The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (157 page)

‘Albert,’ Beauchamp said with an expression of grief that astonished the young man, ‘let’s first sit down and talk.’

‘Come, Monsieur: it seems to me that, before we sit down together, you must answer me.’

‘There are occasions,’ the journalist said, ‘when the difficulty lies in the answer itself.’

‘Let me make it easier for you then, by repeating my question: do you retract – yes or no?’

‘Morcerf, one cannot answer yes or no to a question that touches on the honour, the social standing and the life of a man like Lieutenant-General the Comte de Morcerf, peer of the realm.’

‘So what can one do?’

‘One can do what I did, Albert, which is to say: money, time and effort are nothing when it is a matter of the reputation and interests of an entire family. One says: more than probability is needed, we must have certainty if we are to accept a duel to the death with a friend. One says: if I cross swords or pull the trigger against a man whose hand I have shaken over the past three years, I must at least know why I am doing such a thing, so that I may arrive at the appointed place with my mind at rest and the easy conscience which a man needs when he must use his arm to save his life.’

‘Very well, then,’ Morcerf asked impatiently, ‘what does all this mean?’

‘It means that I have just come back from Janina.’

‘From Janina? You!’

‘Yes, I.’

‘Impossible!’

‘My dear Albert, here is my passport. Look at the visas: Geneva, Milan, Venice, Trieste, Delvino, Janina. Do you believe the authorities of a republic, a kingdom and an empire?’

Albert looked at the passport, then again, with astonishment, at Beauchamp. ‘You went to Janina?’ he said.

‘Albert, if you had been a foreigner, a stranger, or a mere lord like that Englishman who came to challenge me three or four months ago, and whom I killed to stop him bothering me, you will realize that I would not have taken such trouble. But I thought I owed you this mark of my consideration. I spent a week on the outward journey, a week on the return, plus four days in quarantine and forty-eight hours when I arrived: that adds up to my three weeks. I got back last night, and here I am.’

‘My God! My God, what a roundabout story, Beauchamp, and still you won’t tell me what I am waiting to hear.’

‘The truth is, Albert…’

‘You seem reluctant.’

‘Yes, I’m afraid.’

‘Afraid of admitting that your correspondent deceived you? Now, now, Beauchamp, don’t be proud! Admit it: no one can doubt your courage.’

‘Oh, it’s not that,’ the journalist muttered. ‘On the contrary…’

Albert went deathly pale. He tried to speak but the words failed on his lips.

‘My friend,’ Beauchamp said, in the most affectionate tone, ‘believe me, I should be delighted if I could apologize to you, and I should do so with all my heart; but alas…’

‘But what?’

‘The report was correct, my friend.’

‘What! The French officer…’

‘Yes.’

‘This Fernand?’

‘Yes.’

‘The traitor who delivered the castles of the man in whose service he was…’

‘Forgive me for saying this, my friend: that man was your father!’

Albert leapt up furiously to throw himself on Beauchamp, but he was restrained more by the other’s compassionate look than by his outstretched hand.

‘Here,’ he said, taking a sheet of paper out of his pocket. ‘My dear friend, here is the proof of it.’

Albert unfolded the sheet of paper. It was a sworn statement by four leading inhabitants of Janina, confirming that Colonel Fernand Mondego, army instructor in the service of the Vizier Ali Tebelin, had betrayed the castle of Janina for a payment of two thousand purses.

The signatures had been validated by the consul.

Albert staggered and fell, dumbstruck, into a chair. This time there could be no doubt: the family name was there. And, after a moment of painful silence, his heart swelled, the veins bulged on his neck and a stream of tears burst from his eyes.

Beauchamp, who had looked with the utmost compassion on the young man as he gave way to his grief, came over to him and said: ‘Do you understand, now, Albert? I wanted to see everything and to judge everything for myself, in the hope that the explanation would be favourable to your father and that I could do full justice to him. But on the contrary the information that I obtained stated that the instructing officer, Fernand Mondego, promoted by Ali Pasha to the rank of governor-general, was none other than Count Fernand de Morcerf. So I returned, reminding myself of the honour you had done in admitting me to your friendship, and I hastened round to see you.’

