assembly--you were not forced here; it was proposed to you to come
blindfolded--you accepted. When you complied with this twofold request
you well knew we did not wish to secure the throne of Louis XVIII., or
we should not take so much care to avoid the vigilance of the police. It
would be conceding too much to allow you to put on a mask to aid you
in the discovery of our secret, and then to remove it that you may
ruin those who have confided in you. No, no, you must first say if
you declare yourself for the king of a day who now reigns, or for his
majesty the emperor."
"'"I am a royalist," replied the general; "I have taken the oath of
allegiance to Louis XVIII., and I will adhere to it." These words were
followed by a general murmur, and it was evident that several of the
members were discussing the propriety of making the general repent of
his rashness.
"'The president again arose, and having imposed silence, said,--"Sir,
you are too serious and too sensible a man not to understand the
consequences of our present situation, and your candor has already
dictated to us the conditions which remain for us to offer you." The
general, putting his hand on his sword, exclaimed,--"If you talk of
honor, do not begin by disavowing its laws, and impose nothing by
violence."
"'"And you, sir," continued the president, with a calmness still more
terrible than the general's anger, "I advise you not to touch your
sword." The general looked around him with slight uneasiness; however
he did not yield, but calling up all his fortitude, said,--"I will not
swear."
"'"Then you must die," replied the president calmly. M. d'Epinay became
very pale; he looked round him a second time, several members of the
club were whispering, and getting their arms from under their cloaks.
"General," said the president, "do not alarm yourself; you are among men
of honor who will use every means to convince you before resorting to
the last extremity, but as you have said, you are among conspirators,
you are in possession of our secret, and you must restore it to us."
A significant silence followed these words, and as the general did not
reply,--"Close the doors," said the president to the door-keeper.
"'The same deadly silence succeeded these words. Then the general
advanced, and making a violent effort to control his feelings,--"I have
a son," said he, "and I ought to think of him, finding myself among
assassins."
"'"General," said the chief of the assembly, "one man may insult
fifty--it is the privilege of weakness. But he does wrong to use his
privilege. Follow my advice, swear, and do not insult." The general,
again daunted by the superiority of the chief, hesitated a moment; then
advancing to the president's desk,--"What is the form, said he.
"'"It is this:--'I swear by my honor not to reveal to any one what I
have seen and heard on the 5th of February, 1815, between nine and
ten o'clock in the evening; and I plead guilty of death should I ever
violate this oath.'" The general appeared to be affected by a nervous
tremor, which prevented his answering for some moments; then, overcoming
his manifest repugnance, he pronounced the required oath, but in so low
a tone as to be scarcely audible to the majority of the members, who
insisted on his repeating it clearly and distinctly, which he did.
"'"Now am I at liberty to retire?" said the general. The president rose,
appointed three members to accompany him, and got into the carriage with
the general after bandaging his eyes. One of those three members was
the coachman who had driven them there. The other members
silently dispersed. "Where do you wish to be taken?" asked the
president.--"Anywhere out of your presence," replied M. d'Epinay.
"Beware, sir," replied the president, "you are no longer in the
assembly, and have only to do with individuals; do not insult them
unless you wish to be held responsible." But instead of listening, M.
d'Epinay went on,--"You are still as brave in your carriage as in your
assembly because you are still four against one." The president stopped
the coach. They were at that part of the Quai des Ormes where the steps
lead down to the river. "Why do you stop here?" asked d'Epinay.
"'"Because, sir," said the president, "you have insulted a man, and
that man will not go one step farther without demanding honorable
reparation."
"'"Another method of assassination?" said the general, shrugging his
shoulders.
"'"Make no noise, sir, unless you wish me to consider you as one of the
men of whom you spoke just now as cowards, who take their weakness for
a shield. You are alone, one alone shall answer you; you have a sword
by your side, I have one in my cane; you have no witness, one of these
gentlemen will serve you. Now, if you please, remove your bandage."
The general tore the handkerchief from his eyes. "At last," said he, "I
shall know with whom I have to do." They opened the door and the four
men alighted.'"
Franz again interrupted himself, and wiped the cold drops from his brow;
there was something awful in hearing the son read aloud in trembling
pallor these details of his father's death, which had hitherto been a
mystery. Valentine clasped her hands as if in prayer. Noirtier looked at
Villefort with an almost sublime expression of contempt and pride. Franz
continued:--
"'It was, as we said, the fifth of February. For three days the mercury
had been five or six degrees below freezing and the steps were covered
with ice. The general was stout and tall, the president offered him the
side of the railing to assist him in getting down. The two witnesses
followed. It was a dark night. The ground from the steps to the river
was covered with snow and hoarfrost, the water of the river looked black
and deep. One of the seconds went for a lantern in a coal-barge near,
and by its light they examined the weapons. The president's sword, which
was simply, as he had said, one he carried in his cane, was five inches
shorter than the general's, and had no guard. The general proposed to
cast lots for the swords, but the president said it was he who had given
the provocation, and when he had given it he had supposed each would use
his own arms. The witnesses endeavored to insist, but the president
bade them be silent. The lantern was placed on the ground, the two
adversaries took their stations, and the duel began. The light made the
two swords appear like flashes of lightning; as for the men, they were
scarcely perceptible, the darkness was so great.
"'General d'Epinay passed for one of the best swordsmen in the army, but
he was pressed so closely in the onset that he missed his aim and fell.
The witnesses thought he was dead, but his adversary, who knew he had
not struck him, offered him the assistance of his hand to rise. The
circumstance irritated instead of calming the general, and he rushed on
his adversary. But his opponent did not allow his guard to be broken.
