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- Author: Alexandre Dumas
- Performer: 0140449264
Book online «The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas (books to read to improve english txt) 📖». Author Alexandre Dumas
“Yes.”
“Impossible!”
“Here is my passport; examine the visa—Geneva, Milan, Venice, Trieste, Delvino, Yanina. Will you believe the government of a republic, a kingdom, and an empire?” Albert cast his eyes on the passport, then raised them in astonishment to Beauchamp.
“You have been to Yanina?” said he.
“Albert, had you been a stranger, a foreigner, a simple lord, like that Englishman who came to demand satisfaction three or four months since, and whom I killed to get rid of, I should not have taken this trouble; but I thought this mark of consideration due to you. I took a week to go, another to return, four days of quarantine, and forty-eight hours to stay there; that makes three weeks. I returned last night, and here I am.”
“What circumlocution! How long you are before you tell me what I most wish to know?”
“Because, in truth, Albert——”
“You hesitate?”
“Yes,—I fear.”
“You fear to acknowledge that your correspondent has deceived you? Oh, no self-love, Beauchamp. Acknowledge it, Beauchamp; your courage cannot be doubted.”
“Not so,” murmured the journalist; “on the contrary——”
Albert turned frightfully pale; he endeavored to speak, but the words died on his lips.
“My friend,” said Beauchamp, in the most affectionate tone, “I should gladly make an apology; but, alas!——”
“But what?”
“The paragraph was correct, my friend.”
“What? That French officer——”
“Yes.”
“Fernand?”
“Yes.”
“The traitor who surrendered the castle of the man in whose service he was——”
“Pardon me, my friend, that man was your father!”
Albert advanced furiously towards Beauchamp, but the latter restrained him more by a mild look than by his extended hand.
“My friend,” said he, “here is a proof of it.”
Albert opened the paper, it was an attestation of four notable inhabitants of Yanina, proving that Colonel Fernand Mondego, in the service of Ali Tepelini, had surrendered the castle for two million crowns. The signatures were perfectly legal. Albert tottered and fell overpowered in a chair. It could no longer be doubted; the family name was fully given. After a moment’s mournful silence, his heart overflowed, and he gave way to a flood of tears. Beauchamp, who had watched with sincere pity the young man’s paroxysm of grief, approached him.
“Now, Albert,” said he, “you understand me—do you not? I wished to see all, and to judge of everything for myself, hoping the explanation would be in your father’s favor, and that I might do him justice. But, on the contrary, the particulars which are given prove that Fernand Mondego, raised by Ali Pasha to the rank of governor-general, is no other than Count Fernand of Morcerf; then, recollecting the honor you had done me, in admitting me to your friendship, I hastened to you.”
Albert, still extended on the chair, covered his face with both hands, as if to prevent the light from reaching him.
“I hastened to you,” continued Beauchamp, “to tell you, Albert, that in this changing age, the faults of a father cannot revert upon his children. Few have passed through this revolutionary period, in the midst of which we were born, without some stain of infamy or blood to soil the uniform of the soldier, or the gown of the magistrate. Now I have these proofs, Albert, and I am in your confidence, no human power can force me to a duel which your own conscience would reproach you with as criminal, but I come to offer you what you can no longer demand of me. Do you wish these proofs, these attestations, which I alone possess, to be destroyed? Do you wish this frightful secret to remain with us? Confided to me, it shall never escape my lips; say, Albert, my friend, do you wish it?”
Albert threw himself on Beauchamp’s neck.
“Ah, noble fellow!” cried he.
“Take these,” said Beauchamp, presenting the papers to Albert.
Albert seized them with a convulsive hand, tore them in pieces, and trembling lest the least vestige should escape and one day appear to confront him, he approached the wax-light, always kept burning for cigars, and burned every fragment.
“Dear, excellent friend,” murmured Albert, still burning the papers.
“Let all be forgotten as a sorrowful dream,” said Beauchamp; “let it vanish as the last sparks from the blackened paper, and disappear as the smoke from those silent ashes.”
“Yes, yes,” said Albert, “and may there remain only the eternal friendship which I promised to my deliverer, which shall be transmitted to our children’s children, and shall always remind me that I owe my life and the honor of my name to you,—for had this been known, oh, Beauchamp, I should have destroyed myself; or,—no, my poor mother! I could not have killed her by the same blow,—I should have fled from my country.”
“Dear Albert,” said Beauchamp. But this sudden and factitious joy soon forsook the young man, and was succeeded by a still greater grief.
“Well,” said Beauchamp, “what still oppresses you, my friend?”
“I am broken-hearted,” said Albert. “Listen, Beauchamp! I cannot thus, in a moment relinquish the respect, the confidence, and pride with which a father’s untarnished name inspires a son. Oh, Beauchamp, Beauchamp, how shall I now approach mine? Shall I draw back my forehead from his embrace, or withhold my hand from his? I am the most wretched of men. Ah, my mother, my poor mother!” said Albert, gazing through his tears at his mother’s portrait; “if you know this, how much must you suffer!”
“Come,” said Beauchamp, taking both his hands, “take courage, my friend.”
“But how came that first note to be inserted in your journal? Some unknown enemy—an invisible foe—has done this.”
“The more must you fortify yourself, Albert. Let no trace of emotion be visible on your countenance, bear your grief as the cloud bears within it ruin and death—a fatal secret, known only when the storm bursts. Go, my friend, reserve your strength for the moment when the crash shall come.”
