The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (91 page)

Baptistin bowed.

‘It remains for you to say if I suit you.’

‘Oh! Monsieur le Comte!’ Baptistin said unhesitatingly.

‘Hear me out. You earn fifteen hundred francs a year, which is
the stipend of a fine, brave army officer who risks his life every day. You enjoy meals that many a head clerk, a poor slave who is far busier than you, would envy. Though a servant, you yourself have servants who take care of your laundry and your belongings. Over and above your fifteen hundred francs in wages, you are taking a cut on the toiletries and similar purchases that you make for me, and stealing nearly an additional fifteen hundred francs every year.’

‘Oh! Excellency!’

‘I am not complaining, Monsieur Baptistin, it’s a reasonable amount. However, I wish it to stop forthwith. Nowhere will you find a position comparable to the one that good fortune has given you here. I never beat my servants, I never swear, I never lose my temper, I always forgive a fault, but never negligence or forgetfulness. My orders are usually brief, but clear and precise: I prefer to repeat them twice or even three times, rather than for them to be carried out incorrectly. I am rich enough to know everything that I wish to know and – be warned – I am very curious. So if I were ever to learn that you had spoken either good or ill of me, that you had commented on my actions or watched over what I do, you would leave my house immediately. I never give my servants more than one warning. You have had yours. You may go!’

Baptistin bowed and took three or four steps towards the door.

‘By the way,’ the count continued, ‘I forgot to tell you that, every year, I invest a certain sum for each of my people. Those whom I dismiss inevitably lose this money, which reverts to those who remain and who will be able to collect it after my death. You have been a year with me, your fortune has begun to grow: let it continue.’

This homily, delivered in front of Ali who remained impassive, since he did not understand a word of French, produced an effect on M. Baptistin which will be understood by anyone who has studied the psychology of the French domestic servant.

‘I shall try to conform in every respect to Your Excellency’s wishes,’ he said. ‘Indeed, I shall model myself on Monsieur Ali.’

‘Oh! Do no such thing!’ Monte Cristo said, as cold as marble. ‘Ali has many faults, as well as qualities. Don’t follow his example, because Ali is an exception. He receives no wages, he is not a servant, he is my slave, he is my dog. If he were to fail in his duty, I should not dismiss him. I should kill him.’

Baptistin’s eyes bulged.

‘Do you doubt it?’ And the count repeated the same words to Ali that he had spoken in French to Baptistin. Ali listened, smiled, went over to his master, knelt on one knee and respectfully kissed his hand. This little epitome of the lesson left Baptistin utterly dumbfounded.

The count motioned to Baptistin to leave them, and Ali to come with him. He led the way into his cabinet and they spent a long time talking there.

At five o’clock the count knocked three times on the gong. One strike was for Ali, two for Baptistin and three for Bertuccio. The steward entered.

‘My horses!’ Monte Cristo demanded.

‘They are ready, with the carriage, Excellency,’ Bertuccio replied. ‘Shall I be accompanying Monsieur le Comte?’

‘No, just the coachman, Baptistin and Ali.’

The count came downstairs and saw, harnessed to his carriage, the horses that he had admired that morning in Danglars’ barouche. He glanced at them as he went past.

‘They are very fine, indeed,’ he said. ‘You did well to buy them, even though you were a little late.’

‘Excellency,’ said Bertuccio, ‘it took a great deal of trouble to get them and they were very expensive.’

‘Are they any the less attractive for that?’ the count asked, shrugging his shoulders.

‘If Your Excellency is content,’ Bertuccio said, ‘then all is well. Where is Your Excellency going?’

‘To the rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, to Baron Danglars’.’

This conversation took place at the top of the front steps. Bertuccio made as if to go down the first step.

