M. de Villefort replied, ordering that the most precise information should be obtained at once on these two persons. By the next evening, his orders had been carried out and he received the following news:
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The person described as the Count of Monte Cristo is known particularly to Lord Wilmore, a rich foreigner and an occasional visitor to Paris, who is here at the moment; and also to Abbé Busoni, a Sicilian priest who is highly reputed in the East, where he accomplished many good works.
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M. de Villefort kept his word to Mme Danglars (and most of all to himself) by trying to find out how the Count of Monte Cristo could have learnt the story of the house in Auteuil. That same day he wrote to a certain M. de Boville who, after once being an inspector of prisons, had been transferred at a higher rank to the detective branch of the police, enquiring whether he could provide the necessary information. Boville asked for two days to hunt down the best sources. When the two days were up, M. de Villefort received the following note:
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Admittedly, he preferred to live in the first-floor living-room, which was entirely furnished with theological texts and parchments in which, according to his valet, he was accustomed to bury himself for months on end, making this less a living-room than a library.
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The abbé was only in Paris for one month. He lived behind the church of Saint-Sulpice in a little house consisting of a single storey above the ground floor, the entire accommodation, of which he was the sole tenant, being made up of four rooms altogether, two up and two down. The two downstairs rooms consisted of a dining-room with a table, two chairs and a walnut sideboard; and a drawing-room, painted white, with no ornaments, no carpet and no clock. It could be seen that, for himself, the abbé was content with the bare necessities.
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This valet examined visitors through a kind of judas window. If their faces were unknown or unpleasing to him, he would tell them that M. l'Abbé was not in Paris. Most were satisfied with this reply, knowing that the abbé often travelled and sometimes spent long periods abroad. In any case, whether or not he was at home, whether he was in Paris or in Cairo, the abbé always gave alms, so the little window in his door served as a passage for the gifts that the valet constantly distributed in his master's name.
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As for Lord Wilmore, he lived in the Rue Fontaine-Saint-Georges. He was one of those touring Englishmen who spend all their inheritance on travel. He rented the apartment, furnished, where he lived, but spent only two or three hours a day there and slept there rarely. One of his eccentricities was that he refused to speak French, even though it was reported that he could write the language very correctly.
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"I cannot be satisfied by that answer," the visitor said. "For I come on behalf of a person to whom everyone is at home. But kindly give Abbé Busoni…"
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The other room, close to the library, was a bedroom. The furnishings here were entirely made up of a bed with no curtains, four armchairs and a sofa covered in yellow Utrecht velvet, together with a prie-dieu.
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"Monsieur l'Abbé went out early this morning," said the valet.
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The day after the crown prosecutor received this precious information, a man, getting down from his carriage at the corner of the Rue Férou, went and knocked on a door painted in olive green and asked for Abbé Busoni.
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"So I shall come back this evening at the time we mentioned," the visitor said, then went away.
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"Then when he gets back, give him this card and this sealed paper. Will the abbé be at home this evening at eight?"
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"Undoubtedly, Monsieur, unless he is working, in which case it is as if he was out."
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"I already told you: he is not here," the valet repeated.
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The stranger climbed a fairly rough staircase. Sitting behind a table, the whole surface of which was flooded in the light concentrated on it by a huge lampshade, while the rest of the apartment was in shadow, he saw the abbé, in ecclesiastical dress, his head hooded in one of those hoods with which medieval scholars used to cover their skulls.
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That evening, at the appointed hour, the same man returned in the same carriage, which this time, instead of stopping on the corner of the Rue Férou, drew up in front of the green door. He knocked, it was opened and he went in. From the valet's obsequious behaviour, he realized that his letter had had the desired effect. "Is Monsieur l'Abbé at home?" he asked.
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"Yes, he is working in his library, but he is expecting you, sir," the servant replied.
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"Do I have the honour of speaking to Monsieur Busoni?" the visitor asked.
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"One of those agents appointed to look after security in Paris?"
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The abbé adjusted the large glasses that covered not only his eyes but also his temples; and, sitting down again, he motioned to the visitor to do likewise. "I am listening," he said, in a marked Italian accent.
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"Yes, Monsieur," the abbé replied. "And you are the person sent to me by Monsieur de Boville, former inspector of prisons, on behalf of the prefect of police?"
