ribbon, not, as you would think, in his waistcoat-pocket, but at his
button-hole."
"Ah," interrupted Morcerf, laughing, "Beauchamp, Beauchamp, keep that
for the Corsaire or the Charivari, but spare my future father-in-law
before me." Then, turning to Monte Cristo, "You just now spoke his name
as if you knew the baron?"
"I do not know him," returned Monte Cristo; "but I shall probably soon
make his acquaintance, for I have a credit opened with him by the house
of Richard & Blount, of London, Arstein & Eskeles of Vienna, and Thomson
& French at Rome." As he pronounced the two last names, the count
glanced at Maximilian Morrel. If the stranger expected to produce an
effect on Morrel, he was not mistaken--Maximilian started as if he had
been electrified. "Thomson & French," said he; "do you know this house,
monsieur?"
"They are my bankers in the capital of the Christian world," returned
the count quietly. "Can my influence with them be of any service to
you?"
"Oh, count, you could assist me perhaps in researches which have been,
up to the present, fruitless. This house, in past years, did ours a
great service, and has, I know not for what reason, always denied having
rendered us this service."
"I shall be at your orders," said Monte Cristo bowing.
"But," continued Morcerf, "a propos of Danglars,--we have strangely
wandered from the subject. We were speaking of a suitable habitation
for the Count of Monte Cristo. Come, gentlemen, let us all propose some
place. Where shall we lodge this new guest in our great capital?"
"Faubourg Saint-Germain," said Chateau-Renaud. "The count will find
there a charming hotel, with a court and garden."
"Bah, Chateau-Renaud," returned Debray, "you only know your dull
and gloomy Faubourg Saint-Germain; do not pay any attention to him,
count--live in the Chaussee d'Antin, that's the real centre of Paris."
"Boulevard de l'Opera," said Beauchamp; "the second floor--a house with
a balcony. The count will have his cushions of silver cloth brought
there, and as he smokes his chibouque, see all Paris pass before him."
"You have no idea, then, Morrel?" asked Chateau-Renaud; "you do not
propose anything."
"Oh, yes," returned the young man, smiling; "on the contrary, I have
one, but I expected the count would be tempted by one of the brilliant
proposals made him, yet as he has not replied to any of them, I will
venture to offer him a suite of apartments in a charming hotel, in the
Pompadour style, that my sister has inhabited for a year, in the Rue
Meslay."
"You have a sister?" asked the count.
"Yes, monsieur, a most excellent sister."
"Married?"
"Nearly nine years."
"Happy?" asked the count again.
"As happy as it is permitted to a human creature to be," replied
Maximilian. "She married the man she loved, who remained faithful to
us in our fallen fortunes--Emmanuel Herbaut." Monte Cristo smiled
imperceptibly. "I live there during my leave of absence," continued
Maximilian; "and I shall be, together with my brother-in-law Emmanuel,
at the disposition of the Count, whenever he thinks fit to honor us."
"One minute," cried Albert, without giving Monte Cristo the time to
reply. "Take care, you are going to immure a traveller, Sinbad the
Sailor, a man who comes to see Paris; you are going to make a patriarch
of him."
"Oh, no," said Morrel; "my sister is five and twenty, my brother-in-law
is thirty, they are gay, young, and happy. Besides, the count will be in
his own house, and only see them when he thinks fit to do so."
"Thanks, monsieur," said Monte Cristo; "I shall content myself with
being presented to your sister and her husband, if you will do me the
honor to introduce me; but I cannot accept the offer of any one of these
gentlemen, since my habitation is already prepared."
"What," cried Morcerf; "you are, then, going to an hotel--that will be
very dull for you."
"Was I so badly lodged at Rome?" said Monte Cristo smiling.
"Parbleu, at Rome you spent fifty thousand piastres in furnishing your
apartments, but I presume that you are not disposed to spend a similar
sum every day."
"It is not that which deterred me," replied Monte Cristo; "but as I
determined to have a house to myself, I sent on my valet de chambre, and
he ought by this time to have bought the house and furnished it."
