The Count of Monte Cristo + The Three Musketeers + The Man in the Iron Mask (3 Unabridged Classics). Alexandre Dumas
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compel me to visit Paris.”
“When do you propose going thither?”
“Have you made up your mind when you shall be there yourself?”
“Certainly I have; in a fortnight or three weeks’ time, that is to say, as fast as I can get there!”
“Nay,” said the Count; “I will give you three months ere I join you; you see I make an ample allowance for all delays and difficulties.
“And in three months’ time,” said Albert, “you will be at my house?”
“Shall we make a positive appointment for a particular day and hour?” inquired the count; “only let me warn you that I am proverbial for my punctilious exactitude in keeping my engagements.”
“Day for day, hour for hour,” said Albert; “that will suit me to a dot.”
“So be it, then,” replied the count, and extending his hand towards a calendar, suspended near the chimney-piece, he said, “to-day is the 21st of February;” and drawing out his watch, added, “it is exactly half-past ten o’clock. Now promise me to remember this, and expect me the 21st of May at the same hour in the forenoon.”
“Capital,” exclaimed Albert; “your breakfast shall be waiting.”
“Where do you live?”
“No. 27, Rue du Helder.”
“Have you bachelor’s apartments there? I hope my coming will not put you to any inconvenience.”
“I reside in my father’s house, but occupy a pavilion at the farther side of the courtyard, entirely separated from the main building.”
“Quite sufficient,” replied the count, as, taking out his tablets, he wrote down “No. 27, Rue du Helder, 21st May, half-past ten in the morning.”
“Now then,” said the count, returning his tablets to his pocket, “make yourself perfectly easy; the hand of your timepiece will not be more accurate in marking the time than myself.”
“Shall I see you again ere my departure?” asked Albert.
“That depends; when do you leave?”
“Tomorrow evening, at five o’clock.”
“In that case I must say adieu to you, as I am compelled to go to Naples, and shall not return hither before Saturday evening or Sunday morning. And you, baron,” pursued the count, addressing Franz, “do you also depart tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“For France?”
“No, for Venice; I shall remain in Italy for another year or two.”
“Then we shall not meet in Paris?”
“I fear I shall not have that honor.”
“Well, since we must part,” said the count, holding out a hand to each of the young men, “allow me to wish you both a safe and pleasant journey.” It was the first time the hand of Franz had come in contact with that of the mysterious individual before him, and unconsciously he shuddered at its touch, for it felt cold and icy as that of a corpse. “Let us understand each other,” said Albert; “it is agreed — is it not? — that you are to be at No. 27, in the Rue du Helder, on the 21st of May, at half-past ten in the morning, and your word of honor passed for your punctuality?”
“The 21st of May, at half-past ten in the morning, Rue du Helder, No. 27,” replied the Count. The young men then rose, and bowing to the count, quitted the room. “What is the matter?” asked Albert of Franz, when they had returned to their own apartments; “you seem more than commonly thoughtful.”
“I will confess to you, Albert,” replied Franz, “the count is a very singular person, and the appointment you have made to meet him in Paris fills me with a thousand apprehensions.”
“My dear fellow,” exclaimed Albert, “what can there possibly be in that to excite uneasiness? Why, you must have lost your senses.”
“Whether I am in my senses or not,” answered Franz, “that is the way I feel.”
“Listen to me, Franz,” said Albert; “I am glad that the occasion has presented itself for saying this to you, for I have noticed how cold you are in your bearing towards the count, while he, on the other hand, has always been courtesy itself to us. Have you anything particular against him?”
“Possibly.”
“Did you ever meet him previously to coming hither?”
“I have.”
“And where?”
“Will you promise me not to repeat a single word of what I am about to tell you?”
“I promise.”
“Upon your honor?”
“Upon my honor.”
“Then listen to me.” Franz then related to his friend the history of his excursion to the Island of Monte Cristo and of his finding a party of smugglers there, and the two Corsican bandits with them. He dwelt with considerable force and energy on the almost magical hospitality he had received from the count, and the magnificence of his entertainment in the grotto of the “Thousand and One Nights.” He recounted, with circumstantial exactitude, all the particulars of the supper, the hashish, the statues, the dream, and how, at his awakening, there remained no proof or trace of all these events, save the small yacht, seen in the distant horizon driving under full sail toward Porto-Vecchio. Then he detailed the conversation overheard by him at the Colosseum, between the count and Vampa, in which the count had promised to obtain the release of the bandit Peppino, — an engagement which, as our readers are aware, he most faithfully fulfilled. At last he arrived at the adventure of the preceding night, and the embarrassment in which he found himself placed by not having sufficient cash by six or seven hundred piastres to make up the sum required, and finally of his application to the count and the picturesque and satisfactory result that followed. Albert listened with the most profound attention. “Well,” said he, when Franz had concluded, “what do you find to object to in all you have related? The count is fond of travelling, and, being rich, possesses a vessel of his own. Go but to Portsmouth or Southampton, and you will find the harbors crowded with the yachts belonging to such of the English as can afford the expense, and have the same liking for this amusement. Now, by way of having a resting-place during his excursions, avoiding the wretched cookery — which has been trying its best to poison me during the last four months, while you have manfully resisted its effects for as many years, — and obtaining a bed on which it is possible to slumber, Monte Cristo has furnished for himself a temporary abode where you first found him; but, to prevent the possibility of the Tuscan government taking a fancy to his enchanted palace, and thereby depriving him of the advantages naturally expected from so large an outlay of capital, he has wisely enough purchased the island, and taken its name. Just ask yourself, my good fellow, whether there are not many persons of our acquaintance who assume the names of lands and properties they never in their lives were masters of?”
“But,” said Franz, “the Corsican bandits that were among the crew of his vessel?”
“Why, really the thing seems to me simple enough. Nobody knows better than yourself that the bandits of Corsica are not rogues or thieves, but purely and simply fugitives, driven by some sinister motive from their native town or village, and that their fellowship involves no disgrace or stigma; for my own part, I protest that, should I ever go to Corsica, my first visit, ere even I presented myself to the mayor or prefect, should be to the bandits of Colomba, if I could only manage to find them; for, on my conscience, they are a race of men I admire greatly.”
“Still,” persisted Franz, “I suppose you will allow that such men as Vampa and his band are regular villains, who have no other motive than plunder when they seize your person. How do you explain the influence the count evidently possessed over those ruffians?”
“My