The daring attempt to rob the count was the topic of conversation throughout Paris for the next fortnight. The dying man had signed a deposition declaring Benedetto to be the assassin. The police had orders to make the strictest search for the murderer. Caderousse’s knife, dark lantern, bunch of keys, and clothing, excepting the waistcoat, which could not be found, were deposited at the registry; the corpse was conveyed to the morgue. The count told everyone that this adventure had happened during his absence at Auteuil, and that he only knew what was related by the Abbé Busoni, who that evening, by mere chance, had requested to pass the night in his house, to examine some valuable books in his library.
Bertuccio alone turned pale whenever Benedetto’s name was mentioned in his presence, but there was no reason why anyone should notice his doing so.
Villefort, being called on to prove the crime, was preparing his brief with the same ardor that he was accustomed to exercise when required to speak in criminal cases.
But three weeks had already passed, and the most diligent search had been unsuccessful; the attempted robbery and the murder of the robber by his comrade were almost forgotten in anticipation of the approaching marriage of Mademoiselle Danglars to the Count Andrea Cavalcanti. It was expected that this wedding would shortly take place, as the young man was received at the banker’s as the betrothed.
Letters had been despatched to M. Cavalcanti, as the count’s father, who highly approved of the union, regretted his inability to leave Parma at that time, and promised a wedding gift of a hundred and fifty thousand livres. It was agreed that the three millions should be intrusted to Danglars to invest; some persons had warned the young man of the circumstances of his future father-in-law, who had of late sustained repeated losses; but with sublime disinterestedness and confidence the young man refused to listen, or to express a single doubt to the baron.
The baron adored Count Andrea Cavalcanti; not so Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars. With an instinctive hatred of matrimony, she suffered Andrea’s attentions in order to get rid of Morcerf; but when Andrea urged his suit, she betrayed an entire dislike to him. The baron might possibly have perceived it, but, attributing it to a caprice, feigned ignorance.
The delay demanded by Beauchamp had nearly expired. Morcerf appreciated the advice of Monte Cristo to let things die away of their own accord. No one had taken up the remark about the general, and no one had recognized in the officer who betrayed the castle of Yanina the noble count in the House of Peers.
Albert, however, felt no less insulted; the few lines which had irritated him were certainly intended as an insult. Besides, the manner in which Beauchamp had closed the conference left a bitter recollection in his heart. He cherished the thought of the duel, hoping to conceal its true cause even from his seconds. Beauchamp had not been seen since the day he visited Albert, and those of whom the latter inquired always told him he was out on a journey which would detain him some days. Where he was no one knew.
One morning Albert was awakened by his valet de chambre, who announced Beauchamp. Albert rubbed his eyes, ordered his servant to introduce him into the small smoking-room on the ground floor, dressed himself quickly, and went down.
He found Beauchamp pacing the room; on perceiving him Beauchamp stopped.
“Your arrival here, without waiting my visit at your house today, looks well, sir,” said Albert. “Tell me, may I shake hands with you, saying, ‘Beauchamp, acknowledge you have injured me, and retain my friendship,’ or must I simply propose to you a choice of arms?”
“Albert,” said Beauchamp, with a look of sorrow which stupefied the young man, “let us first sit down and talk.”
“Rather, sir, before we sit down, I must demand your answer.”
“Albert,” said the journalist, “these are questions which it is difficult to answer.”
“I will facilitate it by repeating the question, ‘Will you, or will you not, retract?’”
“Morcerf, it is not enough to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to questions which concern the honor, the social interest, and the life of such a man as Lieutenant-général the Count of Morcerf, peer of France.”
“What must then be done?”
“What I have done, Albert. I reasoned thus—money, time, and fatigue are nothing compared with the reputation and interests of a whole family; probabilities will not suffice, only facts will justify a deadly combat with a friend. If I strike with the sword, or discharge the contents of a pistol at man with whom, for three years, I have been on terms of intimacy, I must, at least, know why I do so; I must meet him with a heart at ease, and that quiet conscience which a man needs when his own arm must save his life.”
