"Yes, it is indeed he. Five millions--a pretty sum, eh, Peppino?"
"Hush--here is our man!" The clerk seized his pen, and Peppino his
beads; one was writing and the other praying when the door opened.
Danglars looked radiant with joy; the banker accompanied him to the
door. Peppino followed Danglars.
According to the arrangements, the carriage was waiting at the door. The
guide held the door open. Guides are useful people, who will turn their
hands to anything. Danglars leaped into the carriage like a young man of
twenty. The cicerone reclosed the door, and sprang up by the side of the
coachman. Peppino mounted the seat behind.
"Will your excellency visit St. Peter's?" asked the cicerone.
"I did not come to Rome to see," said Danglars aloud; then he added
softly, with an avaricious smile, "I came to touch!" and he rapped his
pocket-book, in which he had just placed a letter.
"Then your excellency is going"--
"To the hotel."
"Casa Pastrini!" said the cicerone to the coachman, and the carriage
drove rapidly on. Ten minutes afterwards the baron entered his
apartment, and Peppino stationed himself on the bench outside the door
of the hotel, after having whispered something in the ear of one of the
descendants of Marius and the Gracchi whom we noticed at the beginning
of the chapter, who immediately ran down the road leading to the Capitol
at his fullest speed. Danglars was tired and sleepy; he therefore went
to bed, placing his pocketbook under his pillow. Peppino had a little
spare time, so he had a game of mora with the facchini, lost three
crowns, and then to console himself drank a bottle of Orvieto.
The next morning Danglars awoke late, though he went to bed so early; he
had not slept well for five or six nights, even if he had slept at all.
He breakfasted heartily, and caring little, as he said, for the beauties
of the Eternal City, ordered post-horses at noon. But Danglars had not
reckoned upon the formalities of the police and the idleness of the
posting-master. The horses only arrived at two o'clock, and the cicerone
did not bring the passport till three. All these preparations had
collected a number of idlers round the door of Signor Pastrini's; the
descendants of Marius and the Gracchi were also not wanting. The baron
walked triumphantly through the crowd, who for the sake of gain styled
him "your excellency." As Danglars had hitherto contented himself
with being called a baron, he felt rather flattered at the title of
excellency, and distributed a dozen silver coins among the beggars, who
were ready, for twelve more, to call him "your highness."
"Which road?" asked the postilion in Italian. "The Ancona road," replied
the baron. Signor Pastrini interpreted the question and answer, and the
horses galloped off. Danglars intended travelling to Venice, where he
would receive one part of his fortune, and then proceeding to Vienna,
where he would find the rest, he meant to take up his residence in the
latter town, which he had been told was a city of pleasure.
He had scarcely advanced three leagues out of Rome when daylight began
to disappear. Danglars had not intended starting so late, or he would
have remained; he put his head out and asked the postilion how long
it would be before they reached the next town. "Non capisco" (do not
understand), was the reply. Danglars bent his head, which he meant to
imply, "Very well." The carriage again moved on. "I will stop at the
first posting-house," said Danglars to himself.
He still felt the same self-satisfaction which he had experienced the
previous evening, and which had procured him so good a night's rest. He
was luxuriously stretched in a good English calash, with double springs;
he was drawn by four good horses, at full gallop; he knew the relay
to be at a distance of seven leagues. What subject of meditation could
present itself to the banker, so fortunately become bankrupt?
Danglars thought for ten minutes about his wife in Paris; another ten
minutes about his daughter travelling with Mademoiselle d'Armilly;
the same period was given to his creditors, and the manner in which
he intended spending their money; and then, having no subject left for
contemplation, he shut his eyes, and fell asleep. Now and then a jolt
more violent than the rest caused him to open his eyes; then he felt
that he was still being carried with great rapidity over the same
country, thickly strewn with broken aqueducts, which looked like granite
giants petrified while running a race. But the night was cold, dull, and
rainy, and it was much more pleasant for a traveller to remain in the
warm carriage than to put his head out of the window to make inquiries
of a postilion whose only answer was "Non capisco."
