I must make up for it."
"I was at Rome during the last Carnival."
"We know that," said Beauchamp.
"Yes, but what you do not know is that I was carried off by bandits."
"There are no bandits," cried Debray.
"Yes there are, and most hideous, or rather most admirable ones, for I
found them ugly enough to frighten me."
"Come, my dear Albert," said Debray, "confess that your cook is
behindhand, that the oysters have not arrived from Ostend or Marennes,
and that, like Madame de Maintenon, you are going to replace the dish
by a story. Say so at once; we are sufficiently well-bred to excuse you,
and to listen to your history, fabulous as it promises to be."
"And I say to you, fabulous as it may seem, I tell it as a true one from
beginning to end. The brigands had carried me off, and conducted me to a
gloomy spot, called the Catacombs of Saint Sebastian."
"I know it," said Chateau-Renaud; "I narrowly escaped catching a fever
there."
"And I did more than that," replied Morcerf, "for I caught one. I
was informed that I was prisoner until I paid the sum of 4,000 Roman
crowns--about 24,000 francs. Unfortunately, I had not above 1,500. I was
at the end of my journey and of my credit. I wrote to Franz--and were he
here he would confirm every word--I wrote then to Franz that if he did
not come with the four thousand crowns before six, at ten minutes past
I should have gone to join the blessed saints and glorious martyrs in
whose company I had the honor of being; and Signor Luigi Vampa, such was
the name of the chief of these bandits, would have scrupulously kept his
word."
"But Franz did come with the four thousand crowns," said Chateau-Renaud.
"A man whose name is Franz d'Epinay or Albert de Morcerf has not much
difficulty in procuring them."
"No, he arrived accompanied simply by the guest I am going to present to
you."
"Ah, this gentleman is a Hercules killing Cacus, a Perseus freeing
Andromeda."
"No, he is a man about my own size."
"Armed to the teeth?"
"He had not even a knitting-needle."
"But he paid your ransom?"
"He said two words to the chief and I was free."
"And they apologized to him for having carried you off?" said Beauchamp.
"Just so."
"Why, he is a second Ariosto."
"No, his name is the Count of Monte Cristo."
"There is no Count of Monte Cristo" said Debray.
"I do not think so," added Chateau-Renaud, with the air of a man who
knows the whole of the European nobility perfectly.
"Does any one know anything of a Count of Monte Cristo?"
"He comes possibly from the Holy Land, and one of his ancestors
possessed Calvary, as the Mortemarts did the Dead Sea."
"I think I can assist your researches," said Maximilian. "Monte Cristo
is a little island I have often heard spoken of by the old sailors my
father employed--a grain of sand in the centre of the Mediterranean, an
atom in the infinite."
"Precisely!" cried Albert. "Well, he of whom I speak is the lord and
master of this grain of sand, of this atom; he has purchased the title
of count somewhere in Tuscany."
"He is rich, then?"
"I believe so."
"But that ought to be visible."
"That is what deceives you, Debray."
"I do not understand you."
"Have you read the 'Arabian Nights'?"
"What a question!"
"Well, do you know if the persons you see there are rich or poor, if
their sacks of wheat are not rubies or diamonds? They seem like poor
fishermen, and suddenly they open some mysterious cavern filled with the
wealth of the Indies."
"Which means?"
"Which means that my Count of Monte Cristo is one of those fishermen. He
has even a name taken from the book, since he calls himself Sinbad the
Sailor, and has a cave filled with gold."
"And you have seen this cavern, Morcerf?" asked Beauchamp.
"No, but Franz has; for heaven's sake, not a word of this before him.
Franz went in with his eyes blindfolded, and was waited on by mutes and
by women to whom Cleopatra was a painted strumpet. Only he is not quite
sure about the women, for they did not come in until after he had taken
hashish, so that what he took for women might have been simply a row of
statues."
The two young men looked at Morcerf as if to say,--"Are you mad, or are
you laughing at us?"