“Well,” said Morcerf, impatiently, “what does all this mean?”
“It means that I have just returned from Yanina.”
“From Yanina?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible!”
“Here is my passport; examine the visa—Geneva, Milan, Venice, Trieste, Delvino, Yanina. Will you believe the government of a republic, a kingdom, and an empire?” Albert cast his eyes on the passport, then raised them in astonishment to Beauchamp.
“You have been to Yanina?” said he.
“Albert, had you been a stranger, a foreigner, a simple lord, like that Englishman who came to demand satisfaction three or four months since, and whom I killed to get rid of, I should not have taken this trouble; but I thought this mark of consideration due to you. I took a week to go, another to return, four days of quarantine, and forty-eight hours to stay there; that makes three weeks. I returned last night, and here I am.”
“What circumlocution! How long you are before you tell me what I most wish to know?”
“Because, in truth, Albert——”
“You hesitate?”
“Yes,—I fear.”
“You fear to acknowledge that your correspondent has deceived you? Oh, no self-love, Beauchamp. Acknowledge it, Beauchamp; your courage cannot be doubted.”
“Not so,” murmured the journalist; “on the contrary——”
Albert turned frightfully pale; he endeavored to speak, but the words died on his lips.
“My friend,” said Beauchamp, in the most affectionate tone, “I should gladly make an apology; but, alas!——”
“But what?”
“The paragraph was correct, my friend.”
“What? That French officer——”
“Yes.”
“Fernand?”
“Yes.”
“The traitor who surrendered the castle of the man in whose service he was——”
“Pardon me, my friend, that man was your father!”
Albert advanced furiously towards Beauchamp, but the latter restrained him more by a mild look than by his extended hand.
“My friend,” said he, “here is a proof of it.”
Albert opened the paper, it was an attestation of four notable inhabitants of Yanina, proving that Colonel Fernand Mondego, in the service of Ali Tepelini, had surrendered the castle for two million crowns. The signatures were perfectly legal. Albert tottered and fell overpowered in a chair. It could no longer be doubted; the family name was fully given. After a moment’s mournful silence, his heart overflowed, and he gave way to a flood of tears. Beauchamp, who had watched with sincere pity the young man’s paroxysm of grief, approached him.
“Now, Albert,” said he, “you understand me—do you not? I wished to see all, and to judge of everything for myself, hoping the explanation would be in your father’s favor, and that I might do him justice. But, on the contrary, the particulars which are given prove that Fernand Mondego, raised by Ali Pasha to the rank of governor-general, is no other than Count Fernand of Morcerf; then, recollecting the honor you had done me, in admitting me to your friendship, I hastened to you.”
Albert, still extended on the chair, covered his face with both hands, as if to prevent the light from reaching him.
“I hastened to you,” continued Beauchamp, “to tell you, Albert, that in this changing age, the faults of a father cannot revert upon his children. Few have passed through this revolutionary period, in the midst of which we were born, without some stain of infamy or blood to soil the uniform of the soldier, or the gown of the magistrate. Now I have these proofs, Albert, and I am in your confidence, no human power can force me to a duel which your own conscience would reproach you with as criminal, but I come to offer you what you can no longer demand of me. Do you wish these proofs, these attestations, which I alone possess, to be destroyed? Do you wish this frightful secret to remain with us? Confided to me, it shall never escape my lips; say, Albert, my friend, do you wish it?”
Albert threw himself on Beauchamp’s neck.
“Ah, noble fellow!” cried he.
“Take these,” said Beauchamp, presenting the papers to Albert.
Albert seized them with a convulsive hand, tore them in pieces, and trembling lest the least vestige should escape and one day appear to confront him, he approached the wax-light, always kept burning for cigars, and burned every fragment.
“Dear, excellent friend,” murmured Albert, still burning the papers.
