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On the evening of the day when the Comte de Morcerf came away from Danglars' with the shame and fury that one can imagine, given the banker's cold reception, M. Andrea Cavalcanti, with his hair curled and shining, his moustaches waxed, and closely fitting white gloves, drove into the banker's courtyard at the Chaussée-d'Antin, almost standing upright on his phaeton.

Danglars listened very closely to this declaration, which he had been expecting for two or three days. Now that it had come, his eyes shone, just as they had darkened and narrowed while he listened to Morcerf. Even so, he did not want to accept the young man's proposal without making some conscientious observations. "Monsieur Andrea," he said, "aren't you a little young to be thinking of marriage?"

After ten minutes' conversation in the drawing-room, he managed to take Danglars aside into a bay window and there, after a cleverly worked preamble, spoke about the torments of his existence since the departure of his noble father. Since this departure, he said, the banker had been kind enough to welcome him into his family like a son and there he had found all those guarantees of happiness that a man ought to look for in preference to the vagaries of passion; though, as far as passion was concerned, he had been fortunate enough to encounter it in the eyes of Mlle Danglars.

"Very well, Monsieur," said Danglars. "Let us suppose that your proposal, which honours me, is acceptable to my wife and daughter; then with whom shall we discuss terms? It seems to me that this is an important matter which only fathers can properly negotiate in the interests of their children's happiness."

"Not at all, Monsieur," Cavalcanti replied. "Or at least, not in my view. In Italy, noblemen generally marry young; it is a reasonable custom: life is so uncertain that one should grasp happiness as soon as it comes within reach."

"Monsieur, my father is a wise man, possessing much reason and a good sense of propriety. He anticipated that I might well feel some desire to settle in France, so, as he was going, he left me -- as well as all the papers which confirm my identity -- a letter in which he guarantees me an income of one hundred and fifty thousand livres, from the day of my marriage onwards, provided I make a choice acceptable to him. As far as I can tell, this is one-quarter of my father's own income."

"Very well," Andrea said, "as you see, it would be for the best, always assuming that my proposal is not rejected by Madame the Baroness and Mademoiselle Eugénie. This would give us an income of one hundred and seventy-five thousand livres. Now let us further suppose that I were to persuade the marquis that, instead of paying me the income, he were to give me the capital -- it will not be easy, I know, but it could be done -- then you would invest these two or three millions for us; and two or three millions in skilled hands can bring in a good ten per cent."

"I never take money at more than four," said the banker, "or even three and a half; but for my son-in-law, I would agree to five, and we could share the profits fifty-fifty."

"It was always my intention," Danglars said, "to give my daughter five hundred thousand francs when I married her. In any event, she is my only heir."

"That's perfect, father-in-law," said Cavalcanti, letting himself be carried away by the slightly vulgar instincts which, despite his efforts, occasionally cracked the aristocratic varnish beneath which he attempted to conceal them. But he at once remembered himself and said: "Oh, please forgive me, Monsieur! You see, hope itself is enough to drive me almost mad; what will be the effect of the reality?"

"What is that?" the young man asked.

"Why, the part that comes from your mother."

"And what might be the amount of this portion?"

"But surely, there is a part of your fortune that your father cannot refuse you?" said Danglars, not noticing how quickly this conversation, which had started so disinterestedly, had turned to the management of business matters.

"My goodness, Monsieur," said Andrea, "I must confess that I've never thought much about it, but I would judge it to be at least two million."

"Ah, yes, indeed; that which comes from my mother, Leonora Corsinari."

Danglars felt that suffocating sense of joy that is experienced either by a miser unearthing a lost treasure or by a drowning man whose feet touch solid ground instead of the emptiness that was about to engulf him.

Andrea bowed to the banker with warm respect: "Then, Monsieur, may I hope…"

"Monsieur Andrea," Danglars said, "hope on and believe that, provided no obstacle from your side halts the progress of the matter, it is signed and sealed." Then he continued thoughtfully: "Why is it that the Count of Monte Cristo, your patron in our Parisian society, did not accompany you to make this request?"