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"Precisely, Monsieur."
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The abbé bowed his head.
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"Yes, Monsieur," the stranger replied, with momentary hesitation and, above all, a blush.
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"The mission I have to accomplish, Monsieur," the visitor resumed, weighing each word as though finding it difficult to get it out, "is a confidential mission, both for the person carrying it out and for the one who will assist him in his enquiries."
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"Yes," the stranger continued. "Your probity, Monsieur l'Abbé, is so well known to the prefect of police that, as a magistrate, he would like to know something touching that same public safety in the name of which I have been sent to you. Consequently, Monsieur l'Abbé, we hope that neither ties of friendship nor any other human considerations will induce you to hide the truth from the eyes of the law."
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"Oh, Monsieur l'Abbé, you may be quite reassured on that," said the stranger. "In any case, we shall ensure that your conscience is protected."
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"Monte Cristo is the name of an island, or rather of a rock, not of a family."
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"Monsieur, as long as whatever you wish to know does not affect any scruple of my conscience. I am a priest and the secrets of the confessional, for example, must remain between me and God's justice, not between me and human justice."
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"I beg your pardon, father," the other man said. "This light is terribly tiring for my eyes."
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"Zaccone! So he is not called Monte Cristo!"
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At this, the abbé leant on his side of the lampshade, raising it on the opposite side, so that it lit fully the face of the stranger, while leaving his own still in shadow.
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The abbé lowered the green shade and said: "Now, Monsieur, I am listening. Speak."
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"Very well. Let's not argue about words. So, since Monsieur de Monte Cristo and Monsieur Zaccone are the same man…"
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"I suppose you are speaking of Monsieur Zaccone?"
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"I am coming to the point. Do you know the Count of Monte Cristo?"
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"Agreed."
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"Who is he?"
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"And while I was still a child I played a dozen times with his son in their shipyards."
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"Absolutely the same."
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"In Italy?"
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"What! Am I sure?"
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"Very well."
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"Please understand me, Monsieur. I do not in any way question your good faith. I am merely asking if you are sure."
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"But this title: count?"
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"Everywhere."
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"Ah!"
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"Yes, I know that that's what they say. But, as you must realize, the police cannot be satisfied with mere hearsay."
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"I asked if you knew him?"
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"But are you sure of what you are saying?"
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"That can be bought, you know."
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"You know him. How much do you think he owns?"
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"… then let us talk about Monsieur Zaccone."
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"The son of a rich shipowner in Malta."
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"Come now, I knew Monsieur Zaccone, his father."
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"But this wealth which, still according to rumour, is immense…"
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"And yet," the abbé said, with a very pleasant smile, "when hearsay is the truth, everyone must be satisfied with it, the police as well as the rest."
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"Ah, that!" said the abbé. "Immense is the word."
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"In what force?"
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"No, the son's."
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"But there was talk of an income of three or four million!"
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"Oh, an income of at least a hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand livres."
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"Do you know his island of Monte Cristo?"
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"The father's?"
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"They say it's an enchanted spot."
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"Of course. Anyone who has come from Palermo, Naples or Rome to France by sea knows it, since he will have sailed past it and seen it as he went."
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"Aren't you his confessor?"
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"You have doubtless heard of Monsieur Zaccone's youthful adventures?"
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"Why should the count buy a rock?"
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"I think he served in it."
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"Did he fight in the war?"
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"Ah, this is where I am less certain, because I lost touch with my young friend."
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"That's reasonable," the visitor said. "There was talk of three or four million."
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"Oh, it's impossible to believe that."
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"An income of two hundred thousand livres, Monsieur, adds up to a capital of just four million."
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"It's a rock."
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"In the navy."
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"Precisely in order to be a count. In Italy, to be a count, you still need a county."
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"Yes, everyone who knows him is his friend."
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"Indeed there is, and we are not concerned with his beliefs at this moment, but with his actions. In the name of the prefect of police, I request you to tell me whatever you know."
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"Does he have any friends, as far as you know?"
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"I say, I think so. I couldn't swear to it. In any case, I thought there was freedom of worship now in France."
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"Do you mean he is a Quaker?"
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"No, Monsieur. I think he is a Lutheran."