“Let all be forgotten as a sorrowful dream,” said Beauchamp; “let it vanish as the last sparks from the blackened paper, and disappear as the smoke from those silent ashes.”
“Yes, yes,” said Albert, “and may there remain only the eternal friendship which I promised to my deliverer, which shall be transmitted to our children’s children, and shall always remind me that I owe my life and the honor of my name to you,—for had this been known, oh, Beauchamp, I should have destroyed myself; or,—no, my poor mother! I could not have killed her by the same blow,—I should have fled from my country.”
“Dear Albert,” said Beauchamp. But this sudden and factitious joy soon forsook the young man, and was succeeded by a still greater grief.
“Well,” said Beauchamp, “what still oppresses you, my friend?”
“I am broken-hearted,” said Albert. “Listen, Beauchamp! I cannot thus, in a moment relinquish the respect, the confidence, and pride with which a father’s untarnished name inspires a son. Oh, Beauchamp, Beauchamp, how shall I now approach mine? Shall I draw back my forehead from his embrace, or withhold my hand from his? I am the most wretched of men. Ah, my mother, my poor mother!” said Albert, gazing through his tears at his mother’s portrait; “if you know this, how much must you suffer!”
“Come,” said Beauchamp, taking both his hands, “take courage, my friend.”
“But how came that first note to be inserted in your journal? Some unknown enemy—an invisible foe—has done this.”
“The more must you fortify yourself, Albert. Let no trace of emotion be visible on your countenance, bear your grief as the cloud bears within it ruin and death—a fatal secret, known only when the storm bursts. Go, my friend, reserve your strength for the moment when the crash shall come.”
“You think, then, all is not over yet?” said Albert, horror-stricken.
“I think nothing, my friend; but all things are possible. By the way——”
“What?” said Albert, seeing that Beauchamp hesitated.
“Are you going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?”
“Why do you ask me now?”
“Because the rupture or fulfilment of this engagement is connected with the person of whom we were speaking.”
“How?” said Albert, whose brow reddened; “you think M. Danglars——”
“I ask you only how your engagement stands? Pray put no construction on my words I do not mean they should convey, and give them no undue weight.”
“No.” said Albert, “the engagement is broken off.”
“Well,” said Beauchamp. Then, seeing the young man was about to relapse into melancholy, “Let us go out, Albert,” said he; “a ride in the wood in the phaeton, or on horseback, will refresh you; we will then return to breakfast, and you shall attend to your affairs, and I to mine.”
“Willingly,” said Albert; “but let us walk. I think a little exertion would do me good.”
The two friends walked out on the fortress. When they arrived at the Madeleine:
“Since we are out,” said Beauchamp, “let us call on M. de Monte Cristo; he is admirably adapted to revive one’s spirits, because he never interrogates, and in my opinion those who ask no questions are the best comforters.”
“Gladly,” said Albert; “let us call—I love him.”
Monte Cristo uttered a joyful exclamation on seeing the young men together. “Ah, ha!” said he, “I hope all is over, explained and settled.”
“Yes,” said Beauchamp; “the absurd reports have died away, and should they be renewed, I would be the first to oppose them; so let us speak no more of it.”
“Albert will tell you,” replied the count “that I gave him the same advice. Look,” added he. “I am finishing the most execrable morning’s work.”
“What is it?” said Albert; “arranging your papers, apparently.”
“My papers, thank God, no,—my papers are all in capital order, because I have none; but M. Cavalcanti’s.”
“M. Cavalcanti’s?” asked Beauchamp.
“Yes; do you not know that this is a young man whom the count is introducing?” said Morcerf.
“Let us not misunderstand each other,” replied Monte Cristo; “I introduce no one, and certainly not M. Cavalcanti.”
“And who,” said Albert with a forced smile, “is to marry Mademoiselle Danglars instead of me, which grieves me cruelly.”
“What? Cavalcanti is going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?” asked Beauchamp.
