"Laugh if you please--I really think so. So I will not abandon this
bouquet."
"Pardieu," returned Franz, laughing, "in token of your ingratitude."
The jest, however, soon appeared to become earnest; for when Albert and
Franz again encountered the carriage with the contadini, the one who had
thrown the violets to Albert, clapped her hands when she beheld them
in his button-hole. "Bravo, bravo," said Franz; "things go wonderfully.
Shall I leave you? Perhaps you would prefer being alone?"
"No," replied he; "I will not be caught like a fool at a first
disclosure by a rendezvous under the clock, as they say at the
opera-balls. If the fair peasant wishes to carry matters any further,
we shall find her, or rather, she will find us to-morrow; then she will
give me some sign or other, and I shall know what I have to do."
"On my word," said Franz, "you are wise as Nestor and prudent as
Ulysses, and your fair Circe must be very skilful or very powerful if
she succeed in changing you into a beast of any kind." Albert was right;
the fair unknown had resolved, doubtless, to carry the intrigue no
farther; for although the young men made several more turns, they did
not again see the calash, which had turned up one of the neighboring
streets. Then they returned to the Rospoli Palace; but the count and
the blue domino had also disappeared; the two windows, hung with yellow
damask, were still occupied by the persons whom the count had invited.
At this moment the same bell that had proclaimed the beginning of the
mascherata sounded the retreat. The file on the Corso broke the line,
and in a second all the carriages had disappeared. Franz and Albert were
opposite the Via delle Maratte; the coachman, without saying a word,
drove up it, passed along the Piazza di Spagni and the Rospoli Palace
and stopped at the door of the hotel. Signor Pastrini came to the door
to receive his guests. Franz hastened to inquire after the count, and to
express regret that he had not returned in sufficient time; but Pastrini
reassured him by saying that the Count of Monte Cristo had ordered a
second carriage for himself, and that it had gone at four o'clock to
fetch him from the Rospoli Palace. The count had, moreover, charged
him to offer the two friends the key of his box at the Argentina. Franz
questioned Albert as to his intentions; but Albert had great projects
to put into execution before going to the theatre; and instead of making
any answer, he inquired if Signor Pastrini could procure him a tailor.
"A tailor," said the host; "and for what?"
"To make us between now and to-morrow two Roman peasant costumes,"
returned Albert. The host shook his head. "To make you two costumes
between now and to-morrow? I ask your excellencies' pardon, but this
is quite a French demand; for the next week you will not find a single
tailor who would consent to sew six buttons on a waistcoat if you paid
him a crown a piece for each button."
"Then I must give up the idea?"
"No; we have them ready-made. Leave all to me; and to-morrow, when you
awake, you shall find a collection of costumes with which you will be
satisfied."
"My dear Albert," said Franz, "leave all to our host; he has already
proved himself full of resources; let us dine quietly, and afterwards go
and see 'The Algerian Captive.'"
"Agreed," returned Albert; "but remember, Signor Pastrini, that both my
friend and myself attach the greatest importance to having to-morrow the
costumes we have asked for." The host again assured them they might rely
on him, and that their wishes should be attended to; upon which Franz
and Albert mounted to their apartments, and proceeded to disencumber
themselves of their costumes. Albert, as he took off his dress,
carefully preserved the bunch of violets; it was his token reserved
for the morrow. The two friends sat down to table; but they could
not refrain from remarking the difference between the Count of Monte
Cristo's table and that of Signor Pastrini. Truth compelled Franz, in
spite of the dislike he seemed to have taken to the count, to confess
that the advantage was not on Pastrini's side. During dessert, the
servant inquired at what time they wished for the carriage. Albert
and Franz looked at each other, fearing really to abuse the count's
kindness. The servant understood them. "His excellency the Count of
Monte Cristo had," he said, "given positive orders that the carriage was
to remain at their lordships' orders all day, and they could therefore
dispose of it without fear of indiscretion."
They resolved to profit by the count's courtesy, and ordered the horses
to be harnessed, while they substituted evening dress for that which
they had on, and which was somewhat the worse for the numerous combats
they had sustained. This precaution taken, they went to the theatre,
and installed themselves in the count's box. During the first act, the
Countess G---- entered. Her first look was at the box where she had seen
the count the previous evening, so that she perceived Franz and Albert
in the place of the very person concerning whom she had expressed so
strange an opinion to Franz. Her opera-glass was so fixedly directed
towards them, that Franz saw it would be cruel not to satisfy her
curiosity; and, availing himself of one of the privileges of the
spectators of the Italian theatres, who use their boxes to hold
receptions, the two friends went to pay their respects to the countess.
Scarcely had they entered, when she motioned to Franz to assume the seat
of honor. Albert, in his turn, sat behind.
"Well," said she, hardly giving Franz time to sit down, "it seems you
have nothing better to do than to make the acquaintance of this new Lord
Ruthven, and you are already the best friends in the world."
"Without being so far advanced as that, my dear countess," returned
Franz, "I cannot deny that we have abused his good nature all day."
"All day?"
"Yes; this morning we breakfasted with him; we rode in his carriage all
day, and now we have taken possession of his box."
"You know him, then?"
"Yes, and no."
"How so?"
"It is a long story."
"Tell it to me."
"It would frighten you too much."
"So much the more reason."
"At least wait until the story has a conclusion."
"Very well; I prefer complete histories; but tell me how you made his
acquaintance? Did any one introduce you to him?"
"No; it was he who introduced himself to us."
"When?"
"Last night, after we left you."
"Through what medium?"
"The very prosaic one of our landlord."
"He is staying, then, at the Hotel de Londres with you?"
"Not only in the same hotel, but on the same floor."