"But you have, then, a valet de chambre who knows Paris?" said
Beauchamp.
"It is the first time he has ever been in Paris. He is black, and cannot
speak," returned Monte Cristo.
"It is Ali!" cried Albert, in the midst of the general surprise.
"Yes, Ali himself, my Nubian mute, whom you saw, I think, at Rome."
"Certainly," said Morcerf; "I recollect him perfectly. But how could you
charge a Nubian to purchase a house, and a mute to furnish it?--he will
do everything wrong."
"Undeceive yourself, monsieur," replied Monte Cristo; "I am quite sure,
that, on the contrary, he will choose everything as I wish. He knows
my tastes, my caprices, my wants. He has been here a week, with the
instinct of a hound, hunting by himself. He will arrange everything for
me. He knew, that I should arrive to-day at ten o'clock; he was waiting
for me at nine at the Barriere de Fontainebleau. He gave me this paper;
it contains the number of my new abode; read it yourself," and Monte
Cristo passed a paper to Albert. "Ah, that is really original," said
Beauchamp.
"And very princely," added Chateau-Renaud.
"What, do you not know your house?" asked Debray.
"No," said Monte Cristo; "I told you I did not wish to be behind my
time; I dressed myself in the carriage, and descended at the viscount's
door." The young men looked at each other; they did not know if it was
a comedy Monte Cristo was playing, but every word he uttered had such
an air of simplicity, that it was impossible to suppose what he said
was false--besides, why should he tell a falsehood? "We must content
ourselves, then," said Beauchamp, "with rendering the count all the
little services in our power. I, in my quality of journalist, open all
the theatres to him."
"Thanks, monsieur," returned Monte Cristo, "my steward has orders to
take a box at each theatre."
"Is your steward also a Nubian?" asked Debray.
"No, he is a countryman of yours, if a Corsican is a countryman of any
one's. But you know him, M. de Morcerf."
"Is it that excellent M. Bertuccio, who understands hiring windows so
well?"
"Yes, you saw him the day I had the honor of receiving you; he has been
a soldier, a smuggler--in fact, everything. I would not be quite sure
that he has not been mixed up with the police for some trifle--a stab
with a knife, for instance."
"And you have chosen this honest citizen for your steward," said Debray.
"Of how much does he rob you every year?"
"On my word," replied the count, "not more than another. I am sure he
answers my purpose, knows no impossibility, and so I keep him."
"Then," continued Chateau-Renaud, "since you have an establishment, a
steward, and a hotel in the Champs Elysees, you only want a mistress."
Albert smiled. He thought of the fair Greek he had seen in the count's
box at the Argentina and Valle theatres. "I have something better than
that," said Monte Cristo; "I have a slave. You procure your mistresses
from the opera, the Vaudeville, or the Varietes; I purchased mine at
Constantinople; it cost me more, but I have nothing to fear."
"But you forget," replied Debray, laughing, "that we are Franks by name
and franks by nature, as King Charles said, and that the moment she puts
her foot in France your slave becomes free."
"Who will tell her?"
"The first person who sees her."
"She only speaks Romaic."
"That is different."
"But at least we shall see her," said Beauchamp, "or do you keep eunuchs
as well as mutes?"
"Oh, no," replied Monte Cristo; "I do not carry brutalism so far. Every
one who surrounds me is free to quit me, and when they leave me will
no longer have any need of me or any one else; it is for that reason,
perhaps, that they do not quit me." They had long since passed to
dessert and cigars.
"My dear Albert," said Debray, rising, "it is half-past two. Your
guest is charming, but you leave the best company to go into the worst
sometimes. I must return to the minister's. I will tell him of the
count, and we shall soon know who he is."
"Take care," returned Albert; "no one has been able to accomplish that."
"Oh, we have three millions for our police; it is true they are almost
always spent beforehand, but, no matter, we shall still have fifty
thousand francs to spend for this purpose."