Danglars therefore continued to sleep, saying to himself that he would
be sure to awake at the posting-house. The carriage stopped. Danglars
fancied that they had reached the long-desired point; he opened his eyes
and looked through the window, expecting to find himself in the midst
of some town, or at least village; but he saw nothing except what
seemed like a ruin, where three or four men went and came like shadows.
Danglars waited a moment, expecting the postilion to come and demand
payment with the termination of his stage. He intended taking advantage
of the opportunity to make fresh inquiries of the new conductor; but the
horses were unharnessed, and others put in their places, without any
one claiming money from the traveller. Danglars, astonished, opened the
door; but a strong hand pushed him back, and the carriage rolled on. The
baron was completely roused. "Eh?" he said to the postilion, "eh, mio
caro?"
This was another little piece of Italian the baron had learned from
hearing his daughter sing Italian duets with Cavalcanti. But mio caro
did not reply. Danglars then opened the window.
"Come, my friend," he said, thrusting his hand through the opening,
"where are we going?"
"Dentro la testa!" answered a solemn and imperious voice, accompanied by
a menacing gesture. Danglars thought dentro la testa meant, "Put in your
head!" He was making rapid progress in Italian. He obeyed, not without
some uneasiness, which, momentarily increasing, caused his mind, instead
of being as unoccupied as it was when he began his journey, to fill with
ideas which were very likely to keep a traveller awake, more especially
one in such a situation as Danglars. His eyes acquired that quality
which in the first moment of strong emotion enables them to see
distinctly, and which afterwards fails from being too much taxed. Before
we are alarmed, we see correctly; when we are alarmed, we see double;
and when we have been alarmed, we see nothing but trouble. Danglars
observed a man in a cloak galloping at the right hand of the carriage.
"Some gendarme!" he exclaimed. "Can I have been intercepted by French
telegrams to the pontifical authorities?" He resolved to end his
anxiety. "Where are you taking me?" he asked. "Dentro la testa," replied
the same voice, with the same menacing accent.
Danglars turned to the left; another man on horseback was galloping
on that side. "Decidedly," said Danglars, with the perspiration on his
forehead, "I must be under arrest." And he threw himself back in the
calash, not this time to sleep, but to think. Directly afterwards the
moon rose. He then saw the great aqueducts, those stone phantoms which
he had before remarked, only then they were on the right hand, now they
were on the left. He understood that they had described a circle, and
were bringing him back to Rome. "Oh, unfortunate!" he cried, "they
must have obtained my arrest." The carriage continued to roll on with
frightful speed. An hour of terror elapsed, for every spot they passed
showed that they were on the road back. At length he saw a dark mass,
against which it seemed as if the carriage was about to dash; but the
vehicle turned to one side, leaving the barrier behind and Danglars saw
that it was one of the ramparts encircling Rome.
"Mon dieu!" cried Danglars, "we are not returning to Rome; then it
is not justice which is pursuing me! Gracious heavens; another idea
presents itself--what if they should be"--
His hair stood on end. He remembered those interesting stories, so
little believed in Paris, respecting Roman bandits; he remembered the
adventures that Albert de Morcerf had related when it was intended that
he should marry Mademoiselle Eugenie. "They are robbers, perhaps," he
muttered. Just then the carriage rolled on something harder than gravel
road. Danglars hazarded a look on both sides of the road, and perceived
monuments of a singular form, and his mind now recalled all the details
Morcerf had related, and comparing them with his own situation, he
felt sure that he must be on the Appian Way. On the left, in a sort of
valley, he perceived a circular excavation. It was Caracalla's circus.
On a word from the man who rode at the side of the carriage, it stopped.