"What is his name--for, of course, you know?"
"The Count of Monte Cristo."
"That is not a family name?"
"No, it is the name of the island he has purchased."
"And he is a count?"
"A Tuscan count."
"Well, we must put up with that," said the countess, who was herself
from one of the oldest Venetian families. "What sort of a man is he?"
"Ask the Vicomte de Morcerf."
"You hear, M. de Morcerf, I am referred to you," said the countess.
"We should be very hard to please, madam," returned Albert, "did we not
think him delightful. A friend of ten years' standing could not have
done more for us, or with a more perfect courtesy."
"Come," observed the countess, smiling, "I see my vampire is only some
millionaire, who has taken the appearance of Lara in order to avoid
being confounded with M. de Rothschild; and you have seen her?"
"Her?"
"The beautiful Greek of yesterday."
"No; we heard, I think, the sound of her guzla, but she remained
perfectly invisible."
"When you say invisible," interrupted Albert, "it is only to keep up
the mystery; for whom do you take the blue domino at the window with the
white curtains?"
"Where was this window with white hangings?" asked the countess.
"At the Rospoli Palace."
"The count had three windows at the Rospoli Palace?"
"Yes. Did you pass through the Corso?"
"Yes."
"Well, did you notice two windows hung with yellow damask, and one with
white damask with a red cross? Those were the count's windows."
"Why, he must be a nabob. Do you know what those three windows were
worth?"
"Two or three hundred Roman crowns?"
"Two or three thousand."
"The deuce."
"Does his island produce him such a revenue?"
"It does not bring him a baiocco."
"Then why did he purchase it?"
"For a whim."
"He is an original, then?"
"In reality," observed Albert, "he seemed to me somewhat eccentric; were
he at Paris, and a frequenter of the theatres, I should say he was a
poor devil literally mad. This morning he made two or three exits worthy
of Didier or Anthony." At this moment a fresh visitor entered, and,
according to custom, Franz gave up his seat to him. This circumstance
had, moreover, the effect of changing the conversation; an hour
afterwards the two friends returned to their hotel. Signor Pastrini
had already set about procuring their disguises for the morrow; and he
assured them that they would be perfectly satisfied. The next morning,
at nine o'clock, he entered Franz's room, followed by a tailor, who
had eight or ten Roman peasant costumes on his arm; they selected two
exactly alike, and charged the tailor to sew on each of their hats about
twenty yards of ribbon, and to procure them two of the long silk sashes
of different colors with which the lower orders decorate themselves on
fete-days. Albert was impatient to see how he looked in his new dress--a
jacket and breeches of blue velvet, silk stockings with clocks, shoes
with buckles, and a silk waistcoat. This picturesque attire set him off
to great advantage; and when he had bound the scarf around his waist,
and when his hat, placed coquettishly on one side, let fall on his
shoulder a stream of ribbons, Franz was forced to confess that costume
has much to do with the physical superiority we accord to certain
nations. The Turks used to be so picturesque with their long and flowing
robes, but are they not now hideous with their blue frocks buttoned up
to the chin, and their red caps, which make them look like a bottle of
wine with a red seal? Franz complimented Albert, who looked at himself
in the glass with an unequivocal smile of satisfaction. They were thus
engaged when the Count of Monte Cristo entered.
"Gentlemen," said he, "although a companion is agreeable, perfect
freedom is sometimes still more agreeable. I come to say that to-day,
and for the remainder of the Carnival, I leave the carriage entirely at
your disposal. The host will tell you I have three or four more, so that
you will not inconvenience me in any way. Make use of it, I pray you,
for your pleasure or your business."
The young men wished to decline, but they could find no good reason for
refusing an offer which was so agreeable to them. The Count of Monte
Cristo remained a quarter of an hour with them, conversing on all
subjects with the greatest ease. He was, as we have already said,
perfectly well acquainted with the literature of all countries. A glance
at the walls of his salon proved to Franz and Albert that he was a
connoisseur of pictures. A few words he let fall showed them that he was
no stranger to the sciences, and he seemed much occupied with chemistry.
The two friends did not venture to return the count the breakfast he had
given them; it would have been too absurd to offer him in exchange for
his excellent table the very inferior one of Signor Pastrini. They told
him so frankly, and he received their excuses with the air of a man who
appreciated their delicacy. Albert was charmed with the count's manners,
and he was only prevented from recognizing him for a perfect gentleman
by reason of his varied knowledge. The permission to do what he liked
with the carriage pleased him above all, for the fair peasants had
appeared in a most elegant carriage the preceding evening, and Albert
was not sorry to be upon an equal footing with them. At half-past one
they descended, the coachman and footman had put on their livery over
their disguises, which gave them a more ridiculous appearance than
ever, and which gained them the applause of Franz and Albert. Albert
had fastened the faded bunch of violets to his button-hole. At the first
sound of the bell they hastened into the Corso by the Via Vittoria. At
the second turn, a bunch of fresh violets, thrown from a carriage filled
with harlequins, indicated to Albert that, like himself and his friend,
the peasants had changed their costume, also; and whether it was the
result of chance, or whether a similar feeling had possessed them both,
while he had changed his costume they had assumed his.
Albert placed the fresh bouquet in his button-hole, but he kept the
faded one in his hand; and when he again met the calash, he raised it to
his lips, an action which seemed greatly to amuse not only the fair lady
who had thrown it, but her joyous companions also. The day was as gay
as the preceding one, perhaps even more animated and noisy; the count
appeared for an instant at his window, but when they again passed he had
disappeared. It is almost needless to say that the flirtation between
Albert and the fair peasant continued all day. In the evening, on his
return, Franz found a letter from the embassy, informing him that he
