Part 171

The young man’s trembling voice was scarcely audible. “An explanation at the Opera?” said the count, with that calm tone and penetrating eye which characterize the man who knows his cause is good. “Little acquainted as I am with the habits of Parisians, I should not have thought this the place for such a demand.” “Still, if people will shut themselves up,” said Albert, “and cannot be seen because they are bathing, dining, or asleep, we must avail ourselves of the opportunity whenever they are to be seen.” “I am not difficult of access, sir; for yesterday, if my memory does not deceive me, you were at my house.” “Yesterday I was at your house, sir,” said the young man; “because then I knew not who you were.” In pronouncing these words Albert had raised his voice so as to be heard by those in the adjoining boxes and in the lobby. Thus the attention of many was attracted by this altercation. “Where are you come from, sir? “ said Monte Cristo “You do not appear to be in the possession of your senses.” “Provided I understand your perfidy, sir, and succeed in making you understand that I will be revenged, I shall be reasonable enough,” said Albert furiously. “I do not understand you, sir,” replied Monte Cristo; “and if I did, your tone is too high. I am at home here, and I alone have a right to raise my voice above another’s. Leave the box, sir!” Monte Cristo pointed towards the door with the most commanding dignity. “Ah, I shall know how to make you leave your home!” replied Albert, clasping in his convulsed grasp the glove, which Monte Cristo did not lose sight of. “Well, well,” said Monte Cristo quietly, “I see you wish to quarrel with me; but I would give you one piece of advice, which you will do well to keep in mind. It is in poor taste to make a display of a challenge. Display is not becoming to everyone, M. de Morcerf.” At this name a murmur of astonishment passed around the group of spectators of this scene. They had talked of no one but Morcerf the whole day. Albert understood the allusion in a moment, and was about to throw his glove at the count, when Morrel seized his hand, while Beauchamp and Château-Renaud, fearing the scene would surpass the limits of a challenge, held him back. But Monte Cristo, without rising, and leaning forward in his chair, merely stretched out his arm and, taking the damp, crushed glove from the clenched hand of the young man: “Sir,” said he in a solemn tone, “I consider your glove thrown, and will return it to you wrapped around a bullet. Now leave me or I will summon my servants to throw you out at the door.” Wild, almost unconscious, and with eyes inflamed, Albert stepped back, and Morrel closed the door. Monte Cristo took up his glass again as if nothing had happened; his face was like marble, and his heart was like bronze. Morrel whispered, “What have you done to him?” “I? Nothing—at least personally,” said Monte Cristo. “But there must be some cause for this strange scene.” “The Count of Morcerf’s adventure exasperates the young man.” “Have you anything to do with it?” “It was through Haydée that the Chamber was informed of his father’s treason.” “Indeed?” said Morrel. “I had been told, but would not credit it, that the Grecian slave I have seen with you here in this very box was the daughter of Ali Pasha.” “It is true, nevertheless.” “Then,” said Morrel, “I understand it all, and this scene was premeditated.” “How so?” “Yes. Albert wrote to request me to come to the Opera, doubtless that I might be a witness to the insult he meant to offer you.” “Probably,” said Monte Cristo with his imperturbable tranquillity. “But what shall you do with him?” “With whom?” “With Albert.” “What shall I do with Albert? As certainly, Maximilian, as I now press your hand, I shall kill him before ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” Morrel, in his turn, took Monte Cristo’s hand in both of his, and he shuddered to feel how cold and steady it was. “Ah, count,” said he, “his father loves him so much!” “Do not speak to me of that,” said Monte Cristo, with the first movement of anger he had betrayed; “I will make him suffer.” Morrel, amazed, let fall Monte Cristo’s hand. “Count, count!” said he. “Dear Maximilian,” interrupted the count, “listen how adorably Duprez is singing that line,— ‘O Mathilde! idole de mon âme!’ “I was the first to discover Duprez at Naples, and the first to applaud him. Bravo, bravo!” Morrel saw it was useless to say more, and refrained. The curtain, which had risen at the close of the scene with Albert, again fell, and a rap was heard at the door. “Come in,” said Monte Cristo with a voice that betrayed not the least emotion; and immediately Beauchamp appeared. “Good-evening, M. Beauchamp,” said Monte Cristo, as if this was the first time he had seen the journalist that evening; “be seated.” Beauchamp bowed, and, sitting down, “Sir,” said he, “I just now accompanied M. de Morcerf, as you saw.” “And that means,” replied Monte Cristo, laughing, “that you had, probably, just dined together. I am happy to see, M. Beauchamp, that you are more sober than he was.” “Sir,” said M. Beauchamp, “Albert was wrong, I acknowledge, to betray so much anger, and I come, on my own account, to apologize for him. And having done so, entirely on my own account, be it understood, I would add that I believe you too gentlemanly to refuse giving him some explanation concerning your connection with Yanina. Then I will add two words about the young Greek girl.” Monte Cristo motioned him to be silent. “Come,” said he, laughing, “there are all my hopes about to be destroyed.” “How so?” asked Beauchamp. “Doubtless you wish to make me appear a very eccentric character. I am, in your opinion, a Lara, a Manfred, a Lord Ruthven; then, just as I am arriving at the climax, you defeat your own end, and seek to make an ordinary man of me. You bring me down to your own level, and demand explanations! Indeed, M. Beauchamp, it is quite laughable.” “Yet,” replied Beauchamp haughtily, “there