Albert, still stretched out in the chair, was covering both eyes with his hands, as if to prevent the daylight reaching him.

‘I hastened round to see you,’ Beauchamp continued, ‘to say this to you: Albert, the sins of our fathers, in these times of action and reaction, cannot be visited on their children. Albert, few men have gone through the revolutions in which we were born, without some spot of mire or of blood staining their soldier’s uniform or their judge’s robe. No one in the world, Albert, now that I have all the proof, now that I am the master of your secret, can force me to engage in a combat that your conscience, I am sure, would tell you was a crime. But I have come to offer you what you no longer have the right to demand of me. This proof, these revelations, these statements that I alone possess – would you like me to make them disappear? Would you like this terrible secret to remain between the two of us? Protected by my word of honour, it will never cross my lips. Tell me, Albert: would you like that? Is that what you want, my friend?’

Albert fell on Beauchamp’s neck. ‘Oh, noble heart,’ he cried.

‘Here, then,’ said Beauchamp, handing the papers to him. Albert seized them convulsively, crumpled them, twisted them and considered tearing them up; but, fearing that the smallest scrap might be blown away in the wind and come back to haunt him one day, he went across to the candle which he kept burning continually to light cigars, and let the flames devour them to the last fragment.

‘Dear friend, best of friends!’ he muttered, as he burned the papers.

‘Let all this be forgotten like a bad dream,’ Beauchamp said. ‘Let it vanish like those last sparks flickering on the blackened paper, and let all fade like that wisp of smoke drifting away from those silent ashes.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Albert. ‘Let nothing remain except the eternal friendship that I owe to my saviour, a friendship that my children will transfer to yours, a friendship that will always remind me that I owe you the blood in my veins, the life in my body and the honour of my name… For, if such a thing were to be known, oh, Beauchamp! I am telling you, I would blow my brains out. Or else, no, my poor mother! I should not wish to kill her at the same time – otherwise, I should go abroad.’

‘My dear Albert!’ Beauchamp said.

But the young man’s unexpected and somewhat artificial joy was short-lived, and he soon relapsed into an even deeper melancholy.

‘What is it, dear friend?’ Beauchamp asked. ‘What is it?’

‘What it is,’ Albert said, ‘is that something is broken in my heart. You must understand, Beauchamp, that one cannot in an instant abandon that feeling of respect, of confidence and pride, that a father’s spotless name inspires in his son. Oh, Beauchamp! How shall I face him? Shall I shrink back when he puts his lips to my forehead or withdraw my hand from his touch? Beauchamp, I am the most wretched of men. Oh, my mother, my poor mother!’ he said, looking through tear-filled eyes at her portrait. ‘How you would have suffered, had you witnessed all this!’

‘Come, come,’ Beauchamp said, clasping him by both hands. ‘Take heart.’

‘But that first note that you printed in your paper: where did it come from?’ Albert exclaimed. ‘There is some secret hatred, some invisible enemy behind all this.’

‘All the more reason, then,’ said Beauchamp. ‘Courage, Albert! Let nothing show on your face. Carry your sorrow inside you as the cloud conceals ruin and death like a deadly secret that is understood only when the storm breaks. Come, my friend, gather strength for the moment when the storm will break.’

‘What! You don’t think it’s over yet?’ Albert said in horror.

‘I don’t think anything, but everything is possible. By the way…’

‘What?’ Albert asked, seeing Beauchamp hesitate.

‘Are you still going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?’

‘What makes you ask that now, Beauchamp?’

‘Because, to my mind, the match may depend on the question that is uppermost in our thoughts just now.’

‘What!’ Albert exclaimed, reddening. ‘Do you think Monsieur Danglars…’

‘I’m merely asking how your marriage plans stand. For heaven’s sake, don’t try to read anything more into my words than I intend, and don’t give them more significance than they actually have!’