He received him on his sword and three times the general drew back on
finding himself too closely engaged, and then returned to the charge. At
the third he fell again. They thought he slipped, as at first, and the
witnesses, seeing he did not move, approached and endeavored to raise
him, but the one who passed his arm around the body found it was
moistened with blood. The general, who had almost fainted, revived.
"Ah," said he, "they have sent some fencing-master to fight with me."
The president, without answering, approached the witness who held the
lantern, and raising his sleeve, showed him two wounds he had received
in his arm; then opening his coat, and unbuttoning his waistcoat,
displayed his side, pierced with a third wound. Still he had not even
uttered a sigh. General d'Epinay died five minutes after.'"
Franz read these last words in a voice so choked that they were hardly
audible, and then stopped, passing his hand over his eyes as if to
dispel a cloud; but after a moment's silence, he continued:--
"'The president went up the steps, after pushing his sword into his
cane; a track of blood on the snow marked his course. He had scarcely
arrived at the top when he heard a heavy splash in the water--it was the
general's body, which the witnesses had just thrown into the river after
ascertaining that he was dead. The general fell, then, in a loyal duel,
and not in ambush as it might have been reported. In proof of this we
have signed this paper to establish the truth of the facts, lest the
moment should arrive when either of the actors in this terrible scene
should be accused of premeditated murder or of infringement of the laws
of honor.
"'Signed, Beaurepaire, Deschamps, and Lecharpal.'"
When Franz had finished reading this account, so dreadful for a
son; when Valentine, pale with emotion, had wiped away a tear; when
Villefort, trembling, and crouched in a corner, had endeavored to lessen
the storm by supplicating glances at the implacable old man,--"Sir,"
said d'Epinay to Noirtier, "since you are well acquainted with all these
details, which are attested by honorable signatures,--since you appear
to take some interest in me, although you have only manifested
it hitherto by causing me sorrow, refuse me not one final
satisfaction--tell me the name of the president of the club, that I may
at least know who killed my father." Villefort mechanically felt for
the handle of the door; Valentine, who understood sooner than anyone her
grandfather's answer, and who had often seen two scars upon his right
arm, drew back a few steps. "Mademoiselle," said Franz, turning towards
Valentine, "unite your efforts with mine to find out the name of the man
who made me an orphan at two years of age." Valentine remained dumb and
motionless.
"Hold, sir," said Villefort, "do not prolong this dreadful scene. The
names have been purposely concealed; my father himself does not know who
this president was, and if he knows, he cannot tell you; proper names
are not in the dictionary."
"Oh, misery," cried Franz: "the only hope which sustained me and enabled
me to read to the end was that of knowing, at least, the name of him who
killed my father! Sir, sir," cried he, turning to Noirtier, "do what you
can--make me understand in some way!"
"Yes," replied Noirtier.
"Oh, mademoiselle,--mademoiselle!" cried Franz, "your grandfather says
he can indicate the person. Help me,--lend me your assistance!" Noirtier
looked at the dictionary. Franz took it with a nervous trembling, and
repeated the letters of the alphabet successively, until he came to M.
At that letter the old man signified "Yes."
"M," repeated Franz. The young man's finger, glided over the words, but
at each one Noirtier answered by a negative sign. Valentine hid her head
between her hands. At length, Franz arrived at the word MYSELF.
"Yes!"
"You?" cried Franz, whose hair stood on end; "you, M. Noirtier--you
killed my father?"
"Yes!" replied Noirtier, fixing a majestic look on the young man. Franz
fell powerless on a chair; Villefort opened the door and escaped, for
the idea had entered his mind to stifle the little remaining life in the
heart of this terrible old man.
Chapter 76. Progress of Cavalcanti the Younger.
Meanwhile M. Cavalcanti the elder had returned to his service, not in
the army of his majesty the Emperor of Austria, but at the gaming-table
of the baths of Lucca, of which he was one of the most assiduous
courtiers. He had spent every farthing that had been allowed for his
journey as a reward for the majestic and solemn manner in which he had
maintained his assumed character of father. M. Andrea at his departure
inherited all the papers which proved that he had indeed the honor
of being the son of the Marquis Bartolomeo and the Marchioness Oliva
Corsinari. He was now fairly launched in that Parisian society which
gives such ready access to foreigners, and treats them, not as they
really are, but as they wish to be considered. Besides, what is required
of a young man in Paris? To speak its language tolerably, to make a
good appearance, to be a good gamester, and to pay in cash. They are
certainly less particular with a foreigner than with a Frenchman. Andrea
had, then, in a fortnight, attained a very fair position. He was called
count, he was said to possess 50,000 livres per annum; and his father's
immense riches, buried in the quarries of Saravezza, were a constant
theme. A learned man, before whom the last circumstance was mentioned as
a fact, declared he had seen the quarries in question, which gave great
weight to assertions hitherto somewhat doubtful, but which now assumed
the garb of reality.
Such was the state of society in Paris at the period we bring before our
readers, when Monte Cristo went one evening to pay M. Danglars a visit.
M. Danglars was out, but the count was asked to go and see the baroness,
and he accepted the invitation. It was never without a nervous shudder,
since the dinner at Auteuil, and the events which followed it, that
Madame Danglars heard Monte Cristo's name announced. If he did not
come, the painful sensation became most intense; if, on the contrary, he
appeared, his noble countenance, his brilliant eyes, his amiability,
his polite attention even towards Madame Danglars, soon dispelled every
impression of fear. It appeared impossible to the baroness that a man of
such delightfully pleasing manners should entertain evil designs against