Andrea blushed imperceptibly. "I have just come from the count's, Monsieur," he said, "and he is undoubtedly a charming man, but also unbelievably eccentric. He approved of my plan; he even said that he did not think that my father would hesitate for a moment to give me the capital instead of the income; and he promised me to use his influence to that end; but he told me that personally he had never taken on himself -- and never would take on -- the responsibility of being the bearer of a proposal of marriage. I must grant him this, however: he was kind enough to add that, if he had ever deplored his prejudice in the matter, it was in my case, since he thought that we would be happy and well matched in our union. Moreover, while he does not want to do anything in an official capacity, he told me that he fully expected to answer any of your questions, when you wished to discuss them with him."

"And now," Andrea said, with his most charming smile, "I should like to turn from the father-in-law to the banker."

"Ah, that's very good."

"And what do you want with him, then?" said Danglars, laughing.

"Bring me one like this for a million and I'll cash it for you," said Danglars, putting the bill into his pocket. "Give me a time tomorrow, and my cashier will come to you with a bond for twenty-four thousand francs."

"The day after tomorrow I am to draw something like four thousand francs on your bank, but the count realized that the coming month might bring an excess of expenditure which would not be covered by my small bachelor's income, so here is a bill for twenty thousand francs which he gave me, more as a present than as a contribution to expenses. It is signed by him, as you see. Will that do?"

"Very well, ten o'clock; still at the Hôtel des Princes?"

"At ten in the morning then, if you don't mind. The earlier, the better; I should like to go to the country tomorrow."

"Yes."

The next day, with a punctuality that was a tribute to the banker's conscientiousness, the twenty-four thousand francs were in the young man's hands and he went out, as he had said, leaving two hundred francs for Caderousse.

"The man to whom Your Excellency gave that little subscription."

"What man?" Andrea asked -- casually, as if he had forgotten someone whom in fact he remembered only too well.

As far as Andrea was concerned, the main aim of this excursion was to avoid meeting his dangerous friend, so he came home as late as possible. But no sooner had he set foot on the flagstones of the courtyard than he found the concierge of the building waiting for him, cap in hand. "Monsieur," he said, "that man called."

"Yes, Excellency." (Andrea demanded to be addressed as "Excellency".) "Just as you said," the concierge went on, "but he refused to take them."

Andrea paled but, since it was dark, no one saw the colour drain from his face. "What! He wouldn't take them?" he said, a slight quaver in his voice.

"No, he wanted to speak to Your Excellency. I told him that you had gone out, but he insisted. Eventually, he did seem to let himself be persuaded and he gave me this letter, which he had brought, already sealed."

"Ah, yes," Andrea said. "That former servant of my father's. Well, did you give him the two hundred francs I left for him?"

Andrea looked at the seal to see if it had been tampered with, and if any prying eyes could have seen inside the letter; but it was folded in such a way, with so many wafers and overlaps, that it could not have been read without breaking the seal, and this was quite intact. "That's very good," he said. "Poor man! He's such a fine creature." And he left the concierge to digest these edifying words, not knowing whom he admired the most: the young master or the old retainer.

"Let me see," said Andrea; and by the lamp on his phaeton, he read: "You know where I live. I shall expect you tomorrow morning at nine o'clock."

"I do have that honour, Excellency," the man answered.

"Quickly attend to the horses, then come up and see me," Andrea said to his groom. Then, in two bounds, he was inside his room, where he burned Caderousse's letter, even disposing of the ashes. He was just completing this task when the servant came in. "Pierre, you are about my size, aren't you?" he said.

"You must have fresh livery which was given to you yesterday?"

Pierre did as he was asked. Five minutes later, Andrea, completely disguised, left the house without being recognized, took a cab and had himself driven to the inn of the Cheval-Rouge in Picpus. The next day he left the inn as he had left the Hôtel des Princes (that is, unnoticed), followed the boulevard to the Rue Ménilmontant and, stopping at the door of the third house on the left, looked around to see where he could get information, there being no concierge.

"Monsieur Pailletin, if you please, grandma?" Andrea answered.

"I'm involved with a pretty little creature, but I don't want her to know my title or my position. Lend me your livery and your papers so that, if necessary, I can sleep at an inn."

"Is it a retired baker?" she asked.

Andrea followed her directions and on the third floor found a bell-pull that he tugged with a feeling of ill-temper which communicated itself to the bell. A moment later, Caderousse's face appeared at a grilled spyhole cut in the door. "You're punctual," he said, drawing back the bolts.

"Bottom of the yard, door on the left, third floor."

"That's right, the very one."