“You think, then, all is not over yet?” said Albert, horror-stricken.
“I think nothing, my friend; but all things are possible. By the way——”
“What?” said Albert, seeing that Beauchamp hesitated.
“Are you going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?”
“Why do you ask me now?”
“Because the rupture or fulfilment of this engagement is connected with the person of whom we were speaking.”
“How?” said Albert, whose brow reddened; “you think M. Danglars——”
“I ask you only how your engagement stands? Pray put no construction on my words I do not mean they should convey, and give them no undue weight.”
“No.” said Albert, “the engagement is broken off.”
“Well,” said Beauchamp. Then, seeing the young man was about to relapse into melancholy, “Let us go out, Albert,” said he; “a ride in the wood in the phaeton, or on horseback, will refresh you; we will then return to breakfast, and you shall attend to your affairs, and I to mine.”
“Willingly,” said Albert; “but let us walk. I think a little exertion would do me good.”
The two friends walked out on the fortress. When they arrived at the Madeleine:
“Since we are out,” said Beauchamp, “let us call on M. de Monte Cristo; he is admirably adapted to revive one’s spirits, because he never interrogates, and in my opinion those who ask no questions are the best comforters.”
“Gladly,” said Albert; “let us call—I love him.”
Chapter 85. The Journey
Monte Cristo uttered a joyful exclamation on seeing the young men together. “Ah, ha!” said he, “I hope all is over, explained and settled.”
“Yes,” said Beauchamp; “the absurd reports have died away, and should they be renewed, I would be the first to oppose them; so let us speak no more of it.”
“Albert will tell you,” replied the count “that I gave him the same advice. Look,” added he. “I am finishing the most execrable morning’s work.”
“What is it?” said Albert; “arranging your papers, apparently.”
“My papers, thank God, no,—my papers are all in capital order, because I have none; but M. Cavalcanti’s.”
“M. Cavalcanti’s?” asked Beauchamp.
“Yes; do you not know that this is a young man whom the count is introducing?” said Morcerf.
“Let us not misunderstand each other,” replied Monte Cristo; “I introduce no one, and certainly not M. Cavalcanti.”
“And who,” said Albert with a forced smile, “is to marry Mademoiselle Danglars instead of me, which grieves me cruelly.”
“What? Cavalcanti is going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?” asked Beauchamp.
“Certainly! do you come from the end of the world?” said Monte Cristo; “you, a journalist, the husband of renown? It is the talk of all Paris.”
“And you, count, have made this match?” asked Beauchamp.
“I? Silence, purveyor of gossip, do not spread that report. I make a match? No, you do not know me; I have done all in my power to oppose it.”
“Ah, I understand,” said Beauchamp, “on our friend Albert’s account.”
“On my account?” said the young man; “oh, no, indeed, the count will do me the justice to assert that I have, on the contrary, always entreated him to break off my engagement, and happily it is ended. The count pretends I have not him to thank;—so be it—I will erect an altar Deo ignoto.”
“Listen,” said Monte Cristo; “I have had little to do with it, for I am at variance both with the father-in-law and the young man; there is only Mademoiselle Eugénie, who appears but little charmed with the thoughts of matrimony, and who, seeing how little I was disposed to persuade her to renounce her dear liberty, retains any affection for me.”
“And do you say this wedding is at hand?”
“Oh, yes, in spite of all I could say. I do not know the young man; he is said to be of good family and rich, but I never trust to vague assertions. I have warned M. Danglars of it till I am tired, but he is fascinated with his Luccanese. I have even informed him of a circumstance I consider very serious; the young man was either charmed by his nurse, stolen by gypsies, or lost by his tutor, I scarcely know which. But I do know his father lost sight of him for more than ten years; what he did during these ten years, God only knows. Well, all that was useless. They have commissioned me to write to the major to demand papers, and here they are. I send them, but like Pilate—washing my hands.”
“And what does Mademoiselle d’Armilly say to you for robbing her of her pupil?”
“Oh, well, I don’t know; but I understand that she is going to Italy. Madame Danglars asked me for letters of recommendation for the impresari; I gave her a few lines for the director of the Valle Theatre, who is under some obligation to me. But what is the matter, Albert? you look dull; are you, after all, unconsciously in love with Mademoiselle Eugénie?”
“I am not aware of it,” said Albert, smiling sorrowfully. Beauchamp turned to look at some paintings.
“But,” continued Monte Cristo, “you are not in your usual spirits?”
“I have a dreadful headache,” said Albert.
“Well, my dear viscount,” said Monte Cristo, “I have an infallible remedy to propose to you.”
“What is that?” asked the young man.
“A change.”
“Indeed?” said Albert.
“Yes; and as I am just now excessively annoyed, I shall go from home. Shall we go together?”
“You annoyed, count?” said Beauchamp; “and by what?”
“Ah, you think very lightly of it; I should like to see you with a brief preparing in your house.”
“What brief?”
“The one M. de Villefort is preparing against my amiable assassin—some brigand escaped from the gallows apparently.”
“True,” said Beauchamp; “I saw it in the paper. Who is this Caderousse?”
“Some Provençal, it appears. M. de Villefort heard of him at Marseilles, and M. Danglars recollects having seen him. Consequently, the procureur is very active in the affair, and the prefect of police very much interested; and, thanks to that interest, for which I am very grateful, they send me all the robbers of Paris and the neighborhood, under pretence of their being Caderousse’s murderers, so that in three months, if this
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