The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (10 page)

Proof of his guilt will be found when he is arrested, since the letter will be discovered either on his person, or at the house of his father, or in his cabin on board the
Pharaon
.

‘So there we have it,’ Danglars continued. ‘In this way your revenge would be consistent with common sense, because it could in no way be traced back to you and the matter would proceed of its own accord. You would merely have to fold the letter – as I am doing now – and write on it: “To the Crown Prosecutor”. That would settle it.’ And Danglars wrote the address with a simple stroke of the pen.

‘Yes, that would settle it,’ cried Caderousse, who had made one final effort to muster his wits and follow the reading of the letter, and understood instinctively all the misfortune that such a denunciation could bring. ‘Yes, that would settle it, except that it would be a vile act.’ And he reached over to take the letter.

‘Which is why,’ said Danglars, pushing it beyond the reach of his hand, ‘which is why what I am saying and doing is simply in jest; and I should be the first to be upset if anything were to happen to Dantès – dear Dantès! So, watch…’

He took the letter, crumpled it in his hands and threw it into a corner of the arbour.

‘That’s right,’ said Caderousse. ‘Dantès is my friend and I don’t want anyone to harm him.’

‘The devil take it! Whoever would think of doing him harm? Certainly not I or Fernand!’ said Danglars, getting up and looking at the young man, who had remained seated but who had his covetous eye fixed sideways on the accusing letter where it had fallen.

‘In that case,’ Caderousse went on, ‘bring us more wine: I want to drink to the health of Edmond and the lovely Mercédès.’

‘You have had enough to drink already, you tippler,’ said Danglars. ‘If you go on, you will have to sleep here, because you won’t be able to stand up.’

‘Me?’ said Caderousse, rising with the ridiculous movement of a drunken man. ‘Me! Not be able to stand up! I wager I could go up the belfry of Les Accoules, and without wavering.’

‘Well, if you wish,’ said Danglars. ‘I accept the wager, but for tomorrow. Today it is time to go home, so give me your arm and we’ll get started.’

‘Let’s go,’ said Caderousse, ‘but I don’t need your arm for it. Are you coming, Fernand? Come with us to Marseille.’

‘No,’ said Fernand. ‘I’m going back to Les Catalans.’

‘Don’t be silly. Come with us to Marseille. Come on.’

‘I have no business in Marseille and I don’t want to go there.’

‘What did you say? You don’t want to, my lad! Well, do as you wish. Everyone can do as he wishes. Come on, Danglars, and let this gentleman go back to the Catalans, since that’s what he wants.’

Danglars took advantage of Caderousse’s momentary amenability to drag him towards Marseille; but, to leave a shorter and easier way free for Fernand, instead of going back via the Quai de la Rive-Neuve, he went through the Porte Saint-Victor. Caderousse followed, swaying and gripping his arm.

When he had gone some twenty yards, Danglars turned around and saw Fernand grab the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. Then, running out of the arbour, the young man immediately went in the direction of Le Pillon.

‘There, now! What’s he up to?’ said Caderousse. ‘He lied to us. He said he was going to Les Catalans, and he’s headed into town. Hey, Fernand, my boy! You’re going the wrong way!’

‘It’s you who can’t see properly,’ said Danglars. ‘He has gone straight down the road to the Vieilles-Infirmeries.’

‘Has he?’ said Caderousse. ‘Well, now, I could have sworn that he turned to the right. Wine really is a deceiver.’

‘Come on, come on,’ Danglars muttered. ‘I think that the matter is properly under way now, and all we have to do is to let it take its course.’

The next day, the weather was fine. The sun rose, brilliant and clear, and its first purple rays glistened like rubies on the foamy crests of the waves.

The meal had been set out on the first floor of the same inn, La Réserve, with the terrace of which we are already acquainted. It was a large room, lit by five or six windows, above each of which (for some inexplicable reason) was inscribed the name of one of the great towns of France. A gallery – of wood, like the rest of the building – ran the whole length of the room under the windows.