"And I also," said Morrel thoughtfully, "have heard something like this
from an old sailor named Penelon."
"Ah," cried Albert, "it is very lucky that M. Morrel comes to aid me;
you are vexed, are you not, that he thus gives a clew to the labyrinth?"
"My dear Albert," said Debray, "what you tell us is so extraordinary."
"Ah, because your ambassadors and your consuls do not tell you of
them--they have no time. They are too much taken up with interfering in
the affairs of their countrymen who travel."
"Now you get angry, and attack our poor agents. How will you have them
protect you? The Chamber cuts down their salaries every day, so that now
they have scarcely any. Will you be ambassador, Albert? I will send you
to Constantinople."
"No, lest on the first demonstration I make in favor of Mehemet Ali, the
Sultan send me the bowstring, and make my secretaries strangle me."
"You say very true," responded Debray.
"Yes," said Albert, "but this has nothing to do with the existence of
the Count of Monte Cristo."
"Pardieu, every one exists."
"Doubtless, but not in the same way; every one has not black slaves,
a princely retinue, an arsenal of weapons that would do credit to an
Arabian fortress, horses that cost six thousand francs apiece, and Greek
mistresses."
"Have you seen the Greek mistress?"
"I have both seen and heard her. I saw her at the theatre, and heard her
one morning when I breakfasted with the count."
"He eats, then?"
"Yes; but so little, it can hardly be called eating."
"He must be a vampire."
"Laugh, if you will; the Countess G----, who knew Lord Ruthven, declared
that the count was a vampire."
"Ah, capital," said Beauchamp. "For a man not connected with newspapers,
here is the pendant to the famous sea-serpent of the Constitutionnel."
"Wild eyes, the iris of which contracts or dilates at pleasure," said
Debray; "facial angle strongly developed, magnificent forehead,
livid complexion, black beard, sharp and white teeth, politeness
unexceptionable."
"Just so, Lucien," returned Morcerf; "you have described him feature for
feature. Yes, keen and cutting politeness. This man has often made me
shudder; and one day that we were viewing an execution, I thought I
should faint, more from hearing the cold and calm manner in which
he spoke of every description of torture, than from the sight of the
executioner and the culprit."
"Did he not conduct you to the ruins of the Colosseum and suck your
blood?" asked Beauchamp.
"Or, having delivered you, make you sign a flaming parchment,
surrendering your soul to him as Esau did his birth-right?"
"Rail on, rail on at your ease, gentlemen," said Morcerf, somewhat
piqued. "When I look at you Parisians, idlers on the Boulevard de Gand
or the Bois de Boulogne, and think of this man, it seems to me we are
not of the same race."
"I am highly flattered," returned Beauchamp. "At the same time," added
Chateau-Renaud, "your Count of Monte Cristo is a very fine fellow,
always excepting his little arrangements with the Italian banditti."
"There are no Italian banditti," said Debray.
"No vampire," cried Beauchamp. "No Count of Monte Cristo" added Debray.
"There is half-past ten striking, Albert."
"Confess you have dreamed this, and let us sit down to breakfast,"
continued Beauchamp. But the sound of the clock had not died away when
Germain announced, "His excellency the Count of Monte Cristo." The
involuntary start every one gave proved how much Morcerf's narrative
had impressed them, and Albert himself could not wholly refrain from
manifesting sudden emotion. He had not heard a carriage stop in the
street, or steps in the ante-chamber; the door had itself opened
noiselessly. The count appeared, dressed with the greatest simplicity,
but the most fastidious dandy could have found nothing to cavil at in
his toilet. Every article of dress--hat, coat, gloves, and boots--was
from the first makers. He seemed scarcely five and thirty. But what
struck everybody was his extreme resemblance to the portrait Debray had
drawn. The count advanced, smiling, into the centre of the room, and
approached Albert, who hastened towards him holding out his hand in a
ceremonial manner. "Punctuality," said Monte Cristo, "is the politeness
of kings, according to one of your sovereigns, I think; but it is not
the same with travellers. However, I hope you will excuse the two
or three seconds I am behindhand; five hundred leagues are not to be
accomplished without some trouble, and especially in France, where, it
seems, it is forbidden to beat the postilions."