“Certainly! do you come from the end of the world?” said Monte Cristo; “you, a journalist, the husband of renown? It is the talk of all Paris.”
“And you, count, have made this match?” asked Beauchamp.
“I? Silence, purveyor of gossip, do not spread that report. I make a match? No, you do not know me; I have done all in my power to oppose it.”
“Ah, I understand,” said Beauchamp, “on our friend Albert’s account.”
“On my account?” said the young man; “oh, no, indeed, the count will do me the justice to assert that I have, on the contrary, always entreated him to break off my engagement, and happily it is ended. The count pretends I have not him to thank;—so be it—I will erect an altar Deo ignoto.”
“Listen,” said Monte Cristo; “I have had little to do with it, for I am at variance both with the father-in-law and the young man; there is only Mademoiselle Eugénie, who appears but little charmed with the thoughts of matrimony, and who, seeing how little I was disposed to persuade her to renounce her dear liberty, retains any affection for me.”
“And do you say this wedding is at hand?”
“Oh, yes, in spite of all I could say. I do not know the young man; he is said to be of good family and rich, but I never trust to vague assertions. I have warned M. Danglars of it till I am tired, but he is fascinated with his Luccanese. I have even informed him of a circumstance I consider very serious; the young man was either charmed by his nurse, stolen by gypsies, or lost by his tutor, I scarcely know which. But I do know his father lost sight of him for more than ten years; what he did during these ten years, God only knows. Well, all that was useless. They have commissioned me to write to the major to demand papers, and here they are. I send them, but like Pilate—washing my hands.”
“And what does Mademoiselle d’Armilly say to you for robbing her of her pupil?”
“Oh, well, I don’t know; but I understand that she is going to Italy. Madame Danglars asked me for letters of recommendation for the impresari; I gave her a few lines for the director of the Valle Theatre, who is under some obligation to me. But what is the matter, Albert? you look dull; are you, after all, unconsciously in love with Mademoiselle Eugénie?”
“I am not aware of it,” said Albert, smiling sorrowfully. Beauchamp turned to look at some paintings.
“But,” continued Monte Cristo, “you are not in your usual spirits?”
“I have a dreadful headache,” said Albert.
“Well, my dear viscount,” said Monte Cristo, “I have an infallible remedy to propose to you.”
“What is that?” asked the young man.
“A change.”
“Indeed?” said Albert.
“Yes; and as I am just now excessively annoyed, I shall go from home. Shall we go together?”
“You annoyed, count?” said Beauchamp; “and by what?”
“Ah, you think very lightly of it; I should like to see you with a brief preparing in your house.”
“What brief?”
“The one M. de Villefort is preparing against my amiable assassin—some brigand escaped from the gallows apparently.”
“True,” said Beauchamp; “I saw it in the paper. Who is this Caderousse?”
“Some Provençal, it appears. M. de Villefort heard of him at Marseilles, and M. Danglars recollects having seen him. Consequently, the procureur is very active in the affair, and the prefect of police very much interested; and, thanks to that interest, for which I am very grateful, they send me all the robbers of Paris and the neighborhood, under pretence of their being Caderousse’s murderers, so that in three months, if this continues, every robber and assassin in France will have the plan of my house at his fingers’ ends. I am resolved to desert them and go to some remote corner of the earth, and shall be happy if you will accompany me, viscount.”
“Willingly.”
“Then it is settled?”
“Yes, but where?”
“I have told you, where the air is pure, where every sound soothes, where one is sure to be humbled, however proud may be his nature. I love that humiliation, I, who am master of the universe, as was Augustus.”
“But where are you really going?”
“To sea, viscount; you know I am a sailor. I was rocked when an infant in the arms of old Ocean, and on the bosom of the beautiful Amphitrite; I have sported with the green mantle of the one and the azure robe of the other; I love the sea as a mistress, and pine if I do not often see her.”
“Let us go, count.”
