laugh. "Stop, let me show you the way."
"It is not worth while."
"Yes, it is."
"Why?"
"Because there is a little secret, a precaution I thought it desirable
to take, one of Huret & Fitchet's locks, revised and improved by
Gaspard Caderousse; I will manufacture you a similar one when you are a
capitalist."
"Thank you," said Andrea; "I will let you know a week beforehand." They
parted. Caderousse remained on the landing until he had not only seen
Andrea go down the three stories, but also cross the court. Then he
returned hastily, shut his door carefully, and began to study, like a
clever architect, the plan Andrea had left him.
"Dear Benedetto," said he, "I think he will not be sorry to inherit his
fortune, and he who hastens the day when he can touch his five hundred
thousand will not be his worst friend."
Chapter 82. The Burglary.
The day following that on which the conversation we have related took
place, the Count of Monte Cristo set out for Auteuil, accompanied by
Ali and several attendants, and also taking with him some horses whose
qualities he was desirous of ascertaining. He was induced to undertake
this journey, of which the day before he had not even thought and which
had not occurred to Andrea either, by the arrival of Bertuccio from
Normandy with intelligence respecting the house and sloop. The house was
ready, and the sloop which had arrived a week before lay at anchor in a
small creek with her crew of six men, who had observed all the requisite
formalities and were ready again to put to sea.
The count praised Bertuccio's zeal, and ordered him to prepare for a
speedy departure, as his stay in France would not be prolonged more than
a month. "Now," said he, "I may require to go in one night from Paris to
Treport; let eight fresh horses be in readiness on the road, which will
enable me to go fifty leagues in ten hours."
"Your highness had already expressed that wish," said Bertuccio, "and
the horses are ready. I have bought them, and stationed them myself at
the most desirable posts, that is, in villages, where no one generally
stops."
"That's well," said Monte Cristo; "I remain here a day or two--arrange
accordingly." As Bertuccio was leaving the room to give the requisite
orders, Baptistin opened the door: he held a letter on a silver waiter.
"What are you doing here?" asked the count, seeing him covered with
dust; "I did not send for you, I think?"
Baptistin, without answering, approached the count, and presented the
letter. "Important and urgent," said he. The count opened the letter,
and read:--
"M. de Monte Cristo is apprised that this night a man will enter his
house in the Champs-Elysees with the intention of carrying off some
papers supposed to be in the secretary in the dressing-room. The count's
well-known courage will render unnecessary the aid of the police, whose
interference might seriously affect him who sends this advice. The
count, by any opening from the bedroom, or by concealing himself in
the dressing-room, would be able to defend his property himself. Many
attendants or apparent precautions would prevent the villain from
the attempt, and M. de Monte Cristo would lose the opportunity of
discovering an enemy whom chance has revealed to him who now sends this
warning to the count,--a warning he might not be able to send another
time, if this first attempt should fail and another be made."
The count's first idea was that this was an artifice--a gross deception,
to draw his attention from a minor danger in order to expose him to a
greater. He was on the point of sending the letter to the commissary of
police, notwithstanding the advice of his anonymous friend, or perhaps
because of that advice, when suddenly the idea occurred to him that it
might be some personal enemy, whom he alone should recognize and over
whom, if such were the case, he alone would gain any advantage, as
Fiesco [*] had done over the Moor who would have killed him. We know the
Count's vigorous and daring mind, denying anything to be impossible,
with that energy which marks the great man. From his past life, from
his resolution to shrink from nothing, the count had acquired an
inconceivable relish for the contests in which he had engaged, sometimes
against nature, that is to say, against God, and sometimes against the
world, that is, against the devil.
* The Genoese conspirator.
"They do not want my papers," said Monte Cristo, "they want to kill
me; they are no robbers, but assassins. I will not allow the prefect of
police to interfere with my private affairs. I am rich enough, forsooth,
to distribute his authority on this occasion." The count recalled
Baptistin, who had left the room after delivering the letter. "Return to
Paris," said he; "assemble the servants who remain there. I want all my
household at Auteuil."
"But will no one remain in the house, my lord?" asked Baptistin.
"Yes, the porter."
"My lord will remember that the lodge is at a distance from the house."
"Well?"
"The house might be stripped without his hearing the least noise."
"By whom?"
"By thieves."
"You are a fool, M. Baptistin. Thieves might strip the house--it would
annoy me less than to be disobeyed." Baptistin bowed.
"You understand me?" said the count. "Bring your comrades here, one and
all; but let everything remain as usual, only close the shutters of the
ground floor."
"And those of the second floor?"
"You know they are never closed. Go!"
The count signified his intention of dining alone, and that no one but
Ali should attend him. Having dined with his usual tranquillity and
moderation, the count, making a signal to Ali to follow him, went out
by the side-gate and on reaching the Bois de Boulogne turned, apparently
without design towards Paris and at twilight; found himself opposite his
house in the Champs-Elysees. All was dark; one solitary, feeble light
was burning in the porter's lodge, about forty paces distant from the
house, as Baptistin had said. Monte Cristo leaned against a tree, and
with that scrutinizing glance which was so rarely deceived, looked up
and down the avenue, examined the passers-by, and carefully looked down
the neighboring streets, to see that no one was concealed. Ten minutes
passed thus, and he was convinced that no one was watching him. He
hastened to the side-door with Ali, entered hurriedly, and by the
servants' staircase, of which he had the key, gained his bedroom without
opening or disarranging a single curtain, without even the porter
having the slightest suspicion that the house, which he supposed empty,
contained its chief occupant.