Although the meal was due to begin only at noon, this gallery
was crowded with impatient onlookers from eleven o’clock in the morning. These were a few chosen sailors from the
Pharaon
and some soldiers who were Dantès’ friends. All of them were in their Sunday best, in honour of the engaged couple.

The rumour circulating among these expectant guests was that the owners of the
Pharaon
were to honour its first mate’s betrothal feast with their presence, but this would have been to do such a great honour to Dantès that no one yet dared believe it. However, Danglars, when he arrived with Caderousse, confirmed the news: he had seen M. Morrel himself, that morning, and M. Morrel had said that he would be dining at La Réserve.

Indeed, a moment later, M. Morrel made his entrance into the room and was saluted by the crew of the
Pharaon
with a unanimous burst of applause and shouts of ‘Hurrah!’ The owner’s presence was seen by them as confirmation of a rumour, already going about, that Dantès was to be appointed captain; and, since Dantès was much liked on board, the men took this way of thanking the owner because, for once, his choice was concordant with their wishes. Hardly had M. Morrel entered than Danglars and Caderousse were, by general agreement, dispatched to find the fiancé, with orders to advise him of the arrival of this important person whose appearance had caused such a stir, and to tell him to hurry.

Danglars and Caderousse set off at full speed, but had hardly gone any distance before they saw the little band approaching, just coming past the powder magazine. It was made up of four young women, friends of Mercédès and Catalans like her, who were accompanying the fiancée while Edmond gave her his arm. Next to her walked Old Dantès and behind them came Fernand, with his sour smile.

Neither Mercédès nor Edmond could see the smile on Fernand’s face. The poor children were so happy that they saw nothing except one another and the pure, clear sky that showered its blessing on them.

Danglars and Caderousse discharged their diplomatic mission, then exchanged a warm and energetic handshake with Edmond, and took up their places, Danglars next to Fernand and Caderousse beside Old Dantès, who was the general centre of attention.

The old man was wearing his fine coat of fluted taffeta, decorated with large-faceted steel buttons. His lanky but vigorous legs were clothed in a splendid pair of spotted stockings that cried out English
contraband. A mass of white and blue ribbons hung from his three-cornered hat. Finally, he was supported by a stick of twisted wood, bent at the top like a classical staff or
pedum
. He looked like one of those dandies who used to parade in 1796 in the newly re-opened gardens of the Luxembourg or the Tuileries.

As we said, Caderousse had slipped into step beside him – Caderousse, entirely reconciled with the Dantès by the prospect of a good meal, Caderousse whose mind retained some vague memory of what had happened the previous day, as one’s brain on waking in the morning may hold a shadow of the dream that it experienced in sleep.

As he came up to Fernand, Danglars searched deep into the disappointed lover’s soul. He was walking behind the engaged couple, entirely forgotten by Mercédès, who, with the childlike and endearing egoism of love, had eyes only for her Edmond. Fernand was pale, then his colour would heighten suddenly, only to give way again to a deepening pallor. From time to time he looked towards Marseille, and an involuntary nervous tremor would shake his limbs. He seemed to be expecting, or at least to anticipate the possibility of, some important event.

Dantès was dressed simply. Since he belonged to the merchant marine, his clothes were halfway between military uniform and civilian dress; in this habit, his evident good health, set off against the happiness and beauty of his fiancée, was perfect.

Mercédès was as lovely as one of those Greek women of Cyprus or Chios, with jet-black eyes and coral lips. She stepped out with the frankness and freedom of an Arlésienne or an Andalusian woman. A city girl might perhaps have tried to conceal her joy under a veil or at least beneath the velvet shade of her eyelids, but Mercédès smiled and looked at all those around her; and her look and her smile said as plainly as she could have in words: if you are my friends, rejoice with me, because I am truly happy!

As soon as the couple and those accompanying them were in sight of La Réserve, M. Morrel came down and set out to meet them, followed by the sailors and soldiers: he had stayed with them to renew the promise he had already made to Dantès himself, that he would succeed Captain Leclère. Seeing him approach, Edmond let go of his fiancée’s arm, which he placed under M. Morrel’s. Thus the shipowner and the young woman gave a lead by going first up the wooden stairs leading to the room where dinner was
served, and the staircase groaned for five minutes under the heavy feet of the guests.

