The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (64 page)

One of the two men had certainly been a stranger to him, and this had been the first time he had seen or heard him; but the same was not true of the other. And, though Franz had not been able to make out the man’s face, which was constantly wrapped either in darkness or in his cloak, the sound of that voice had struck him too forcibly the first time he heard it for him ever to hear it again without recognizing it. There was, above all, something strident and metallic in those mocking tones which had made him tremble in the ruins of the Colosseum as before in the caves of Monte Cristo. He was utterly convinced that the man was none other than Sinbad the Sailor.

The curiosity that the man had inspired in him was so great that in any other circumstances he would have made himself known to him; but on this occasion the conversation he had just heard was too personal for him not to be constrained by the very reasonable fear that his appearance would not be welcome. So he had let him depart, as we saw, though promising himself that, if they met again, he would not let another opportunity escape as he had this one.

Franz was too preoccupied to sleep well. He spent the night going over and over in his mind everything he knew about the man in the caves and the stranger in the Colosseum and which would support
the idea that they were one and the same. And the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was.

He did not fall asleep until daybreak, which meant that he woke up very late. Albert, like a true Parisian, had already made his plans for the evening. He had sent someone to book a box at the Teatro Argentina. As Franz had several letters to write home, he abandoned the carriage to Albert for the whole day.

At five o’clock, Albert returned. He had taken round his letters of introduction, had received invitations for every evening of his stay and had seen Rome. A day had been enough for him to do all this, and he had still had time to find out what opera was being performed and with which actors.

The piece was called
Parisina
²
and the actors were named Coselli, Moriani and La Spech. As you can see, our two young men were not especially hard done by: they were going to attend a performance of one of the best operas by the author of
Lucia di Lammermoor
, performed by three of the most renowned artists in Italy.

Albert had never been able to get used to these Italian theatres – to the orchestra pit where you could not walk around and to the absence of balconies or open boxes. All this was hard for a man who had his own stall in the Opéra-Bouffe and a share in the omnibus box at the Opéra; but it did not prevent Albert from dressing up outrageously every time he went to the opera with Franz – a wasted effort; for, it must be admitted to the shame of one of the most deserving representatives of French fashion, in the four months during which he had travelled the length and breadth of Italy, Albert had not had a single romantic adventure.

He sometimes tried to joke about this, but underneath he was deeply mortified. He, Albert de Morcerf, one of the most eligible of young men, was still idly kicking his heels. It was all the more painful since, with the usual modesty of our dear compatriots, Albert had left Paris convinced that he would score the most astonishing triumphs in Italy and, on his return, delight the whole Boulevard de Gand with the story of his successes.

Alas, it had not been so. The charming Genovese, Florentine and Neapolitan countesses had chosen to stick, not with their husbands, but with their lovers, and Albert had come to the painful conclusion that Italian women at least have this over their French sisters – that they are faithful in their infidelity.

By which I do not mean that in Italy, as everywhere, there may not be exceptions.

Yet Albert was not only a most elegant young bachelor, but also a man of considerable wit. Moreover, he was a viscount – of the new nobility, admittedly; but nowadays, when one no longer has to prove one’s title, what does it matter if it dates from 1399 or from 1815? Added to all this, he had an income of fifty thousand
livres
: this is more than one needs, as we can see, to be fashionable in Paris. So, all in all, it was slightly humiliating not to have been seriously noticed by anyone in the towns through which they had passed.

However, he fully intended to make up for lost time in Rome, carnival being, in every country on earth where that admirable institution is celebrated, a time of liberty when even the sternest may be led into some act of folly. So, since the carnival was due to start the following day, it was most important for Albert to present his credentials before it began.

With this in mind, he had rented one of the most prominent boxes in the theatre and was impeccably fitted out for the occasion. They were on the first level, corresponding to our balcony; in any event, in Italy the first three floors are all as ‘aristocratic’ as each other, which is why they are known as the ‘noble’ parts of the auditorium. And the box, which could comfortably hold a dozen spectators, had cost the two friends a little more than a box for four people at the Ambigu.

Albert had an additional hope, which was that if he managed to find a place in the heart of some beautiful Roman woman, this would automatically lead to the award of a
posto
in her carriage and consequently he would see the carnival from the top of some aristocratic vehicle or from a princely balcony.

All these considerations made Albert more lively than ever before. He turned his back on the actors, leant half out of the box and eyed all the pretty women through a pair of opera-glasses six inches long. All of this did not induce one single woman to reward all Albert’s agitation with a solitary glance, even of curiosity.

Instead, the audience was thoroughly absorbed with its own affairs, loves, pleasures, or talking about the carnival which was to begin on the day after the end of Holy Week, without paying a moment’s attention either to the actors or to the play, except at certain specific points when everyone would turn back towards the
stage, either to listen to a section of Coselli’s recitative or to applaud some virtuoso effect by Moriani, or else to cry ‘bravo’ to La Spech; after which the private conversations would be resumed as before.

Towards the end of the first act, Franz looked across to a box that had until then remained empty, and saw the door open to admit a young woman to whom he had had the honour of being introduced in Paris, but who he assumed was still in France. Albert noticed his friend start at seeing this person and turned to ask him: ‘Do you know that woman?’

‘Yes,’ Franz replied. ‘What do you think of her?’

‘Charming, my dear fellow, and blonde. Oh, what delightful hair! Is she French?’

‘Venetian.’

‘And her name?’