“To sea?”
“Yes.”
“You accept my proposal?”
“I do.”
“Well, viscount, there will be in my courtyard this evening a good travelling britzka, with four post-horses, in which one may rest as in a bed. M. Beauchamp, it holds four very well, will you accompany us?”
“Thank you, I have just returned from sea.”
“What? you have been to sea?”
“Yes; I have just made a little excursion to the Borromean Islands18.”
“What of that? come with us,” said Albert.
“No, dear Morcerf; you know I only refuse when the thing is impossible. Besides, it is important,” added he in a low tone, “that I should remain in Paris just now to watch the paper.”
“Ah, you are a good and an excellent friend,” said Albert; “yes, you are right; watch, watch, Beauchamp, and try to discover the enemy who made this disclosure.”
Albert and Beauchamp parted, the last pressure of their hands expressing what their tongues could not before a stranger.
“Beauchamp is a worthy fellow,” said Monte Cristo, when the journalist was gone; “is he not, Albert?”
“Yes, and a sincere friend; I love him devotedly. But now we are alone,—although it is immaterial to me,—where are we going?”
“Into Normandy, if you like.”
“Delightful; shall we be quite retired? have no society, no neighbors?”
“Our companions will be riding-horses, dogs to hunt with, and a fishing-boat.”
“Exactly what I wish for; I will apprise my mother of my intention, and return to you.”
“But shall you be allowed to go into Normandy?”
“I may go where I please.”
“Yes, I am aware you may go alone, since I once met you in Italy—but to accompany the mysterious Monte Cristo?”
“You forget, count, that I have often told you of the deep interest my mother takes in you.”
“‘Woman is fickle.’ said Francis I.; ‘woman is like a wave of the sea,’ said Shakespeare; both the great king and the great poet ought to have known woman’s nature well.”
“Woman’s, yes; my mother is not woman, but a woman.”
“As I am only a humble foreigner, you must pardon me if I do not understand all the subtle refinements of your language.”
“What I mean to say is, that my mother is not quick to give her confidence, but when she does she never changes.”
“Ah, yes, indeed,” said Monte Cristo with a sigh; “and do you think she is in the least interested in me?”
“I repeat it, you must really be a very strange and superior man, for my mother is so absorbed by the interest you have excited, that when I am with her she speaks of no one else.”
“And does she try to make you dislike me?”
“On the contrary, she often says, ‘Morcerf, I believe the count has a noble nature; try to gain his esteem.’”
“Indeed?” said Monte Cristo, sighing.
“You see, then,” said Albert, “that instead of opposing, she will encourage me.”
“Adieu, then, until five o’clock; be punctual, and we shall arrive at twelve or one.”
“At Tréport?”
“Yes; or in the neighborhood.”
“But can we travel forty-eight leagues in eight hours?”
“Easily,” said Monte Cristo.
“You are certainly a prodigy; you will soon not only surpass the railway, which would not be very difficult in France, but even the telegraph.”
“But, viscount, since we cannot perform the journey in less than seven or eight hours, do not keep me waiting.”
“Do not fear, I have little to prepare.”
Monte Cristo smiled as he nodded to Albert, then remained a moment absorbed in deep meditation. But passing his hand across his forehead as if to dispel his reverie, he rang the bell twice and Bertuccio entered.
“Bertuccio,” said he, “I intend going this evening to Normandy, instead of tomorrow or the next day. You will have sufficient time before five o’clock; despatch a messenger to apprise the grooms at the first station. M. de Morcerf will accompany me.”
Bertuccio obeyed and despatched a courier to Pontoise to say the travelling-carriage would arrive at six o’clock. From Pontoise another express was sent to the next stage, and in six hours all the horses stationed on the road were ready.
Before his departure, the count went to Haydée’s apartments, told her his intention, and resigned everything to her care.
Albert was punctual. The journey soon became interesting from its rapidity, of which Morcerf had formed no previous idea.