"What are you looking for, luv?" asked the woman from the fruiterer's opposite.

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Damnation!" said Andrea, going in and throwing his livery cap ahead of him. It missed the chair, fell to the floor and rolled round the room on its edge.

"Come, come, now," said Caderousse. "Don't get angry, dear boy! There now, I've thought of you: just look what a good breakfast we'll have; all things that you like!"

Breathing in, Andrea could indeed detect the smell of cooking, its gross odours not without charm for a hungry stomach: there was that mixture of fresh oil and garlic which indicates the inferior breed of provençal cuisine, with additionally a hint of breaded fish and, above all, the acrid scent of nutmeg and cloves. All this was exhaled from two covered tureens keeping hot on two stoves and a dish bubbling in the oven of an iron cooker.

In the adjoining room Andrea also observed a moderately clean table with two places laid; two bottles of wine, one with a green and the other with a yellow seal; a good measure of spirits in a decanter; and a fruit salad in a large cabbage leaf, artistically displayed on a porcelain dish.

"What do you think, dear boy?" said Caderousse. "Smells good, doesn't it? Ah, by God, I was a good cook in those days! Do you remember how people would lick their fingers -- and you most of all. You've tried a few of my sauces and not spat them out, I warrant!" And he began to peel some more onions.

"Yes, yes, we know all that," Andrea said irritably. "Huh! If you've brought me all this way just to have lunch, then to hell with you!"

Caderousse was actually weeping, though it was hard to tell whether it was joy or onions that had affected the lachrymal glands of the former innkeeper from the Pont du Gard.

"Get away with you, you hypocrite," said Andrea. "Are you that fond of me?"

"My son," Caderousse said pompously, "as one eats, one may speak; and anyway, you ungrateful boy, aren't you a little pleased to see your old friend? Look: I'm overjoyed."

"Yes, indeed I am, or may the devil take me," said Caderousse. "I know it's a weakness on my part, but I can't help it."

"And in spite of it you brought me here for some treachery."

"Why do you want to see me? We've already agreed our terms."

"Very well, then," said Andrea. "Let's accept that you are fond of me; then why have you asked me to lunch?"

"Ah now, dear friend," said Caderousse. "Was there ever a will without a codicil? But you came to have lunch, first of all, didn't you? So sit down and let's start with these sardines and fresh butter, which I put out on vine-leaves especially for you, ungrateful child. I see you're looking round my room: my four straw-seated chairs, my pictures at three francs apiece… It's not exactly the Hôtel des Princes here, is it?"

"Now, now!" Caderousse said, wiping his broad knife on his apron. "If I wasn't fond of you, would I put up with the miserable life you make me lead? Just look around: you are wearing your servant's coat, and that means you have a servant; I have none, so I'm forced to peel my own vegetables. You scoff at my cooking because you dine at the table d'hôte at the Hôtel des Princes or the Café de Paris. Well, now, I too could have a servant, I could have a tilbury and I could dine wherever I wished. And why don't I? So as not to cause any distress to my poor Benedetto, that's why. Come on, you must admit that I could, huh?" And Caderousse gave a perfectly clear look to underline his meaning.

"To see you, of course, dear boy."

Caderousse sighed, so Andrea continued: "Well, what have you to say? Your dream has come true."

"So do you, by God."

"So, you're discontented now, are you? You're not happy any more, yet at one time you asked nothing better than to live like a retired baker."

"I do?"

"I'll say it's a dream. A retired baker is rich, my dear Benedetto, he has an income."

"Yes, since I'm bringing two hundred francs with me, right now."

Caderousse shrugged. "It's humiliating," he said, "to get money in this way, money that is given reluctantly, ephemeral money, that may cease between one day and the next. You must see how I am forced to economize, to insure against your prosperity failing one day. Well, my friend, fortune is a fickle jade, as the regimental… chaplain said. I know that you're prospering, you rascal. You are going to marry Danglars' daughter."

"Yes, of course, Danglars'. Do I have to call him Baron Danglars? It would be like saying Count Benedetto. He's an old friend, Danglars, and if his memory were not so short he'd be inviting me to your wedding… since he came to mine. Yes, yes, yes, to mine! My God, he wasn't so proud in those days. He was a clerk at good Monsieur Morrel's. I've dined more than once with him and the Comte de Morcerf. There! You see what fine friends I have, and if I were to cultivate them a little we should be meeting in the same drawing-rooms."