are occasions when probity commands——” “M. Beauchamp,” interposed this strange man, “the Count of Monte Cristo bows to none but the Count of Monte Cristo himself. Say no more, I entreat you. I do what I please, M. Beauchamp, and it is always well done.” “Sir,” replied the young man, “honest men are not to be paid with such coin. I require honorable guaranties.” “I am, sir, a living guaranty,” replied Monte Cristo, motionless, but with a threatening look; “we have both blood in our veins which we wish to shed—that is our mutual guaranty. Tell the viscount so, and that tomorrow, before ten o’clock, I shall see what color his is.” “Then I have only to make arrangements for the duel,” said Beauchamp. “It is quite immaterial to me,” said Monte Cristo, “and it was very unnecessary to disturb me at the Opera for such a trifle. In France people fight with the sword or pistol, in the colonies with the carbine, in Arabia with the dagger. Tell your client that, although I am the insulted party, in order to carry out my eccentricity, I leave him the choice of arms, and will accept without discussion, without dispute, anything, even combat by drawing lots, which is always stupid, but with me different from other people, as I am sure to gain.” “Sure to gain!” repeated Beauchamp, looking with amazement at the count. “Certainly,” said Monte Cristo, slightly shrugging his shoulders; “otherwise I would not fight with M. de Morcerf. I shall kill him—I cannot help it. Only by a single line this evening at my house let me know the arms and the hour; I do not like to be kept waiting.” “Pistols, then, at eight o’clock, in the Bois de Vincennes,” said Beauchamp, quite disconcerted, not knowing if he was dealing with an arrogant braggadocio or a supernatural being. “Very well, sir,” said Monte Cristo. “Now all that is settled, do let me see the performance, and tell your friend Albert not to come any more this evening; he will hurt himself with all his ill-chosen barbarisms: let him go home and go to sleep.” Beauchamp left the box, perfectly amazed. “Now,” said Monte Cristo, turning towards Morrel, “I may depend upon you, may I not?” “Certainly,” said Morrel, “I am at your service, count; still——” “What?” “It is desirable I should know the real cause.” “That is to say, you would rather not?” “No.” “The young man himself is acting blindfolded, and knows not the true cause, which is known only to God and to me; but I give you my word, Morrel, that God, who does know it, will be on our side.” “Enough,” said Morrel; “who is your second witness?” “I know no one in Paris, Morrel, on whom I could confer that honor besides you and your brother Emmanuel. Do you think Emmanuel would oblige me?” “I will answer for him, count.” “Well? that is all I require. Tomorrow morning, at seven o’clock, you will be with me, will you not?” “We will.” “Hush, the curtain is rising. Listen! I never lose a note of this opera if I can avoid it; the music of _William Tell_ is so sweet.” Chapter 89. The Night Monte Cristo waited, according to his usual custom, until Duprez had sung his famous “_Suivez-moi!_” then he rose and went out. Morrel took leave of him at the door, renewing his promise to be with him the next morning at seven o’clock, and to bring Emmanuel. Then he stepped into his _coupé_, calm and smiling, and was at home in five minutes. No one who knew the count could mistake his expression when, on entering, he said: “Ali, bring me my pistols with the ivory cross.” Ali brought the box to his master, who examined the weapons with a solicitude very natural to a man who is about to intrust his life to a little powder and shot. These were pistols of an especial pattern, which Monte Cristo had had made for target practice in his own room. A cap was sufficient to drive out the bullet, and from the adjoining room no one would have suspected that the count was, as sportsmen would say, keeping his hand in. He was just taking one up and looking for the point to aim at on a little iron plate which served him as a target, when his study door opened, and Baptistin entered. Before he had spoken a word, the count saw in the next room a veiled woman, who had followed closely after Baptistin, and now, seeing the count with a pistol in his hand and swords on the table, rushed in. Baptistin looked at his master, who made a sign to him, and he went out, closing the door after him. “Who are you, madame?” said the count to the veiled woman. 40227m The stranger cast one look around her, to be certain that they were quite alone; then bending as if she would have knelt, and joining her hands, she said with an accent of despair: “Edmond, you will not kill my son!” The count retreated a step, uttered a slight exclamation, and let fall the pistol he held. “What name did you pronounce then, Madame de Morcerf?” said he. “Yours!” cried she, throwing back her veil,—“yours, which I alone, perhaps, have not forgotten. Edmond, it is not Madame de Morcerf who is come to you, it is Mercédès.” “Mercédès is dead, madame,” said Monte Cristo; “I know no one now of that name.” “Mercédès lives, sir, and she remembers, for she alone recognized you when she saw you, and even before she saw you, by your voice, Edmond,—by the simple sound of your voice; and from that moment she has followed your steps, watched you, feared you, and she needs not to inquire what hand has dealt the blow which now strikes M. de Morcerf.” “Fernand, do you mean?” replied Monte Cristo, with bitter irony; “since we are recalling names, let us remember them all.” Monte Cristo had pronounced the name of Fernand with such an expression of hatred that Mercédès felt a thrill of horror run through every vein. “You see, Edmond, I am not mistaken, and have cause to say, ‘Spare my son!’” “And who told you, madame, that I have any hostile intentions against your son?” “No one, in truth; but a mother has twofold sight. I guessed all; I followed him this evening to the Opera, and, concealed in a parquet box, have seen all.”