"My dear count," replied Albert, "I was announcing your visit to some of
my friends, whom I had invited in consequence of the promise you did me
the honor to make, and whom I now present to you. They are the Count of
Chateau-Renaud, whose nobility goes back to the twelve peers, and whose
ancestors had a place at the Round Table; M. Lucien Debray, private
secretary to the minister of the interior; M. Beauchamp, an editor of a
paper, and the terror of the French government, but of whom, in spite of
his national celebrity, you perhaps have not heard in Italy, since his
paper is prohibited there; and M. Maximilian Morrel, captain of Spahis."
At this name the count, who had hitherto saluted every one with
courtesy, but at the same time with coldness and formality, stepped a
pace forward, and a slight tinge of red colored his pale cheeks. "You
wear the uniform of the new French conquerors, monsieur," said he; "it
is a handsome uniform." No one could have said what caused the count's
voice to vibrate so deeply, and what made his eye flash, which was in
general so clear, lustrous, and limpid when he pleased. "You have never
seen our Africans, count?" said Albert. "Never," replied the count, who
was by this time perfectly master of himself again.
"Well, beneath this uniform beats one of the bravest and noblest hearts
in the whole army."
"Oh, M. de Morcerf," interrupted Morrel.
"Let me go on, captain. And we have just heard," continued Albert, "of
a new deed of his, and so heroic a one, that, although I have seen him
to-day for the first time, I request you to allow me to introduce him
as my friend." At these words it was still possible to observe in Monte
Cristo the concentrated look, changing color, and slight trembling of
the eyelid that show emotion. "Ah, you have a noble heart," said the
count; "so much the better." This exclamation, which corresponded to
the count's own thought rather than to what Albert was saying, surprised
everybody, and especially Morrel, who looked at Monte Cristo with
wonder. But, at the same time, the intonation was so soft that, however
strange the speech might seem, it was impossible to be offended at it.
"Why should he doubt it?" said Beauchamp to Chateau-Renaud.
"In reality," replied the latter, who, with his aristocratic glance
and his knowledge of the world, had penetrated at once all that was
penetrable in Monte Cristo, "Albert has not deceived us, for the count
is a most singular being. What say you, Morrel!"
"Ma foi, he has an open look about him that pleases me, in spite of the
singular remark he has made about me."
"Gentlemen," said Albert, "Germain informs me that breakfast is ready.
My dear count, allow me to show you the way." They passed silently into
the breakfast-room, and every one took his place. "Gentlemen," said the
count, seating himself, "permit me to make a confession which must form
my excuse for any improprieties I may commit. I am a stranger, and a
stranger to such a degree, that this is the first time I have ever been
at Paris. The French way of living is utterly unknown to me, and up to
the present time I have followed the Eastern customs, which are entirely
in contrast to the Parisian. I beg you, therefore, to excuse if you find
anything in me too Turkish, too Italian, or too Arabian. Now, then, let
us breakfast."
"With what an air he says all this," muttered Beauchamp; "decidedly he
is a great man."
"A great man in his own country," added Debray.
"A great man in every country, M. Debray," said Chateau-Renaud. The
count was, it may be remembered, a most temperate guest. Albert remarked
this, expressing his fears lest, at the outset, the Parisian mode of
life should displease the traveller in the most essential point. "My
dear count," said he, "I fear one thing, and that is, that the fare of
the Rue du Helder is not so much to your taste as that of the Piazza di
Spagni. I ought to have consulted you on the point, and have had some
dishes prepared expressly."
"Did you know me better," returned the count, smiling, "you would not
give one thought of such a thing for a traveller like myself, who
has successively lived on maccaroni at Naples, polenta at Milan, olla