"And when you know, will you tell me?"
"I promise you. Au revoir, Albert. Gentlemen, good morning."
As he left the room, Debray called out loudly, "My carriage."
"Bravo," said Beauchamp to Albert; "I shall not go to the Chamber, but I
have something better to offer my readers than a speech of M. Danglars."
"For heaven's sake, Beauchamp," returned Morcerf, "do not deprive me of
the merit of introducing him everywhere. Is he not peculiar?"
"He is more than that," replied Chateau-Renaud; "he is one of the most
extraordinary men I ever saw in my life. Are you coming, Morrel?"
"Directly I have given my card to the count, who has promised to pay us
a visit at Rue Meslay, No. 14."
"Be sure I shall not fail to do so," returned the count, bowing. And
Maximilian Morrel left the room with the Baron de Chateau-Renaud,
leaving Monte Cristo alone with Morcerf.
Chapter 41. The Presentation.
When Albert found himself alone with Monte Cristo, "My dear count,"
said he, "allow me to commence my services as cicerone by showing you
a specimen of a bachelor's apartment. You, who are accustomed to the
palaces of Italy, can amuse yourself by calculating in how many square
feet a young man who is not the worst lodged in Paris can live. As
we pass from one room to another, I will open the windows to let you
breathe." Monte Cristo had already seen the breakfast-room and the salon
on the ground-floor. Albert led him first to his atelier, which was, as
we have said, his favorite apartment. Monte Cristo quickly appreciated
all that Albert had collected here--old cabinets, Japanese porcelain,
Oriental stuffs, Venetian glass, arms from all parts of the
world--everything was familiar to him; and at the first glance he
recognized their date, their country, and their origin. Morcerf had
expected he should be the guide; on the contrary, it was he who, under
the count's guidance, followed a course of archaeology, mineralogy, and
natural history. They descended to the first floor; Albert led his guest
into the salon. The salon was filled with the works of modern artists;
there were landscapes by Dupre, with their long reeds and tall trees,
their lowing oxen and marvellous skies; Delacroix's Arabian cavaliers,
with their long white burnouses, their shining belts, their damasked
arms, their horses, who tore each other with their teeth while their
riders contended fiercely with their maces; aquarelles of Boulanger,
representing Notre Dame de Paris with that vigor that makes the artist
the rival of the poet; there were paintings by Diaz, who makes his
flowers more beautiful than flowers, his suns more brilliant than the
sun; designs by Decamp, as vividly colored as those of Salvator Rosa,
but more poetic; pastels by Giraud and Muller, representing children
like angels and women with the features of a virgin; sketches torn from
the album of Dauzats' "Travels in the East," that had been made in a few
seconds on the saddle of a camel, or beneath the dome of a mosque--in a
word, all that modern art can give in exchange and as recompense for the
art lost and gone with ages long since past.
Albert expected to have something new this time to show to the
traveller, but, to his great surprise, the latter, without seeking
for the signatures, many of which, indeed, were only initials, named
instantly the author of every picture in such a manner that it was easy
to see that each name was not only known to him, but that each style
associated with it had been appreciated and studied by him. From the
salon they passed into the bed-chamber; it was a model of taste and
simple elegance. A single portrait, signed by Leopold Robert, shone in
its carved and gilded frame. This portrait attracted the Count of Monte
Cristo's attention, for he made three rapid steps in the chamber, and
stopped suddenly before it. It was the portrait of a young woman of five
or six and twenty, with a dark complexion, and light and lustrous eyes,
veiled beneath long lashes. She wore the picturesque costume of the
Catalan fisherwomen, a red and black bodice, and golden pins in her
hair. She was looking at the sea, and her form was outlined on the blue
ocean and sky. The light was so faint in the room that Albert did not
perceive the pallor that spread itself over the count's visage, or the
nervous heaving of his chest and shoulders. Silence prevailed for an
instant, during which Monte Cristo gazed intently on the picture.
"You have there a most charming mistress, viscount," said the count in