"What! Danglars'…?"

"There now, mate," said Caderousse. "You seem to be reconciled with your old landlord?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Andrea replied, his youthful and vigorous appetite taking precedence at that moment over everything.

"Very well, Benedetto mio, but I know what I'm saying. Perhaps one day we'll put on our Sunday best and go to address some door: 'Bell-pull please!' But until then, sit down and eat."

"Come on now, your jealousy is putting rainbows in your head, Caderousse."

"Are you enjoying it, you rogue?"

Caderousse set a good example, lunching hungrily and putting in a good word for each dish as he offered it to his guest. The latter seemed to resign himself to making the best of it, bravely uncorking bottles and tucking into the bouillabaisse and the cod in breadcrumbs with garlic and oil.

"So much so that I can't understand how a man who can fry and eat such good things can possibly be disillusioned with life."

"Well, now," said Caderousse, "the trouble is that all my happiness is ruined by a single thought."

"Yes, because instead of waiting for two hundred miserable francs, you are waiting for five or six thousand, perhaps ten, or even twelve. You're a sly one, you are. Even in the old days you always had your little purses or money-boxes that you tried to hide from your poor friend Caderousse. Luckily, the said Caderousse had a way of sniffing them out."

Andrea shuddered. He always shuddered at Caderousse's ideas.

"No, no, it's the truth: believe me or not, but at the end of every month, I feel guilty."

"Really! And then I had an idea."

"So much so that yesterday I didn't want to take the two hundred francs."

"That I am living at the expense of a friend, when I have always sturdily struggled to earn my own bread."

"What can that be?"

"Oh, don't fret over that," said Andrea. "I've got plenty for two, don't you worry."

"It's a miserable business," Caderousse went on, "always having to wait until the end of the month."

"My dear Caderousse!"

Andrea shrugged philosophically, deciding to see where this was leading. "Isn't life spent waiting?" he asked. "Look at me: what do I do but wait? Well, I'm patient, aren't I?"

"Yes, you wanted to talk about it; but did you really feel guilty, then?"

"What! You'd cash in…"

"I was saying that in your place…"

"What?"

"Well, well, well," said Andrea. "That's perhaps not such a bad idea after all."

"I should cash in…"

"Oh, you say that because you're twenty-one; you can forget the past. I'm fifty and obliged to remember it. But no matter, let's get back to business."

"And how the devil do you expect me to retire on twelve hundred francs?"

"Yes, let's."

"Well, in that case," said Andrea, "why don't you take your own advice? Why not cash in a half-year, or even a whole one, and retire to Brussels? Instead of looking like a retired baker, you would seem like a fully active bankrupt: that's a step up."

"There you go again, wandering off the subject and turning the past over and over. I ask you, what's the use of harping on like that?"

"My dear friend," said Caderousse, "eat my cooking and digest my words; you won't be any the worse for it, physically or otherwise."

"Yes, I'd ask for a six-month advance, on the grounds that I wanted to go into politics and I was going to buy a farm; then, once I had the money, I'd be off."

"I'm not denying it," said Andrea. "You do sometimes have a good one. So, let's hear it."

"The more you eat," said Caderousse, baring his teeth like a laughing monkey or a growling tiger, "the more you want. Moreover, I've got a plan," he added, biting off a huge mouthful of bread with those same teeth, which were sharp and white, despite the man's age.

"Now, then, Caderousse," said Andrea. "You're getting fussy! Two months ago you were starving to death."

"In that case," Caderousse continued, "can you, without paying a sou, get me fifteen thousand francs…? No, fifteen thousand is not enough, I don't want to become an honest man for less than thirty thousand."

"Why not? Who had the plan that got us out of Monsieur Thing-ummy's place? I did, it goes without saying. And it wasn't a bad plan, after all, since we're both here."

"Tell us this plan," he said. "It must be a good one!"

Caderousse's plans terrified Andrea even more than his ideas: the ideas were only the seed, the plan was the full fruit.

"No," Andrea replied drily, "I can't."

"I don't think you can have understood me," Caderousse replied, coldly and calmly. "I said: without paying a sou."

"Don't worry, I won't, my little Benedetto. Just show me the means to make thirty thousand francs. You don't have to be involved. Just let me get on with it."