“Truly,” said Monte Cristo, “with your post-horses going at the rate of two leagues an hour, and that absurd law that one traveller shall not pass another without permission, so that an invalid or ill-tempered traveller may detain those who are well and active, it is impossible to move; I escape this annoyance by travelling with my own postilion and horses; do I not, Ali?”
The count put his head out of the window and whistled, and the horses appeared to fly. The carriage rolled with a thundering noise over the pavement, and everyone turned to notice the dazzling meteor. Ali, smiling, repeated the sound, grasped the reins with a firm hand, and spurred his horses, whose beautiful manes floated in the breeze. This child of the desert was in his element, and with his black face and sparkling eyes appeared, in the cloud of dust he raised, like the genius of the simoom and the god of the hurricane.
“I never knew till now the delight of speed,” said Morcerf, and the last cloud disappeared from his brow; “but where the devil do you get such horses? Are they made to order?”
“Precisely,” said the count; “six years since I bought a horse in Hungary remarkable for its swiftness. The thirty-two that we shall use tonight are its progeny; they are all entirely black, with the exception of a star upon the forehead.”
“That is perfectly admirable; but what do you do, count, with all these horses?”
“You see, I travel with them.”
“But you are not always travelling.”
“When I no longer require them, Bertuccio will sell them, and he expects to realize thirty or forty thousand francs by the sale.”
“But no monarch in Europe will be wealthy enough to purchase them.”
“Then he will sell them to some Eastern vizier, who will empty his coffers to purchase them, and refill them by applying the bastinado to his subjects.”
“Count, may I suggest one idea to you?”
“Certainly.”
“It is that, next to you, Bertuccio must be the richest gentleman in Europe.”
“You are mistaken, viscount; I believe he has not a franc in his possession.”
“Then he must be a wonder. My dear count, if you tell me many more marvellous things, I warn you I shall not believe them.”
“I countenance nothing that is marvellous, M. Albert. Tell me, why does a steward rob his master?”
“Because, I suppose, it is his nature to do so, for the love of robbing.”
“You are mistaken; it is because he has a wife and family, and ambitious desires for himself and them. Also because he is not sure of always retaining his situation, and wishes to provide for the future. Now, M. Bertuccio is alone in the world; he uses my property without accounting for the use he makes of it; he is sure never to leave my service.”
“Why?”
“Because I should never get a better.”
“Probabilities are deceptive.”
“But I deal in certainties; he is the best servant over whom one has the power of life and death.”
“Do you possess that right over Bertuccio?”
“Yes.”
There are words which close a conversation with an iron door; such was the count’s “yes.”
The whole journey was performed with equal rapidity; the thirty-two horses, dispersed over seven stages, brought them to their destination in eight hours. At midnight they arrived at the gate of a beautiful park. The porter was in attendance; he had been apprised by the groom of the last stage of the count’s approach. At half past two in the morning Morcerf was conducted to his apartments, where a bath and supper were prepared. The servant who had travelled at the back of the carriage waited on him; Baptistin, who rode in front, attended the count.
Albert bathed, took his supper, and went to bed. All night he was lulled by the melancholy noise of the surf. On rising, he went to his window, which opened on a terrace, having the sea in front, and at the back a pretty park bounded by a small forest.
In a creek lay a little sloop, with a narrow keel and high masts, bearing on its flag the Monte Cristo arms which were a mountain or, on a sea azure, with a cross gules in chief which might be an allusion to his name that recalled Calvary, the mount rendered by our Lord’s passion more precious than gold, and to the degrading cross which his blood had rendered holy; or it might be some personal remembrance of suffering and regeneration buried in the night of this mysterious personage’s pas life.
Around the schooner lay a number of small fishing-boats belonging to the fishermen of the neighboring village, like humble subjects awaiting orders from their queen. There, as in every spot where Monte Cristo stopped, if but for two days, luxury abounded and life went on with the utmost ease.
