The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (6 page)

Dantès smiled.

‘My father is a proud man, Monsieur, and even if he were short of everything, I doubt if he would have asked for help from anyone in the world, except God.’

‘Now, when you have done that, we can count on your company.’

‘I must beg you once more to excuse me, Monsieur Morrel, but after that first visit, there is another that is no less important to me.’

‘Ah, Dantès, that’s true; I was forgetting that there is someone in Les Catalans who must be expecting you with no less impatience than your father – the lovely Mercédès.’

Dantès smiled.

‘Ah, ha,’ said the owner, ‘now I understand why she came three times to ask me for news of the
Pharaon
. Dash it, Edmond! You’re a lucky fellow, to have such a pretty mistress.’

‘She is not my mistress, Monsieur,’ the young sailor said gravely. ‘She is my fiancée.’

‘It sometimes amounts to the same thing,’ the owner said, with a chuckle.

‘Not for us, Monsieur,’ Dantès replied.

‘Come, come, my dear Edmond,’ the other continued. ‘Don’t let me detain you. You have looked after my business well enough for me to give you every opportunity to look after your own. Do you need any money?’

‘No, Monsieur, I have all my salary from the trip – that is, nearly three months’ pay.’

‘You manage your affairs well, my boy.’

‘You might add that my father is a poor man, Monsieur Morrel.’

‘Yes, indeed, I know you are a good son to him. So: go and see your father. I, too, have a son and I should bear a grudge against the man who kept him away from me, after a three-month voyage.’

‘May I take my leave, then?’ the young man said, with a bow.

‘Yes, if you have nothing more to say to me.’

‘No.’

‘When Captain Leclère was dying, he did not give you a letter for me?’

‘It would have been impossible for him to write one, Monsieur. But that reminds me: I wanted to ask you for a fortnight’s leave.’

‘To get married?’

‘Firstly, then to go to Paris.’

‘Very well! Have as much time as you want, Dantès. It will take us a good six weeks to unload the vessel and we shall hardly be ready to put to sea again within three months… In three months’ time, however, you must be there. The
Pharaon
,’ the shipowner continued, putting a hand across the young sailor’s shoulders, ‘cannot set sail without its captain.’

‘Without its captain!’ Dantès cried, his eyes lighting up with joy. ‘Be very careful what you are saying, Monsieur, because you have just touched on the most secret of my heart’s desires. Can it be that you intend to appoint me captain of the
Pharaon
?’

‘If it was up to me alone, I should grasp your hand, my dear Dantès, and say to you: “the matter is settled!” But I have a partner, and you know the Italian proverb:
chi ha compagno, ha padrone
.
⁴
But, at least, we are half-way there, since you already have one of the two votes you need. Leave it to me to get you the other, and I shall do my best.’

‘Oh, Monsieur Morrel!’ the young sailor cried, with tears in his eyes, grasping the shipowner’s hands. ‘Monsieur Morrel, I thank you, on behalf of my father and of Mercédès.’

‘Fine, Edmond, fine! There is a God in heaven who looks after honest folk. Go and see your father, go and see Mercédès, then when that’s done, come and see me.’

‘But don’t you want me to accompany you back to land?’

‘No, thank you. I shall stay here to settle my accounts with Danglars. Were you happy with him during the voyage?’

‘It depends on what you understand by that question, Monsieur. If you mean, as a good companion, no, because I think that he has not liked me since the day when I had the folly, after a trifling dispute between us, to suggest that we should stop for ten minutes on the isle of Monte Cristo to settle the matter. It was wrong of me to propose that, and he was right to refuse. If you are asking me
about him as a supercargo, I think there is nothing to say, and that you will be satisfied with the manner in which his duties have been carried out.’

‘Come now, Dantès,’ the shipowner asked, ‘if you were captain of the
Pharaon
, would you be pleased to keep Danglars?’

‘Whether as captain or as first mate, Monsieur Morrel,’ Dantès replied, ‘I shall always have the highest regard for those who enjoy the confidence of my owners.’