"I suppose you're not asking me to steal, so that I can ruin everything for myself, and you with me, and have both of us taken back where we came from?"

"Oh, as far as I'm concerned," said Caderousse, "I don't mind either way if I'm caught. I'm an odd fish, you know: I sometimes miss the company… I'm not heartless like you, happy if you never see your old friends again!"

"Very well, you shall have your five hundred," said Andrea. "But it's not going to be easy for me, Caderousse. You're starting to take advantage…"

This time Andrea did more than shudder: he went pale. "Come now, Caderousse," he said, "don't do anything foolish."

"All right, I'll see, I'll look for something," said Andrea.

"Meanwhile, you can increase my allowance to five hundred francs a month. I've got this idea in my head that I'd like a maid."

"Why?"

"On my word."

"Is that all? Thanks a lot."

"Five thousand francs."

"And I am going to get one."

Andrea seemed to be expecting this, because his eye shone with a brief flame, though one that was immediately extinguished. "That's true," he replied. "My protector is very good to me."

"His death."

"Because he has provided for me in his will."

"Yes, my prince; but unfortunately I have to wait."

"Huh!" said Caderousse. "You get it from a bottomless chest."

"A thousand for every hundred you will be giving me," Caderousse said. "As they say, only bastards know real good fortune. Five thousand francs a month… What the devil can you do with it all?"

"How much?"

"A lump sum… Yes, I understand. Everyone would like a lump sum."

"Believe me, it soon goes! So, like you, I would prefer a lump sum."

"Who will give it to you, then? Your prince?"

"Your dear protector!" said Caderousse. "How much does he give you every month?"

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"Five hundred thousand."

"Your prince's death?"

"What for?" asked Caderousse.

"Huh!"

"Yes. Don't you see, it explains everything. Apparently he cannot admit to me openly, but he has had me recognized by Monsieur Cavalcanti and given him fifty thousand francs for doing so."

"Not Father Cavalcanti?"

"Caderousse, are you my friend?"

"Go on."

"Right, then! Not a word."

"Who is it?"

"How did I know, since it all happened while we were inside?"

"I'm going to tell you a secret."

"Your real father?"

"I think I have found my father."

"So it did. And you say that in his will…?"

"Caderousse, it's the Count of Monte Cristo."

"I'm telling the truth."

"Yes."

"You think…? Don't worry, we're alone."

"No. Anyway, he's gone. No, the real one…"

"Come on, it's impossible."

"Well, I think…" Andrea stopped and looked around.

"Fifty thousand francs, to be your father! I would have done it for half as much; or even for twenty, no, fifteen! Why didn't you think of me, ungrateful wretch!"

"Of course: in life, to the death!"

"Listen, then."

"He leaves me five hundred thousand livres."

"Are you sure?"

"And in it…?"

Caderousse was stunned. It seemed to him that the young man's words rang like metal and he could hear showers of gold coins. "And you go into that house?" he exclaimed naïvely.

"I can't believe it!"

"Now tell me that I keep any secrets from you!"

Caderousse reflected for a moment. It was easy to see that his mind was turning over some deep thought. Then suddenly he exclaimed: "Wouldn't I love to see all that! It must be lovely!"

"He showed it to me; but that's not all. There is a codicil, as I just said."

"Oh, what a good father! A fine father! A most excellent father!" Caderousse said, twirling a plate in the air between his hands.

"Probably."

"I think so. He doesn't know his own wealth."

"He acknowledges me."

"Dammit, I can see as much, since I'm admitted to his house at all hours. The other day, a boy came from the bank with fifty thousand francs in a portfolio as big as your briefcase. Yesterday, a banker brought him one hundred thousand francs in gold."

"No, and in my view your trusting nature does you credit. And this prince of fathers, is he rich… ultra-rich?"

"Whenever I want."

"Well, this is better."

"That's a pity. I'll just have to imagine it."

"They have carpets everywhere."

"Oh, heavens! No need to wait for that," said Andrea. "Money lies around in that house like fruit in an orchard."

"You're right, but you've made my mouth water. I really must see it. I'll find a way."

"I'll introduce myself as a polisher."

"Believe me, that's the best way."

"Now, you really should take me there one day."

"Doesn't he live in the Avenue des Champs-Elysées?"

"At number thirty."

"Tell me, Andrea, when this good Monte Cristo drops his purse, it must be worth stooping to pick it up?"