Albert found in his anteroom two guns, with all the accoutrements for hunting; a lofty room on the ground floor containing all the ingenious instruments the English—eminent in piscatory pursuits, since they are patient and sluggish—have invented for fishing. The day passed in pursuing those exercises in which Monte Cristo excelled. They killed a dozen pheasants in the park, as many trout in the stream, dined in a summer-house overlooking the ocean, and took tea in the library.
Towards the evening of the third day. Albert, completely exhausted with the exercise which invigorated Monte Cristo, was sleeping in an armchair near the window, while the count was designing with his architect the plan of a conservatory in his house, when the sound of a horse at full speed on the high road made Albert look up. He was disagreeably surprised to see his own valet de chambre, whom he had not brought, that he might not inconvenience Monte Cristo.
“Florentin here!” cried he, starting up; “is my mother ill?” And he hastened to the door. Monte Cristo watched and saw him approach the valet, who drew a small sealed parcel from his pocket, containing a newspaper and a letter.
“From whom is this?” said he eagerly.
“From M. Beauchamp,” replied Florentin.
“Did he send you?”
“Yes, sir; he sent for me to his house, gave me money for my journey, procured a horse, and made me promise not to stop till I had reached you, I have come in fifteen hours.”
Albert opened the letter with fear, uttered a shriek on reading the first line, and seized the paper. His sight was dimmed, his legs sank under him, and he would have fallen had not Florentin supported him.
“Poor young man,” said Monte Cristo in a low voice; “it is then true that the sin of the father shall fall on the children to the third and fourth generation.”
Meanwhile Albert had revived, and, continuing to read, he threw back his head, saying:
“Florentin, is your horse fit to return immediately?”
“It is a poor, lame post-horse.”
“In what state was the house when you left?”
“All was quiet, but on returning from M. Beauchamp’s, I found madame in tears; she had sent for me to know when you would return. I told her my orders from M. Beauchamp; she first extended her arms to prevent me, but after a moment’s reflection, ‘Yes, go, Florentin,’ said she, ‘and may he come quickly.’”
“Yes, my mother,” said Albert, “I will return, and woe to the infamous wretch! But first of all I must get there.”
He went back to the room where he had left Monte Cristo. Five minutes had sufficed to make a complete transformation in his appearance. His voice had become rough and hoarse; his face was furrowed with wrinkles; his eyes burned under the blue-veined lids, and he tottered like a drunken man.
“Count,” said he, “I thank you for your hospitality, which I would gladly have enjoyed longer; but I must return to Paris.”
“What has happened?”
“A great misfortune, more important to me than life. Don’t question me, I beg of you, but lend me a horse.”
“My stables are at your command, viscount; but you will kill yourself by riding on horseback. Take a post-chaise or a carriage.”
“No, it would delay me, and I need the fatigue you warn me of; it will do me good.”
Albert reeled as if he had been shot, and fell on a chair near the door. Monte Cristo did not see this second manifestation of physical exhaustion; he was at the window, calling:
“Ali, a horse for M. de Morcerf—quick! he is in a hurry!”
These words restored Albert; he darted from the room, followed by the count.
“Thank you!” cried he, throwing himself on his horse.
“Return as soon as you can, Florentin. Must I use any password to procure a horse?”
“Only dismount; another will be immediately saddled.”
Albert hesitated a moment. “You may think my departure strange and foolish,” said the young man; “you do not know how a paragraph in a newspaper may exasperate one. Read that,” said he, “when I am gone, that you may not be witness of my anger.”
While the count picked up the paper he put spurs to his horse, which leaped in astonishment at such an unusual stimulus, and shot away with the rapidity of an arrow. The count watched him with a feeling of compassion, and when he had completely disappeared, read as follows:
“The French officer in the service of Ali Pasha of Yanina alluded to three weeks since in l’Impartial, who not only surrendered the castle of Yanina, but sold his benefactor to the Turks, styled himself truly at that time Fernand, as our esteemed contemporary states; but he has since added to his Christian name a title of nobility and a family name. He now calls himself the Count of Morcerf, and ranks among the peers.”