‘One moment, Monsieur,’ Monte Cristo said, holding him back. ‘I need an estate near the seaside, in Normandy for example, between Le Havre and Boulogne. As you see, I am giving you room to manoeuvre. The property must have a little harbour – a small creek or bay, where my corvette can enter and moor. It has a draught of only fifteen feet. It will always be kept ready to put to sea, at any hour of the day or night when I choose to give the signal. You will enquire of all the notaries about a property of this kind and, when you have found one, you will visit it and, if you are satisfied, buy it in your name. The corvette must be sailing towards Fécamp, I suppose?’

‘I saw it put to sea on the very evening when we left Marseille.’

‘And the yacht?’

‘The yacht was ordered to remain at Les Martigues.’

‘Very well. From time to time you must keep in touch with their two captains, so that they do not fall asleep at their posts.’

‘What about the steamship?’

‘Which is in Chalon?’

‘Yes.’

‘The same orders as for the two sailing ships.’

‘Very good.’

‘As soon as the property has been acquired, I shall have relays of horses ready every ten leagues on the roads to the north and to the south.’

‘Your Excellency can count on me.’

Monte Cristo gave a nod of satisfaction, went down the steps and leapt into his carriage, which was borne forward at a trot by the superb team of horses and did not stop until it reached the banker’s mansion.

Danglars was chairing a commission, which had been appointed for a railway company, when they came in to announce the Count of Monte Cristo. In any case, the meeting was almost finished. At the mention of the count’s name, he got up.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, addressing his colleagues, several of whom were honourable members of one House or the other, ‘I apologize for leaving you in this way, but I must ask you to believe that the firm of Thomson and French, in Rome, has sent me a certain Count of Monte Cristo and opened a limitless credit for him with me. This is the most ludicrous joke any of my correspondents abroad has yet played on me. As you may well imagine, I was – and still am – consumed by curiosity. This morning, I went to visit the so-called count; if he was a real one, you will agree, he would not be so rich. Monsieur was not at home to me. What do you think? It seems our Monte Cristo has the manners of a princeling or a prima donna, doesn’t it? Aside from that, the house on the Champs-Elysées, which he owns, I enquired about that, appeared respectable enough. But – unlimited credit!’ Danglars repeated, smiling one of his odious smiles. ‘That’s something that makes the banker with whom such a credit is opened rather fussy about his man. So I was keen to see him. I think they are trying to lead me up the garden path, but he who laughs last…’

M. le Baron ended, stressing the last words with an expressive flourish that made his nostrils flare, then left his guests and went into a reception room, done up in white and gold, that had made the tongues wag on the Chaussée d’Antin. He had asked the visitor to be brought here, to impress him right from the start.

The count was standing, inspecting some copies of Albano and Fattore
¹
which had been passed off on the banker as originals and which, copies though they were, clashed with the beading in every shade of gold decorating the ceiling. On hearing Danglars come in, the count turned around.

Danglars nodded in greeting and gestured to the count to sit down on an armchair of gilded wood upholstered in white satin and embroidered in gold thread. The count did so.

‘I have the honour of speaking to Monsieur de Monte Cristo?’

‘And I,’ the count replied, ‘to Monsieur le Baron Danglars, Knight of the Legion of Honour and member of the Chamber of Deputies?’

The count was repeating all the titles to be found on the baron’s visiting card. The baron took the hint and bit his lip.

‘Forgive me, Monsieur,’ he said, ‘for not addressing you at the start by the title under which you were introduced to me. But, as you know, we live under a government of the people and I am a representative of the interests of the people.’

‘With the result,’ Monte Cristo replied, ‘that, while retaining the custom of having yourself called “Baron”, you have abandoned that of calling other men “Count”.’

‘Oh, I’m not even bothered about it for myself, Monsieur,’ Danglars replied casually. ‘They granted me the title and made me a Knight of the Legion of Honour for some services rendered, but…’

‘But you abdicated your titles, as formerly Monsieur de Mont-morency and Monsieur de Lafayette did? You offer a fine example to your fellow men, Monsieur.’