"In fact, it's magnificent," Andrea said.

"No."

"Perhaps, but it's not the outside that interests me; it's indoors. There must be some fine furniture, huh?"

"How can I? As whom?"

"Have you ever seen the Tuileries?"

"Don't do anything silly, Caderousse."

"Yes. A fine house, standing alone in its own grounds, which is all you can see."

"At least help me to guess what it must be like."

"Ah, number thirty?" said Caderousse.

"No, eight or ten feet at most."

"How can I do that?"

"On either side of the fence, you see: there." Andrea went on with his plan.

"In the courtyard, tubs for orange-trees, lawns and flowerbeds."

"No."

"Any mantraps?"

"Splendid windows, so beautiful and so wide that I honestly do believe a man of your size could climb through a single pane."

"On the ground floor there's a dining-room, two drawing-rooms, a billiard-room, a stairway from the hall and a little hidden staircase."

"High walls?"

"Nothing simpler. Is it big?"

"Windows?"

"Neither too large, nor too small."

Andrea took the pen with a faint smile and began. "As I told you, the house is in its own grounds; do you see? Like this." He drew the outline of the garden, the courtyard and the house.

"That's risky," said Caderousse.

"Let's see the ground floor," said Caderousse.

"Hell! I'd need ink and paper to draw a plan for you."

"What is the general layout?"

"Here you are!" Caderousse said at once, going over to his writing-desk to fetch some white paper, ink and a quill. "There, now, put it all down on paper, my lad."

"And the stables?"

"Hell's bells!"

"Oh, they have their own house. Picture a fine storeroom on the right as you go in, where they keep the ladders. Well, on top of that there is a collection of rooms for the servants, with bells corresponding to the rooms."

"'What about it? Well, one day someone will burgle you.'"

"So where do the servants sleep, then?"

"But there are shutters?"

"What was that?"

"Nothing. I was just saying that they're expensive to install, bells. And what use are they, I ask you?"

"At one time there was a dog which used to walk around the courtyard at night, but they've taken him to the house in Auteuil -- you know, the one you visited?"

"Yes, there are, but they are never used. He's eccentric, this Count of Monte Cristo, and likes to see the sky, even at night."

"What do you think! Extravagance!"

"Yes."

"'What about it?' he asked.

"Why on earth do they have stairways, with such windows?"

"And I was saying only yesterday: 'It's unwise of you, Monsieur le Comte, because when you go to Auteuil, and take your servants, the house remains empty.'

"No, his servants are all devoted to him."

"Andrea, he must have some mechanical bureau."

"Yes."

"That's easy." Andrea took the pen. "On the first floor, as you see, there's an anteroom, a drawing-room, then on the right of that, a library and study, while on the left we have a bedroom and dressing-room. The famous bureau is in the dressing-room."

"On the first floor."

"Perhaps; there's no way of telling."

"What did he say?"

"What did he say to that?"

"He just has a walnut bureau and I've always seen the key in it."

"There must be something inside that bureau, mustn't there? Coin?"

"And no one steals from it?"

"What do you mean?"

"And where is it?"

"Yes, something that traps the thief in a cage and plays a tune. I'm told there was something of the sort at the last Exhibition."

"So, make me a plan of the first floor, dear boy, as you did of the ground floor."

"What he said was: 'What if I am burgled?'"

"Two: one here, and one here." Andrea drew two windows in the room which, on the plan, stood in a corner of the house, like a shorter rectangle joined to the long rectangle of the bedroom.

"Is there a window in this dressing-room?"

Caderousse looked at the young man as if to tear the truth from the depths of his heart; but Andrea took a cigar case out of his pocket, extracted a Havana, calmly lit it and began to smoke with an entirely natural air. "When would you like the five hundred francs?" he asked.

Caderousse was deep in thought. "So, does he often go to Auteuil?" he asked.

"That's what it means to be rich."

"Wonderful! That's the way to live!" said Caderousse. "A house in town, a house in the country."

"When you dine there, do you stay the night?"

Andrea took twenty-five louis out of his pocket.

"On the contrary, I have a high regard for them, but I don't want any."

"Why not? Do you despise them?"

"Probably."

"He invited me to dinner."

"Two or three times a week. Tomorrow, for example, he is due to spend the day and the following night there."

