old and I was constantly afraid for your safety.’

‘So, Monsieur?’ said the baroness. ‘You very well know that for the past month I have had the services of the finest coachman in Paris – unless, that is, you sold him with the horses.’

‘My dear friend, I shall find a pair for you that are precisely the same, or even finer, if that is possible; but this time they will be mild-mannered and calm, and not make me so worried for you.’