‘Countess G—.’
³

‘I know the name!’ Albert exclaimed. ‘Her wit is said to be equal to her beauty. Good heavens! Just think! I could have been introduced to her at Madame de Villefort’s last ball, which she attended, but I neglected to do so. What an idiot I am!’

‘Would you like me to make up for the omission?’

‘Why, do you know her well enough to take me to her box?’

‘I have had the honour to speak to her three or four times in my life; but, you know, that’s quite enough for us not to be committing any
faux pas
.’

At this moment the countess noticed Franz and gave him a graceful wave with her hand, to which he replied by bowing respectfully.

‘Well I never! But it looks to me as if you could be on very close terms with her?’ said Albert.

‘That’s just where you’re wrong, and the very thing that is constantly leading us Frenchmen into one blunder or other when we are abroad: we judge everything from a Parisian point of view. In Spain, above all in Italy, you can never tell how intimate people are by the informality of their behaviour together. The countess and I happened to find common ground, nothing more.’

‘In the heart?’ Albert asked, laughing.

‘No, simply in the mind,’ Franz replied seriously.

‘On what occasion?’

‘On the occasion of a walk in the Colosseum very much like the one we took together.’

‘By moonlight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alone?’

‘Almost.’

‘And you spoke of…’

‘The dead.’

‘Huh!’ Albert exclaimed. ‘That is highly diverting. Well, I promise you that if I should ever have the good fortune to accompany the beautiful countess on such a walk, I should only talk to her about the living.’

‘You might perhaps be wrong.’

‘But until that happens, will you introduce me to her as you promised?’

‘As soon as the curtain falls.’

‘How devilish long this first act is!’

‘Listen to the finale: it’s splendid, and Coselli sings it exceptionally well.’

‘Yes, but look how he carries himself!’

‘No one could act better than La Spech.’

‘You know, when you’ve seen La Sontag and La Malibran…’

‘Don’t you find Moriani’s technique excellent?’

‘I don’t like brunettes who sing blonde.’

‘My dear chap,’ said Franz, turning around while Albert continued to peer through his opera-glasses, ‘you really are too fussy.’

At last the curtain fell, much to the satisfaction of the Vicomte de Morcerf, who took his hat, rapidly adjusted his hair, his cravat and his cuffs, and told Franz that he was waiting.

Franz had exchanged a look with the countess, who indicated that he would be welcome, so he wasted no time in satisfying his friend’s eagerness and set off round the semi-circle – followed by Albert, who took advantage of this journey to smooth out some creases that might have appeared in his shirt collar and the lapels of his coat – so that they eventually arrived at box No. 4, which was the one occupied by the countess.

Immediately the young man sitting beside her at the front of the box got up according to the custom in Italy and gave his seat to the newcomer, who must relinquish it in his turn when a new visitor arrives.

Franz introduced Albert to the countess as one of our most
distinguished young people, both for his social standing and for his wit – all of which was true; for, in Paris, and in the society in which Albert moved, he was a model of a young gentleman. Franz added that, desperate at not having been able to take advantage of the countess’s stay in Paris to obtain an introduction to her, he had asked him to repair this omission, and he was doing precisely that, while begging the countess to forgive his presumption, since he himself might have been thought to need someone formally to introduce him to the countess.

She replied by greeting Albert in the most charming way and offering Franz her hand.

At her invitation, Albert took the empty seat at the front while Franz sat in the second row behind them. Albert had found an excellent subject of conversation: Paris. He talked to the countess of their mutual acquaintances. Franz realized that things were going well and decided to let them continue in that way; asking for the loan of Albert’s gigantic opera-glasses, he began to study the audience for himself.

Sitting alone at the front of a box, at the third level facing them, was a superbly beautiful woman, dressed in Greek costume which she wore with such ease that it was clear that this style of dress was natural to her. Behind her, in the shadows, could be seen the outline of a man, though it was impossible to make out his face.

Franz interrupted the conversation between Albert and the countess to ask the latter if she knew the lovely Albanian woman who so much deserved to attract the attention not only of men but also of women.

‘No,’ she answered. ‘All I do know is that she has been in Rome throughout the season, because when the theatre opened at its start I saw her where you see her now, and in the past month she has not missed a single performance, sometimes in company with the man who is with her at present, sometimes simply attended by a black servant.’

‘What do you think of her, countess?’

‘Extremely beautiful. Medora must have looked like her.’

Franz and the countess exchanged a smile; she went back to her conversation with Albert, and Franz to examining his Albanian.

The curtain rose for the ballet. It was one of those fine Italian ballets directed by the celebrated Henri, who had acquired an enormous reputation as a choreographer in Italy before losing it in
the nautical theatre; one of those ballets where everyone, from the principals to the chorus line, is so actively involved that one hundred and fifty dancers make the same movement at the same time, lifting the same arm or leg in perfect unison.

This ballet was called
Poliska
.

Franz was too preoccupied with his beautiful Greek to take any notice of the ballet, interesting though it was. As for her, she was clearly enjoying the performance, and her pleasure was in the most marked contrast to the profound indifference of the man who accompanied her. Throughout the entire length of this choreographic masterpiece he remained utterly motionless and, despite the infernal racket emanating from the trumpets, bells and cymbals, appeared to be enjoying the celestial delights of a luxurious and untroubled sleep.

At last the ballet ended and the curtain fell, amid frenzied applause from the delighted audience in the stalls.