‘Well, not altogether,’ Danglars replied, with some embarrassment. ‘You understand, for the servants…’

‘Ah, so you call yourself “monseigneur” for your staff, “monsieur” for journalists and “citizen” for your agents. These nuances are quite appropriate in a constitutional regime; I understand perfectly.’

Danglars clenched his teeth. He could see that on this ground he
was no rival for Monte Cristo, so he tried to return to terrain that was more familiar to him.

‘Monsieur le Comte,’ he said, bowing, ‘I have received a letter from the firm of Thomson and French.’

‘I am delighted, Monsieur le Baron. Oh! Permit me to address you as your servants do: it’s a bad habit I picked up in countries where they still have barons, precisely because they are not making them any more. As I say, I’m charmed. I have no need to present myself, which is always embarrassing. So, you have received a letter?’

‘Yes,’ said Danglars, ‘but I have to admit that I did not entirely take its meaning.’

‘Really?’

‘I even had the honour to visit you to ask for an explanation.’

‘Very well, Monsieur, I am here, ready and listening.’

‘I have the letter,’ Danglars said, ‘… on my person, I believe.’ He rummaged around in his pocket. ‘Yes, here we are. This letter opens an unlimited credit on my bank on behalf of the Count of Monte Cristo.’

‘So, Monsieur le Baron, what needs explaining in that?’

‘Nothing, Monsieur. Only, the word “unlimited”…’

‘It is a French word, is it not? You must understand, the letter comes from an Anglo-German firm…’

‘Oh, yes, Monsieur, indeed. There is no problem in respect of the syntax, but the same is not true of the arithmetic.’

‘Are you trying to tell me,’ Monte Cristo asked, with the most innocent air that he could manage, ‘that the firm of Thomson and French is not absolutely reliable, in your opinion, Monsieur le Baron? I should be most sorry to hear it, for I have some money invested with them.’

‘Oh, perfectly reliable,’ Danglars replied, with a smile almost of mockery. ‘But the meaning of the word “unlimited”, in financial terms, is so vague…’

‘As to be unlimited, perhaps?’ said Monte Cristo.

‘Just so, Monsieur, that is precisely what I meant. Now, where something is vague, there is doubt and, as the wise man says, when in doubt – don’t!’

‘In other words,’ Monte Cristo remarked, ‘you mean that while the firm of Thomson and French may be inclined to folly, that of Danglars is unwilling to follow its example.’

‘How do you mean, Monsieur le Comte?’

‘Just this: Messrs Thomson and French engage in unlimited business, but Monsieur Danglars does put a limit on his. As he was saying only a moment ago, he is a wise man.’

‘Monsieur,’ the banker replied haughtily, ‘no one has yet found my funds to be wanting.’

‘So, it seems that I shall be the first,’ Monte Cristo replied coldly.

‘Who says that you will?’

‘All these explanations you require of me, Monsieur, which seem to me very much like cold feet…’

Danglars bit his lip: this was the second time that the man had worsted him, and this time on his own ground. His condescending politeness was only an affectation and he was getting close to an extremity very similar to condescension, which is impertinence.

Monte Cristo, on the other hand, was smiling with the best grace in the world. When he wished, he could adopt an air of innocence that was extremely favourable to him.

‘To come to the point, Monsieur,’ said Danglars, after a moment’s silence. ‘I shall try to make myself plain by asking you yourself to state the amount that you intend to draw on us.’

‘But, my good sir,’ said Monte Cristo, determined not to lose an inch of ground in the debate, ‘if I asked for unlimited credit from you, that was precisely because I did not know what amount I should require.’

The banker felt that the moment had at last come to regain the upper hand. He sat back in his chair and, with a broad and supercilious smile, said: ‘Oh, Monsieur! Do not be afraid to ask. You will then be able to satisfy yourself that the funds of Danglars and company, limited though they may be, can meet the largest requirements. Even if you were to ask for a million…’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Monte Cristo.

‘I said, a million,’ Danglars repeated, with idiotic self-satisfaction.