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"He is reputed to be a very charitable man. Our Holy Father the Pope made him a Knight of Christ, a favour that he hardly ever grants except to princes, for his outstanding services to Christians in the East. He has five or six ribbons acquired for services to princes or states."
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"How is that? A Lutheran?"
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"No, but he is proud of them none the less. He says that he prefers awards given to benefactors of mankind to those given to destroyers of men."
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"Does he wear them?"
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"That's right, a Quaker, apart from the broad-brimmed hat and brown coat, of course."
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"Who is that?"
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"Abbé, do you think that the Count of Monte Cristo has ever been to France before the journey that has brought him to Paris?"
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"Only one."
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"Do you know where he lives?"
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"Where can I find him?"
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"Can he give me any information?"
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"Very well, Monsieur. I have only one more thing to ask you and I command you, in the name of honour, humanity and religion, to answer me without any attempt at concealment."
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"He is in Paris at this very moment."
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"Are you on bad terms with this Englishman?"
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"Yes, very valuable. He was in India at the same time as Zaccone."
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"Somewhere in the Chaussée-d'Antin. I am not sure of the street or the number of the house."
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"Lord Wilmore."
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"I like Zaccone and he detests him, so for that reason we do not get along."
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"Oh, as far as that is concerned, I do know something to the point. No, Monsieur, he has never been here, because six months ago he asked me for the information he needed. And I, since I did not know precisely when I should be returning to Paris myself, I sent him to see Monsieur Cavalcanti."
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"Andrea?"
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"No, Bartolomeo, the father."
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"And any enemies, then?"
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"Yes…!"
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"You give generously in alms," the visitor said. "And, even though they say you are rich, I would like to offer you something for the poor. Would you accept my gift?"
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"My resolve is unwavering. But seek, Monsieur, and you will find: alas, every rich man has more than enough of poverty to pass by on his road through life!"
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"Indeed, I do; he told me."
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"Do you know for what purpose the Count of Monte Cristo bought a house in Auteuil?"
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"Ask your question."
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"It is a wonderful institution." At this, the abbé got up, like a man intimating to his visitor that he would not be sorry to resume his interrupted work. The other did the same, either because he understood what the abbé wanted or because he had run out of questions. The abbé accompanied him to the door.
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"With the idea of turning it into an asylum for lunatics on the model of the one set up in Palermo by Baron de Pisani. Do you know that asylum?"
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"Thank you, Monsieur, but I boast of only one thing in the world, which is that all the good I do comes from me alone."
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"So, why?"
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"Only by reputation, Monsieur l'Abbé."
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The abbé bowed once more as he opened the door, and the stranger returned the compliment and left. His carriage took him immediately to Monsieur de Villefort's and, an hour later, it drove out again, this time towards the Rue Fontaine-Saint-Georges. It stopped by No. 5, which was the address of Lord Wilmore.
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The stranger had written to Lord Wilmore to request a meeting, which had been fixed for ten o'clock. As the prefect of police's envoy arrived at ten to ten, he was told that Lord Wilmore, who was the soul of punctuality, had not yet returned, but that he would do so on the stroke of ten.
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The visitor waited in the drawing-room; there was nothing remarkable about this room, which was like any other in furnished lodgings: a mantelpiece with two modern Sèvres vases, a clock with Cupid drawing his bow and a mirror, in two sections; engravings on each side of the mirror, one showing Homer carrying his guide, the other Belisarius begging alms; wallpaper, grey on grey; a sofa upholstered in red, and printed in black -- this was Lord Wilmore's drawing-room. It was lit by two lamps with shades of frosted glass that gave only a feeble light, as if deliberately designed not to strain the tired eyes of the prefect's emissary.
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"And I speak English well enough," said the visitor, changing to that language, "for us to hold a conversation. So you may feel at ease, Monsieur."
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After he had waited ten minutes, the clock struck ten and, on the fifth stroke, the door opened and Lord Wilmore appeared. He was a man of more than average height, with thin, reddish side-whiskers, a pale complexion and greying blond hair. He was dressed with typically English eccentricity: that is to say, he wore a blue coat with gold buttons and high piqué collar, of the kind worn in 1811, with a waistcoat of white cashmere and nankeen breeches, three inches too short, restrained by straps under the feet from mounting up to his knees. His first words on entering were: "You know, Monsieur, that I do not speak French."