"Gold coins?" said Caderousse. "No, thanks!"

"And will you go to dinner."

"Are you sure?"

"Straight away, if you have them."

"If I want to. I'm quite at home in the count's house."

"As you say, then. Tomorrow, as I'm setting out for Auteuil, I'll leave them for you."

"In that case, leave it with your concierge; he's a good man, I'll come and pick it up."

"Do it. But that will be the end, won't it? You won't torment me any longer?"

"Today?"

"Never again." Caderousse had become so moody that Andrea was afraid he might be obliged to notice the change, so he pretended to be even merrier and more insouciant.

"Tomorrow. I won't have time today."

"That's right, and then the dealer will have your friend Caderousse followed, a hand will fall on his shoulder and he'll have to explain who these farmers are, paying him his fees in gold coin. Let's not be silly, dear boy. Just give me my money: round coins with the head of some monarch or other. Anyone can come by a five-franc coin."

"You must realize, I don't have five hundred on me. I would have needed to bring a broker with me to carry it."

"Can I count on it?"

"Absolutely."

"You'll gain on the exchange, idiot. Gold is worth five sous."

"Because I'm going to hire my maid in advance."

"I advise you not to boast about it," said Andrea; and, without losing his temper, as Caderousse had feared he might at this new piece of extortion, quietly handed over the ring. Caderousse examined it so closely that Andrea realized he was looking to see if the edges of the cut sparkled.

"What! You put on livery, to disguise yourself as a servant, yet you keep a diamond worth four or five thousand francs on your finger!"

"Yes, and you have such a good memory, too."

"How do you mean?" Andrea asked.

"What do you expect? I thought you wanted to turn me in for the reward."

"No, alas. But the day when I do…"

"You're full of beans," Caderousse said. "Anyone would think you'd already come into your inheritance."

"Me? What an idea! On the contrary, as a friend, I'm going to give you another piece of advice."

"To leave the diamond you've got on your finger here. I never! Do you want us to be caught? Do you want to do for the pair of us with such idiocies?"

"What?"

"Well I'll be damned! That's a good estimate. You should be an auctioneer."

"I'll remember my friends. I'll say no more."

"Which is?"

"I know about diamonds. I used to have some."

"Come, come," said Andrea, "you must be joking."

"Oh, don't worry about it; we'll soon see." He went across to the window and ran the diamond across the pane. The glass screeched.

"No, you're a good fellow underneath. I won't keep you any longer and I'll try to cure myself of my ambition."

"Confiteor!" Caderousse said, slipping the ring on his little finger. "I was wrong, but those thieving jewellers are so clever at imitating stones that one no longer dares to go and steal from one of their shops. That's another branch of the industry paralysed."

"It's a fake," said Caderousse.

"I shan't sell it, don't worry."

"But be careful that the same doesn't happen when you sell the diamond as you feared might happen with the gold."

"Well, is that it?" Andrea said. "Do you have anything else to ask me? Don't hesitate, while I'm here."

"You lucky devil!" said Caderousse. "You're going back to your lackeys, your horses, your carriage and your fiancée."

"No, not between now and the day after tomorrow, at least," the young man thought.

"What kind of dowry?"

"I told you: that's some nonsense you've dreamed up."

"Dear Benedetto," he said. "I don't think he'll be sorry to inherit; and the person who brings the day closer when he is to get his hands on five hundred thousand francs will not be his worst enemy, either."

"A million?"

"Why?"

"I must."

"Here, I hope you'll make me a good wedding present the day you marry the daughter of my friend Danglars."

"Let's say a million," said Caderousse. "You'll never have as much as I'd wish for you."

"Don't bother."

"Thank you," said Andrea. "I'll give you a week's notice."

"So I am," said Andrea.

Andrea shrugged his shoulders.

"Thank you," said the young man.

They took their leave of one another. Caderousse remained on the landing until he had seen Andrea go down the three flights, and also cross the courtyard. Only then did he hurry back inside, carefully shutting the door and, like a practised architect, started to study the plan that Andrea had left him.

"Don't mention it," Caderousse said, giving a raucous laugh. "Wait, I'll show you the way out."

"Because there's a little secret on the door, a precautionary measure that I thought I should take: a lock by Huret et Fichet, specially adapted by Gaspard Caderousse. When you're a capitalist, I'll make you one."

"I told you already…"