At the same time the door was opened. "Scendi!" exclaimed a commanding
voice. Danglars instantly descended; although he did not yet speak
Italian, he understood it very well. More dead than alive, he looked
around him. Four men surrounded him, besides the postilion.
"Di qua," said one of the men, descending a little path leading out of
the Appian Way. Danglars followed his guide without opposition, and
had no occasion to turn around to see whether the three others were
following him. Still it appeared as though they were stationed at equal
distances from one another, like sentinels. After walking for about ten
minutes, during which Danglars did not exchange a single word with his
guide, he found himself between a hillock and a clump of high weeds;
three men, standing silent, formed a triangle, of which he was the
centre. He wished to speak, but his tongue refused to move. "Avanti!"
said the same sharp and imperative voice.
This time Danglars had double reason to understand, for if the word
and gesture had not explained the speaker's meaning, it was clearly
expressed by the man walking behind him, who pushed him so rudely that
he struck against the guide. This guide was our friend Peppino, who
dashed into the thicket of high weeds, through a path which none but
lizards or polecats could have imagined to be an open road. Peppino
stopped before a pit overhung by thick hedges; the pit, half open,
afforded a passage to the young man, who disappeared like the evil
spirits in the fairy tales. The voice and gesture of the man who
followed Danglars ordered him to do the same. There was no longer
any doubt, the bankrupt was in the hands of Roman banditti. Danglars
acquitted himself like a man placed between two dangerous positions,
and who is rendered brave by fear. Notwithstanding his large stomach,
certainly not intended to penetrate the fissures of the Campagna, he
slid down like Peppino, and closing his eyes fell upon his feet. As he
touched the ground, he opened his eyes. The path was wide, but dark.
Peppino, who cared little for being recognized now that he was in his
own territories, struck a light and lit a torch. Two other men descended
after Danglars forming the rearguard, and pushing Danglars whenever he
happened to stop, they came by a gentle declivity to the intersection of
two corridors. The walls were hollowed out in sepulchres, one above the
other, and which seemed in contrast with the white stones to open their
large dark eyes, like those which we see on the faces of the dead. A
sentinel struck the rings of his carbine against his left hand. "Who
comes there?" he cried.
"A friend, a friend!" said Peppino; "but where is the captain?"
"There," said the sentinel, pointing over his shoulder to a spacious
crypt, hollowed out of the rock, the lights from which shone into the
passage through the large arched openings. "Fine spoil, captain, fine
spoil!" said Peppino in Italian, and taking Danglars by the collar of
his coat he dragged him to an opening resembling a door, through which
they entered the apartment which the captain appeared to have made his
dwelling-place.
"Is this the man?" asked the captain, who was attentively reading
Plutarch's "Life of Alexander."
"Himself, captain--himself."
"Very well, show him to me." At this rather impertinent order, Peppino
raised his torch to the face of Danglars, who hastily withdrew that he
might not have his eyelashes burnt. His agitated features presented
the appearance of pale and hideous terror. "The man is tired," said the
captain, "conduct him to his bed."
"Oh," murmured Danglars, "that bed is probably one of the coffins
hollowed in the wall, and the sleep I shall enjoy will be death from one
of the poniards I see glistening in the darkness."
From their beds of dried leaves or wolf-skins at the back of the chamber
now arose the companions of the man who had been found by Albert de
Morcerf reading "Caesar's Commentaries," and by Danglars studying the
"Life of Alexander." The banker uttered a groan and followed his guide;
he neither supplicated nor exclaimed. He no longer possessed strength,
will, power, or feeling; he followed where they led him. At length he
found himself at the foot of a staircase, and he mechanically lifted
his foot five or six times. Then a low door was opened before him, and
bending his head to avoid striking his forehead he entered a small room
cut out of the rock. The cell was clean, though empty, and dry, though
situated at an immeasurable distance under the earth. A bed of dried
grass covered with goat-skins was placed in one corner. Danglars
brightened up on beholding it, fancying that it gave some promise of