Thus the terrible secret, which Beauchamp had so generously destroyed, appeared again like an armed phantom; and another paper, deriving its information from some malicious source, had published two days after Albert’s departure for Normandy the few lines which had rendered the unfortunate young man almost crazy.
At eight o’clock in the morning Albert had arrived at Beauchamp’s door. The valet de chambre had received orders to usher him in at once. Beauchamp was in his bath.
“Here I am,” Albert said.
“Well, my poor friend,” replied Beauchamp, “I expected you.”
“I need not say I think you are too faithful and too kind to have spoken of that painful circumstance. Your having sent for me is another proof of your affection. So, without losing time, tell me, have you the slightest idea whence this terrible blow proceeds?”
“I think I have some clew.”
“But first tell me all the particulars of this shameful plot.”
Beauchamp proceeded to relate to the young man, who was overwhelmed with shame and grief, the following facts. Two days previously, the article had appeared in another paper besides l’Impartial, and, what was more serious, one that was well known as a government paper. Beauchamp was breakfasting when he read the paragraph. He sent immediately for a cabriolet, and hastened to the publisher’s office. Although professing diametrically opposite principles from those of the editor of the other paper, Beauchamp—as it sometimes, we may say often, happens—was his intimate friend. The editor was reading, with apparent delight, a leading article in the same paper on beet-sugar, probably a composition of his own.
“Ah, pardieu!” said Beauchamp, “with the paper in your hand, my friend, I need not tell you the cause of my visit.”
“Are you interested in the sugar question?” asked the editor of the ministerial paper.
“No,” replied Beauchamp, “I have not considered the question; a totally different subject interests me.”
“What is it?”
“The article relative to Morcerf.”
“Indeed? Is it not a curious affair?”
“So curious, that I think you are running a great risk of a prosecution for defamation of character.”
“Not at all; we have received with the information all the requisite proofs, and we are quite sure M. de Morcerf will not raise his voice against us; besides, it is rendering a service to one’s country to denounce these wretched criminals who are unworthy of the honor bestowed on them.”
Beauchamp was thunderstruck.
“Who, then, has so correctly informed you?” asked he; “for my paper, which gave the first information on the subject, has been obliged to stop for want of proof; and yet we are more interested than you in exposing M. de Morcerf, as he is a peer of France, and we are of the opposition.”
“Oh, that is very simple; we have not sought to scandalize. This news was brought to us. A man arrived yesterday from Yanina, bringing a formidable array of documents; and when we hesitated to publish the accusatory article, he told us it should be inserted in some other paper.”
Beauchamp understood that nothing remained but to submit, and left the office to despatch a courier to Morcerf. But he had been unable to send to Albert the following particulars, as the events had transpired after the messenger’s departure; namely, that the same day a great agitation was manifest in the House of Peers among the usually calm members of that dignified assembly. Everyone had arrived almost before the usual hour, and was conversing on the melancholy event which was to attract the attention of the public towards one of their most illustrious colleagues. Some were perusing the article, others making comments and recalling circumstances which substantiated the charges still more.
The Count of Morcerf was no favorite with his colleagues. Like all upstarts, he had had recourse to a great deal of haughtiness to maintain his position. The true nobility laughed at him, the talented repelled him, and the honorable instinctively despised him. He was, in fact, in the unhappy position of the victim marked for sacrifice; the finger of God once pointed at him, everyone was prepared to raise the hue and cry.
The Count of Morcerf alone was ignorant of the news. He did not take in the paper containing the defamatory article, and had passed the morning in writing letters and in trying a horse. He arrived at his usual hour, with a proud look and insolent demeanor; he alighted, passed through the corridors, and entered the house without observing the hesitation of the door-keepers or the coolness of his colleagues.