‘No,’ Albert said. ‘The engagement has been broken off.’

‘Good,’ said Beauchamp. Then, seeing that his friend was about to relapse into melancholy, he said: ‘Come on, Albert, take my advice and let’s go out. A ride round the Bois in a phaeton or on horseback will take your mind off things. Then we’ll come back and have lunch somewhere, you can go off to your business and I’ll go back to mine.’

‘Good idea,’ said Albert. ‘But let’s walk. I think it would do me good to tire myself out a little.’

‘Certainly,’ said Beauchamp; and the two friends set out, on foot, down the boulevard. When they got to the Madeleine, Beauchamp said: ‘Why, since we’re going in this direction, let’s go and see the Count of Monte Cristo. He’ll take your mind off things. He’s a wonderful person for raising one’s spirits, because he never asks questions: in my opinion, people who don’t ask too many questions give the best consolation.’

‘Yes,’ said Albert, ‘let’s go and see the count. I like him.’

Monte Cristo gave a cry of joy on seeing the two young men together. ‘Ah, ah!’ he said. ‘Well, now, I hope that it’s all over, cleared up and settled?’

‘Yes,’ said Beauchamp. ‘Some ridiculous rumours which came from nowhere and which, if they were to be repeated now, I should be the first to challenge. So, let’s say no more about it.’

‘Albert will tell you that that was my advice to him,’ said the count, before adding: ‘Now, as it happens, you find me after what I think is the most detestable morning I’ve ever spent.’

‘What are you doing?’ Albert asked. ‘Arranging your papers, apparently?’

‘My papers! Thank heavens, no! My papers are always perfectly arranged, since I have none. I’m putting some order into the papers of Monsieur Cavalcanti.’

‘Monsieur Cavalcanti?’ Beauchamp asked.

‘Yes, don’t you know?’ said Morcerf. ‘He’s a young man the count is launching.’

‘Not at all,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Let’s be quite clear about it, I’m not launching anyone, least of all Monsieur Cavalcanti.’

‘And he’s going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars in my stead and place – which,’ Albert continued, forcing a smile, ‘as you can well imagine, my dear Beauchamp, is a cruel blow to me.’

‘What! Cavalcanti to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?’ Beauchamp asked.

‘What do I hear?’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Have you been away in the back of beyond? And you a journalist, the bedfellow of Rumour? Parisian society is talking of nothing else.’

‘Were you responsible for this marriage, Count?’ Beauchamp asked.

‘I? Hush, scribbler, don’t even whisper such a thing! I go a-match-making? Never! You don’t know me. On the contrary, I opposed it as strongly as I could; I refused to make the formal request.’

‘Oh, I understand,’ said Beauchamp. ‘For the sake of our friend Albert, here?’

‘For my sake!’ said the young man. ‘Oh, no, not a bit of it! The
count will support me when I say that I always begged him, on the contrary, to break off the engagement, which has now fortunately been broken off. The count claims that he is not the person I should thank, so, like the ancient Romans, I’ll raise an altar “To the Unknown God”.’

‘Listen,’ said Monte Cristo, ‘so little is this to do with me that I have fallen out both with the father-in-law and with the young man. The only one still to hold me in some affection, when she saw the extent to which I was disinclined to make her renounce her precious liberty, is Mademoiselle Eugénie, who doesn’t appear to me to have a marked vocation for the married state.’

‘And you say this marriage is about to take place?’

‘Yes, in spite of everything I could say. I don’t know the young man myself, though they say he is rich and comes from a good family; but that’s just hearsay as far as I’m concerned. I repeated all this, time and again, to Monsieur Danglars but he is besotted with his Luccan. I even told him about what seems to me a more serious fact, namely that the young man was kidnapped, carried off by gypsies or mislaid by his tutor, I’m not sure which. What I do know is that his father lost sight of him for ten years, and God only knows what he did during that time. Well, none of that made any difference. I have been asked to write to the major, to request some papers from him: here they are. I’m sending them on, but at the same time, like Pilate, I wash my hands of it.’