‘Well, well, Dantès, you are clearly a fine lad, in every respect. Let me detain you no longer, for I can see that you are on tenterhooks.’

‘I may take my leave?’ asked Dantès.

‘Go on, I’m telling you.’

‘Will you permit me to use your boat?’

‘Take it.’

‘Au revoir, Monsieur Morrel, and thank you a thousand times.’

‘Au revoir, dear Edmond, and good luck!’

The young sailor leapt into the boat, seated himself in the stern and gave the order to row across to the Canebière. Two sailors immediately bent over their oars and the vessel proceeded as fast as it could, among the thousand small boats that obstruct the sort of narrow alleyway leading, between two lines of ships, from the harbour entrance to the Quai d’Orléans.

The shipowner looked after him, smiling, until the boat touched land and he saw him leap on to the cobbled quay, where he was instantly lost in the variegated crowd that, from five in the morning until nine in the evening, throngs the famous street known as La Canebière: the modern inhabitants of this old Phocean colony are so proud of it that they proclaim, with all the seriousness in the world, in that accent which gives such savour to everything they say: ‘If Paris had the Canebière, Paris would be a little Marseille.’

Turning, the shipowner saw Danglars standing behind him, apparently awaiting orders but in reality, like him, watching the young sailor’s departure. Yet there were very different expressions in these two pairs of eyes following the one man.

We shall leave Danglars, gripped by the demon of hatred, trying to poison the shipowner’s ear with some malicious libel against his comrade, and follow Dantès who, after walking along the Canebière, took the Rue de Noailles, entered a small house on the left side of the Allées de Meilhan and hastened up the four flights of a dark stairway. There, holding the banister with one hand, while the other repressed the beating of his heart, he stopped before a half-open door through which he could see to the back of a small room.

In this room lived Dantès’ father.

News of the arrival of the
Pharaon
had not yet reached the old man who was standing on a chair, engaged with trembling hands in pinning up some nasturtiums and clematis that climbed across the trellis outside his window. Suddenly, he felt himself grasped around the waist and a well-known voice exclaim behind him: ‘Father! My dear father!’

The old man cried out and turned around; then, seeing his son, fell into his arms, pale and trembling.

‘What is it, father?’ the young man exclaimed, with concern. ‘Are you unwell?’

‘No, no, dear Edmond, my son, my child. No, but I was not expecting you – and the joy, the shock of seeing you like this, unexpectedly… Oh, heavens! It is too much for me!’

‘Now, then, father, calm yourself! I am really here! They always say that joy cannot harm you, which is why I came in without warning. Come now, smile; don’t look at me like that, with those wild eyes. I am back and there is happiness in store for us.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it, my boy,’ the old man continued. ‘But what happiness? Are you going to stay with me from now on? Come, tell me about your good fortune!’

‘God forgive me,’ the young man said, ‘for rejoicing at good fortune which has brought grief to the family of another. But, God knows, I never wished for it; it has happened, and I do not have the heart to grieve at it. Our good Captain Leclère is dead, father, and it seems likely that, thanks to Monsieur Morrel’s support, I shall have his command. Do you understand, father? A captain at
twenty! With a salary of a hundred
louis
¹
and a share in the profits! Isn’t that better than a poor sailor like myself could expect?’

‘Yes, my son, yes,’ said the old man. ‘This is indeed a stroke of luck.’

‘So I want you to have a little house, with the first money I earn, and a garden to grow your clematis, your nasturtiums and your honeysuckle… But what’s wrong, father? You look ill!’

‘An instant, don’t worry! It is nothing.’ And, his strength failing him, he leant back.

‘Father!’ cried the young man. ‘Come, have a glass of wine; it will revive you. Where do you keep your wine?’

‘No, thank you, don’t bother to look for it; there is no need,’ he replied, trying to restrain his son.

‘Yes, indeed there is, father. Show me it.’ He opened one or two cupboards.