‘Father,’ Mercédès said, stopping at the middle of the table, ‘you go on my right, I pray you; and on my left, I shall place the one who has been a brother to me.’ She spoke with such softness that it struck Fernand to the depth of his soul like a blow from a dagger. His lips paled and, under the tanned colouring of his masculine features, you could once more see the blood draining bit by bit as it flooded into his heart.

Meanwhile Dantès had done the same: on his right, he placed M. Morrel, and on his left Danglars. Then he signalled to everyone to sit down wherever they wished.

Already the guests were passing round the strong-smelling Arles sausage with its brown flesh, crayfish in their dazzling armour, pink-shelled clams, sea-urchins looking like chestnuts in their spiny cases, and
clovisses
, those shellfish that gourmets from the South claim are more than an adequate substitute for the oysters of northern waters; in short, all the delicate hors-d’oeuvres that are washed up by the waves on these sandy shores and to which grateful fishermen accord the general appellation of
fruits de mer
.

‘Why this silence?’ the old man exclaimed, sipping a glass of a wine as yellow as topaz, which Père Pamphile in person had just set down in front of Mercédès. ‘Who would imagine that there are thirty people here who ask nothing better than to be merry?’

‘Huh! A husband is not always merry,’ said Caderousse.

‘The fact is,’ Dantès said, ‘that I am too happy at this moment to be merry. If that’s what you mean, neighbour, you are right. Joy may sometimes produce strange effects and be as oppressive as sorrow.’

Danglars was watching Fernand, whose impressionable nature absorbed and reflected his every feeling.

‘Come now,’ he said. ‘Have you anything to fear? It seems to me, on the contrary, that everything is working out as you would wish.’

‘That is precisely what terrifies me,’ said Dantès. ‘I cannot think that man is meant to find happiness so easily! Happiness is like one of those palaces on an enchanted island, its gates guarded by dragons. One must fight to gain it; and, in truth, I do not know what I have done to deserve the good fortune of becoming Mercédès’ husband.’

‘Husband! Husband!’ Caderousse said, laughing. ‘Not yet, Captain.
Try behaving like her husband right now and you’ll see how she treats you.’

Mercédès blushed.

Fernand was shuffling on his chair, starting at the slightest noise and, from time to time, wiping large beads of sweat from his forehead, which seemed to have fallen there like the first drops of rain before a storm.

‘By heaven, neighbour,’ said Dantès, ‘you have no need to give me the lie for so little. It’s true, Mercédès is not yet my wife, but…’ (he took out his watch) ‘… in an hour and a half, she will be!’

There was a gasp of surprise from everyone, except Old Dantès, who exhibited his fine set of teeth in a broad laugh. Mercédès smiled and was no longer blushing. Fernand made a convulsive lunge towards the handle of his dagger.

‘In an hour!’ said Danglars, himself going pale. ‘How is that?’

‘Yes, friends,’ Dantès replied. ‘Thanks to an advance from Monsieur Morrel, the man to whom – after my father – I owe the most in the world, all our difficulties have been overcome. We have paid for the banns and at half-past two the Mayor of Marseille is expecting us at the Town Hall. Now, since it has just sounded a quarter past one, I think I am not much mistaken in saying that in one hour and thirty minutes Mercédès will be Madame Dantès.’

Fernand closed his eyes. A fiery cloud was burning behind their lids and he grasped the table to keep himself from fainting; but, despite his efforts to do so, he could not repress a deep groan that was drowned by laughter and the congratulations of the guests.

‘That’s the way to do it, no?’ Old Dantès said. ‘What would you say? Has he wasted any time? Disembarked yesterday morning, married today at three o’clock! Trust a sailor to get the job done without messing around.’

‘But,’ Danglars put in timidly, ‘what about the other formalities: the contract, the settlement?’

‘The contract!’ Dantès said with a laugh. ‘The contract is already made: Mercédès has nothing, and neither have I! We shall be married under a settlement of common estate, that’s all. It took little time to write out and won’t be expensive.’