Part 73

The sudden extinction of the _moccoletti_, the darkness which had replaced the light, and the silence which had succeeded the turmoil, had left in Franz’s mind a certain depression which was not free from uneasiness. He therefore dined very silently, in spite of the officious attention of his host, who presented himself two or three times to inquire if he wanted anything. Franz resolved to wait for Albert as late as possible. He ordered the carriage, therefore, for eleven o’clock, desiring Signor Pastrini to inform him the moment that Albert returned to the hotel. At eleven o’clock Albert had not come back. Franz dressed himself, and went out, telling his host that he was going to pass the night at the Duke of Bracciano’s. The house of the Duke of Bracciano is one of the most delightful in Rome, the duchess, one of the last heiresses of the Colonnas, does its honors with the most consummate grace, and thus their _fêtes_ have a European celebrity. Franz and Albert had brought to Rome letters of introduction to them, and their first question on his arrival was to inquire the whereabouts of his travelling companion. Franz replied that he had left him at the moment they were about to extinguish the _moccoli_, and that he had lost sight of him in the Via Macello. “Then he has not returned?” said the duke. “I waited for him until this hour,” replied Franz. “And do you know whither he went?” “No, not precisely; however, I think it was something very like a rendezvous.” “_Diavolo!_” said the duke, “this is a bad day, or rather a bad night, to be out late; is it not, countess?” These words were addressed to the Countess G——, who had just arrived, and was leaning on the arm of Signor Torlonia, the duke’s brother. “I think, on the contrary, that it is a charming night,” replied the countess, “and those who are here will complain of but one thing, that of its too rapid flight.” “I am not speaking,” said the duke with a smile, “of the persons who are here; the men run no other danger than that of falling in love with you, and the women of falling ill of jealousy at seeing you so lovely; I meant persons who were out in the streets of Rome.” “Ah,” asked the countess, “who is out in the streets of Rome at this hour, unless it be to go to a ball?” “Our friend, Albert de Morcerf, countess, whom I left in pursuit of his unknown about seven o’clock this evening,” said Franz, “and whom I have not seen since.” “And don’t you know where he is?” “Not at all.” “Is he armed?” “He is in masquerade.” “You should not have allowed him to go,” said the duke to Franz; “you, who know Rome better than he does.” “You might as well have tried to stop number three of the _barberi_, who gained the prize in the race today,” replied Franz; “and then moreover, what could happen to him?” “Who can tell? The night is gloomy, and the Tiber is very near the Via Macello.” Franz felt a shudder run through his veins at observing that the feeling of the duke and the countess was so much in unison with his own personal disquietude. “I informed them at the hotel that I had the honor of passing the night here, duke,” said Franz, “and desired them to come and inform me of his return.” “Ah,” replied the duke, “here I think, is one of my servants who is seeking you.” The duke was not mistaken; when he saw Franz, the servant came up to him. “Your excellency,” he said, “the master of the Hôtel de Londres has sent to let you know that a man is waiting for you with a letter from the Viscount of Morcerf.” “A letter from the viscount!” exclaimed Franz. “Yes.” “And who is the man?” “I do not know.” “Why did he not bring it to me here?” “The messenger did not say.” “And where is the messenger?” “He went away directly he saw me enter the ball-room to find you.” “Oh,” said the countess to Franz, “go with all speed—poor young man! Perhaps some accident has happened to him.” “I will hasten,” replied Franz. “Shall we see you again to give us any information?” inquired the countess. “Yes, if it is not any serious affair, otherwise I cannot answer as to what I may do myself.” “Be prudent, in any event,” said the countess. “Oh! pray be assured of that.” Franz took his hat and went away in haste. He had sent away his carriage with orders for it to fetch him at two o’clock; fortunately the Palazzo Bracciano, which is on one side in the Corso, and on the other in the Square of the Holy Apostles, is hardly ten minutes’ walk from the Hôtel de Londres. As he came near the hotel, Franz saw a man in the middle of the street. He had no doubt that it was the messenger from Albert. The man was wrapped up in a large cloak. He went up to him, but, to his extreme astonishment, the stranger first addressed him. “What wants your excellency of me?” inquired the man, retreating a step or two, as if to keep on his guard. “Are not you the person who brought me a letter,” inquired Franz, “from the Viscount of Morcerf?” “Your excellency lodges at Pastrini’s hotel?” “I do.” “Your excellency is the travelling companion of the viscount?” “I am.” “Your excellency’s name——” “Is the Baron Franz d’Épinay.” 20199m “Then it is to your excellency that this letter is addressed.” “Is there any answer?” inquired Franz, taking the letter from him. “Yes—your friend at least hopes so.” “Come upstairs with me, and I will give it to you.” “I prefer waiting here,” said the messenger, with a smile. “And why?” “Your excellency will know when you have read the letter.” “Shall I find you here, then?” “Certainly.” Franz entered the hotel. On the staircase he met Signor Pastrini. “Well?” said the landlord. “Well—what?” responded Franz. “You have seen the man who desired to speak with you from your friend?” he asked of Franz. “Yes, I have seen him,” he replied, “and he has handed this letter to me. Light the candles in my apartment, if you please.” The innkeeper gave orders to a servant to go before Franz with a light. The young man had found Signor Pastrini looking very much alarmed, and this had only made him the more anxious to read Albert’s letter; and so he went instantly towards the waxlight, and unfolded it. It was written and signed by Albert. Franz read it twice before he could comprehend what it contained. It was thus worded: “My dear Fellow, “The moment you have received this, have the kindness to take the letter of credit from my pocket-book, which you will find in the square drawer of the _secrétaire_; add your own to it, if it be not sufficient. Run to Torlonia, draw from him instantly four thousand piastres, and give them to the bearer. It is urgent that I should have this money without delay. I do not say more, relying on you as you may rely on me. “Your friend, “Albert de Morcerf. “P.S.