‘It’s a waste of time…’ the old man said. ‘There is no wine left.’

‘What! No wine!’ Dantès said, paling in turn as he looked from the old man’s sunken and livid cheeks to the empty cupboards. ‘What! You have no wine left? Have you been short of money, father?’

‘I am short of nothing, now that you are here,’ said the old man.

‘But I left you two hundred francs,’ Dantès stammered, wiping the sweat from his brow, ‘two months ago, as I was leaving.’

‘Yes, yes, Edmond, so you did; but when you left you forgot a small debt to my neighbour Caderousse. He reminded me of it and said that if I did not settle it on your behalf, he would go and reclaim it from Monsieur Morrel. So, you understand, I was afraid that it might do you some harm.’

‘And?’

‘And I paid it.’

‘But,’ Dantès exclaimed, ‘I owed Caderousse a hundred and forty francs!’

‘Yes,’ the old man mumbled.

‘And you paid them out of the two hundred francs that I left you?’

His father nodded.

‘Which means that you lived for three months on sixty francs!’ the young man exclaimed.

‘You know how small my needs are.’

‘Oh, heaven, heaven, forgive me!’ Edmond cried, falling on his knees in front of the old man.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Ah! You have broken my heart!’

‘Pah! You are here,’ the old man said, with a smile. ‘All is forgotten, because all is well.’

‘Yes, here I am,’ said the young man. ‘Here I am with a fine future and a little money. Here, father,’ he said, ‘take it, take it and send out for something immediately.’

He emptied the contents of his pockets on the table: a dozen gold coins, five or six five-franc pieces and some small change.

Old Dantès’ face lit up.

‘Whose is that?’ he asked.

‘Mine! Thine! Ours, of course! Take it, buy some food and enjoy yourself. There will be more tomorrow.’

‘Gently, gently,’ the old man said, smiling. ‘If you don’t mind, I shall go easy on your money: if people see me buying too many things at once, they will think that I had to wait for you to come back before I went shopping.’

‘Do as you think best, but first of all, father, get yourself a housemaid: I don’t want you to live on your own from now on. I have some contraband coffee and some excellent tobacco in a little chest in the hold. You will have it tomorrow. But, hush! Someone is coming.’

‘That will be Caderousse, who has learned of your arrival and is no doubt coming to welcome you back.’

‘There’s a fellow who says one thing and thinks another,’ Edmond muttered. ‘No matter. He is a neighbour who has helped us in the past, so let him come in.’

Just as Edmond finished saying this under his breath, the black, bearded head of Caderousse appeared on the landing, framed in the outer door. A man of twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, he was holding a piece of cloth which, being a tailor, he was about to fashion into the lining of a jacket.

‘You’re back again, then, Edmond?’ he said, with a thick Marseille accent and a broad smile, revealing teeth as white as ivory.

‘As you can see, neighbour, and entirely at your service,’ Dantès replied, this polite formula barely disguising his coldness towards the man.

‘Thank you, thank you. Fortunately, I need nothing; in fact, it is sometimes others who need me.’ Dantès bridled. ‘I am not saying that for you, my boy. I lent you money and you returned it. That’s how things are done between good neighbours, and we’re quits.’

‘We are never quits towards those who have done us a favour,’ said Dantès. ‘Even when one ceases to owe them money, one owes them gratitude.’

‘There is no sense in speaking of that: what’s past is past. Let’s talk about your happy return, young man. I just happened to go down to the harbour to fetch some brown cloth, when I met our friend Danglars. “You’re in Marseille?” I exclaimed. “Yes, as you see.” “I thought you were in Smyrna.” “It could well be, because I have just come back from there.” “And where is young Edmond, then?” “At his father’s, I suppose,” Danglars told me. So I came at once,’ Caderousse concluded, ‘to have the pleasure of shaking the hand of a friend.’

‘Dear Caderousse,’ the old man said. ‘He is so fond of us.’