Arrived in his bedroom, the count motioned to Ali to stop; then he
passed into the dressing-room, which he examined. Everything appeared
as usual--the precious secretary in its place, and the key in the
secretary. He double locked it, took the key, returned to the bedroom
door, removed the double staple of the bolt, and went in. Meanwhile Ali
had procured the arms the count required--namely, a short carbine and
a pair of double-barrelled pistols, with which as sure an aim might be
taken as with a single-barrelled one. Thus armed, the count held the
lives of five men in his hands. It was about half-past nine. The count
and Ali ate in haste a crust of bread and drank a glass of Spanish wine;
then Monte Cristo slipped aside one of the movable panels, which enabled
him to see into the adjoining room. He had within his reach his pistols
and carbine, and Ali, standing near him, held one of the small Arabian
hatchets, whose form has not varied since the Crusades. Through one of
the windows of the bedroom, on a line with that in the dressing-room,
the count could see into the street.
Two hours passed thus. It was intensely dark; still Ali, thanks to his
wild nature, and the count, thanks doubtless to his long confinement,
could distinguish in the darkness the slightest movement of the trees.
The little light in the lodge had long been extinct. It might be
expected that the attack, if indeed an attack was projected, would be
made from the staircase of the ground floor, and not from a window; in
Monte Cristo's opinion, the villains sought his life, not his money. It
would be his bedroom they would attack, and they must reach it by the
back staircase, or by the window in the dressing-room. The clock of
the Invalides struck a quarter to twelve; the west wind bore on its
moistened gusts the doleful vibration of the three strokes.
As the last stroke died away, the count thought he heard a slight noise
in the dressing-room; this first sound, or rather this first grinding,
was followed by a second, then a third; at the fourth, the count knew
what to expect. A firm and well-practised hand was engaged in cutting
the four sides of a pane of glass with a diamond. The count felt his
heart beat more rapidly. Inured as men may be to danger, forewarned as
they may be of peril, they understand, by the fluttering of the heart
and the shuddering of the frame, the enormous difference between a dream
and a reality, between the project and the execution. However, Monte
Cristo only made a sign to apprise Ali, who, understanding that danger
was approaching from the other side, drew nearer to his master. Monte
Cristo was eager to ascertain the strength and number of his enemies.
The window whence the noise proceeded was opposite the opening by which
the count could see into the dressing-room. He fixed his eyes on that
window--he distinguished a shadow in the darkness; then one of the panes
became quite opaque, as if a sheet of paper were stuck on the outside,
then the square cracked without falling. Through the opening an arm was
passed to find the fastening, then a second; the window turned on its
hinges, and a man entered. He was alone.
"That's a daring rascal," whispered the count.
At that moment Ali touched him slightly on the shoulder. He turned; Ali
pointed to the window of the room in which they were, facing the street.
"I see!" said he, "there are two of them; one does the work while the
other stands guard." He made a sign to Ali not to lose sight of the man
in the street, and turned to the one in the dressing-room.
The glass-cutter had entered, and was feeling his way, his arms
stretched out before him. At last he appeared to have made himself
familiar with his surroundings. There were two doors; he bolted them
both.
When he drew near to the bedroom door, Monte Cristo expected that he was
coming in, and raised one of his pistols; but he simply heard the sound
of the bolts sliding in their copper rings. It was only a precaution.
The nocturnal visitor, ignorant of the fact that the count had removed
the staples, might now think himself at home, and pursue his purpose
with full security. Alone and free to act as he wished, the man then
drew from his pocket something which the count could not discern, placed
it on a stand, then went straight to the secretary, felt the lock, and
contrary to his expectation found that the key was missing. But the
glass-cutter was a prudent man who had provided for all emergencies. The
count soon heard the rattling of a bunch of skeleton keys, such as the
locksmith brings when called to force a lock, and which thieves call
nightingales, doubtless from the music of their nightly song when they
grind against the bolt. "Ah, ha," whispered Monte Cristo with a smile of
disappointment, "he is only a thief."
But the man in the dark could not find the right key. He reached the
instrument he had placed on the stand, touched a spring, and immediately
a pale light, just bright enough to render objects distinct, was
reflected on his hands and countenance. "By heavens," exclaimed Monte
Cristo, starting back, "it is"--
Ali raised his hatchet. "Don't stir," whispered Monte Cristo, "and put
down your hatchet; we shall require no arms." Then he added some words
in a low tone, for the exclamation which surprise had drawn from the
count, faint as it had been, had startled the man who remained in the
pose of the old knife-grinder. It was an order the count had just given,
for immediately Ali went noiselessly, and returned, bearing a black
dress and a three-cornered hat. Meanwhile Monte Cristo had rapidly taken
off his great-coat, waistcoat, and shirt, and one might distinguish by
the glimmering through the open panel that he wore a pliant tunic of
steel mail, of which the last in France, where daggers are no longer
dreaded, was worn by King Louis XVI., who feared the dagger at his
breast, and whose head was cleft with a hatchet. The tunic soon
disappeared under a long cassock, as did his hair under a priest's wig;
the three-cornered hat over this effectually transformed the count into
an abbe.
The man, hearing nothing more, stood erect, and while Monte Cristo was
completing his disguise had advanced straight to the secretary, whose
lock was beginning to crack under his nightingale.
"Try again," whispered the count, who depended on the secret spring,
which was unknown to the picklock, clever as he might be--"try again,
you have a few minutes' work there." And he advanced to the window.
The man whom he had seen seated on a fence had got down, and was still
pacing the street; but, strange as it appeared, he cared not for those
who might pass from the avenue of the Champs-Elysees or by the Faubourg
St. Honore; his attention was engrossed with what was passing at the
count's, and his only aim appeared to be to discern every movement in
the dressing-room.
Monte Cristo suddenly struck his finger on his forehead and a smile
passed over his lips; then drawing near to Ali, he whispered,--