—I now believe in Italian _banditti_.” Below these lines were written, in a strange hand, the following in Italian: “_Se alle sei della mattina le quattro mille piastre non sono nelle mie mani, alla sette il Conte Alberto avrà cessato di vivere_. “Luigi Vampa.” “_If by six in the morning the four thousand piastres are not in my hands, by seven o’clock the Count Albert will have ceased to live_.” This second signature explained everything to Franz, who now understood the objection of the messenger to coming up into the apartment; the street was safer for him. Albert, then, had fallen into the hands of the famous bandit chief, in whose existence he had for so long a time refused to believe. There was no time to lose. He hastened to open the _secrétaire_, and found the pocket-book in the drawer, and in it the letter of credit. There were in all six thousand piastres, but of these six thousand Albert had already expended three thousand. As to Franz, he had no letter of credit, as he lived at Florence, and had only come to Rome to pass seven or eight days; he had brought but a hundred louis, and of these he had not more than fifty left. Thus seven or eight hundred piastres were wanting to them both to make up the sum that Albert required. True, he might in such a case rely on the kindness of Signor Torlonia. He was, therefore, about to return to the Palazzo Bracciano without loss of time, when suddenly a luminous idea crossed his mind. He remembered the Count of Monte Cristo. Franz was about to ring for Signor Pastrini, when that worthy presented himself. “My dear sir,” he said, hastily, “do you know if the count is within?” “Yes, your excellency; he has this moment returned.” “Is he in bed?” “I should say no.” “Then ring at his door, if you please, and request him to be so kind as to give me an audience.” Signor Pastrini did as he was desired, and returning five minutes after, he said: “The count awaits your excellency.” Franz went along the corridor, and a servant introduced him to the count. He was in a small room which Franz had not yet seen, and which was surrounded with divans. The count came towards him. “Well, what good wind blows you hither at this hour?” said he; “have you come to sup with me? It would be very kind of you.” “No; I have come to speak to you of a very serious matter.” “A serious matter,” said the count, looking at Franz with the earnestness usual to him; “and what may it be?” “Are we alone?” “Yes,” replied the count, going to the door, and returning. Franz gave him Albert’s letter. “Read that,” he said. The count read it. “Well, well!” said he. “Did you see the postscript?” “I did, indeed. “_‘Se alle sei della mattina le quattro mille piastre non sono nelle mie mani, alla sette il conte Alberto avrà cessato di vivere. _ “‘Luigi Vampa.’” “What think you of that?” inquired Franz. “Have you the money he demands?” “Yes, all but eight hundred piastres.” The count went to his _secrétaire_, opened it, and pulling out a drawer filled with gold, said to Franz, “I hope you will not offend me by applying to anyone but myself.” “You see, on the contrary, I come to you first and instantly,” replied Franz. “And I thank you; have what you will;” and he made a sign to Franz to take what he pleased. “Is it absolutely necessary, then, to send the money to Luigi Vampa?” asked the young man, looking fixedly in his turn at the count. “Judge for yourself,” replied he. “The postscript is explicit.” “I think that if you would take the trouble of reflecting, you could find a way of simplifying the negotiation,” said Franz. “How so?” returned the count, with surprise. “If we were to go together to Luigi Vampa, I am sure he would not refuse you Albert’s freedom.” “What influence can I possibly have over a bandit?” “Have you not just rendered him a service that can never be forgotten?” “What is that?” “Have you not saved Peppino’s life?” “Well, well,” said the count, “who told you that?” “No matter; I know it.” The count knit his brows, and remained silent an instant. “And if I went to seek Vampa, would you accompany me?” “If my society would not be disagreeable.” “Be it so. It is a lovely night, and a walk without Rome will do us both good.” “Shall I take any arms?” “For what purpose?” “Any money?” “It is useless. Where is the man who brought the letter?” “In the street.” “He awaits the answer?” “Yes.” “I must learn where we are going. I will summon him hither.” “It is useless; he would not come up.” “To your apartments, perhaps; but he will not make any difficulty at entering mine.” The count went to the window of the apartment that looked on to the street, and whistled in a peculiar manner. The man in the mantle quitted the wall, and advanced into the middle of the street. “_Salite!_” said the count, in the same tone in which he would have given an order to his servant. The messenger obeyed without the least hesitation, but rather with alacrity, and, mounting the steps at a bound, entered the hotel; five seconds afterwards he was at the door of the room. “Ah, it is you, Peppino,” said the count. But Peppino, instead of answering, threw himself on his knees, seized the count’s hand, and covered it with kisses. “Ah,” said the count, “you have, then, not forgotten that I saved your life; that is strange, for it is a week ago.”