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"I certainly know that you do not like to speak our language," the policeman said.
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"But you may speak it," Lord Wilmore continued. "For, though I do not speak, I can understand."
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"Haoh!" Lord Wilmore exclaimed, with an intonation that only a pure-blooded Englishman can achieve.
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The questions were roughly the same as those that had been asked of Abbé Busoni; but since Lord Wilmore, an enemy of the Count of Monte Cristo, did not show the same discretion as the abbé, his answers were much fuller. He described the count's youth, saying that as a boy of ten he had entered into the service of one of those Indian princelings who make war against the English: this is where he and Lord Wilmore met for the first time and fought one another. In the course of the war, Zaccone was taken prisoner, sent to England and put in the hulks, from which he escaped by jumping into the water. This was the start of his journeys, his duels, his love affairs. When the Greeks rebelled, he fought for them against the Turks and, while in their service, discovered a silver mine in the mountains of Thessaly, about which he was careful to tell no one. When the Greek government was consolidated after the Battle of Navarino, he asked King Otto for a licence to exploit the mine, which was granted. Hence the vast fortune which, according to Lord Wilmore, might yield an income of two million, but which would at the same time dry up overnight, if the mine itself were to do so.
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The other man gave him his letter of introduction, which was perused with peculiarly British phlegm. Then, when he had finished, he said, in English: "Yes, I quite understand." So the visitor began his enquiries.
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"Yes."
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"Yes, indeed."
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"Do you know anything about his house in Auteuil?"
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"But do you know why he has come to France?" the visitor asked.
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It was clear that the Englishman was inspired by hatred and, not finding anything else to say against the count, he reproached him with avarice.
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"Oh, five or six hundred thousand francs, at the most," said Lord Wilmore. "He is a miser."
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"What?"
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"Do you mean, his reason for buying it?"
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"He wishes to speculate on the railways," said Lord Wilmore. "And, being a skilled chemist and no less distinguished physicist, he has invented a new form of telegraph which he is in process of developing."
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"Roughly how much does he spend a year?" the policeman asked.
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"Well, the count is a speculator who will certainly ruin himself with experiments and wild dreams. He claims that in Auteuil, close to the house which he had just bought, there is a stream of mineral water which can rival those of Bagnères, Luchon and Cauterets. He wants to make his house into what the Germans call a badhaus, and has already dug over the whole of his garden two or three times to discover this famous spring. Since he has been able to find nothing, you will shortly see him buy all the houses around his own. Since there is no love lost between us, I hope that his railways, his electric telegraph and his mineral waters will ruin him. I shall enjoy his discomfiture, which is bound to arrive sooner or later."
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"Because once, when he was in England, he seduced the wife of one of my friends."
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"I have already fought the count three times," the Englishman said. "The first time with pistols, the second with foils and the third with sabres."
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"And why do you dislike him?"
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"The first time he broke my arm; the second, he ran me through the lung; and the third, he gave me this wound."
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"What was the result of these duels?"
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"So why not try to be revenged on him?"
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The Englishman turned down the shirt-collar that reached up to his ears and revealed a scar, the redness of which showed that it must have been made recently. "So I greatly resent him," the Englishman said. "Naturally, he will die by no hand except mine."
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"But it seems to me that you are doing nothing to kill him."
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"Haoh!" the Englishman said. "Every day I go to the shooting range, and every other day Grisier comes here."
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This was all that the visitor wished to know, or, rather, all that the Englishman appeared able to tell him. The agent got up and left, after taking leave of Lord Wilmore, who returned his bow with characteristically English stiffness and politeness.
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The crown prosecutor was a little easier in his mind after these two visits: he had not learnt anything reassuring from them, but neither had he learnt anything disturbing. As a result, for the first time since the dinner in Auteuil, he slept quite calmly the following night.
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For his part, Lord Wilmore, on hearing the street-door shut, went back into his bedroom and, in a trice, lost his blond hair, his red sideboards, his false jaw and his scar, to resume the black hair, dark colouring and pearly teeth of the Count of Monte Cristo.
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And, as it happened, it was M. de Villefort himself, and not an emissary of the prefect of police, who returned to M. de Villefort's house.
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