The day after the conversation that we have just recorded, the Count of Monte Cristo did indeed leave for Auteuil, with Ali, several servants and some horses which he wanted to try out. The main reason for his departure -- which he had not even considered on the previous day and about which Andrea knew no more than he did -- was the arrival of Bertuccio, who had come back from Normandy with news about the house and the boat. The house was ready -- and the corvette, delivered a week before and anchored in a small bay where it remained with its six-man crew, after completing all the necessary formalities, was already fully prepared to set sail.
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"Now," he said, "I may need to go in a single night from Paris to Tréport. I want eight relays at intervals along the route which will allow me to cover fifty leagues in ten hours."
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The count praised Bertuccio's fine efforts and told him to stand by to depart soon, since he did not intend to stay longer than a month in France.
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"Your Excellency already expressed that desire," Bertuccio replied, "and the horses are ready. I bought them and stationed them at the most convenient points, that is to say in villages where normally no one stops."
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Without replying, Baptistin went over to the count and gave him the letter. "Urgent and in haste," he said.
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"What are you doing here?" the count asked, seeing him covered in dust. "I don't think I called for you, did I?"
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"That's very good," said Monte Cristo. "I shall be staying here a day or two, so do whatever you need to."
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The count opened it and read:
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As Bertuccio was going out to order everything necessary for this stay, Baptistin opened the door. He was carrying a letter on a gilt bronze tray.
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Monsieur de Monte Cristo is warned that tonight a man will break into his house in the Champs-Elysées, in order to purloin some papers that he believes to be hidden in the bureau in the dressing-room. The Count of Monte Cristo is known to be brave enough not to turn for help to the police, whose involvement might seriously compromise the person who is giving this warning. Monsieur le Comte can administer his own justice, either by entering the dressing-room through an opening from the bedroom, or by lying in wait in the dressing-room. A lot of people and obvious precautions would surely scare away the burglar and deprive the count of this opportunity to discover an enemy who became known by chance to the writer of this warning -- a warning which he may not have the opportunity to repeat if this first attempt should fail and the wrongdoer attempt another.
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The count's first impulse was to think that this must be a thieves' trick, a crude trap warning him of a slight danger in order to expose him to a more serious one; so he was going to have the letter taken to a police commissioner -- despite (or, perhaps, because of) the instruction from his anonymous friend -- when he suddenly thought that there might, in fact, be some enemy peculiar to him, whom he alone could recognize and, in that event, take advantage of him as Fiesco did of the Moor who tried to assassinate him. The reader knows the count, so there is no need to mention that he was athletic and daring, and that his mind rebelled against the impossible with that energy peculiar to superior beings. Because of the kind of life he had led, and because of the resolve he had made -- and kept -- not to shrink from anything, the count had managed to enjoy unknown pleasures in the struggle against nature, which is God, and against the world -- which is, near enough, the Devil.
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"They don't want to steal my papers," Monte Cristo said. "They want to kill me: these are not thieves, but murderers. I do not want the prefect of police to meddle with my private affairs. Why, I am rich enough to cover the entire budget of his force."
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"And those on the first floor?"
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The count recalled Baptistin, who had left the room after bringing the letter. "Go back to Paris," he told him, "and bring all the remaining servants here. I need everyone in Auteuil."
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"You heard me," said the count. "Take your fellow-servants, from the first to the last, and leave everything in its usual state. Close the ground-floor windows, that's all."
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"Monsieur le Comte will reflect that it is a long way from the porter's lodge to the house."
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"Well, the whole house could be burgled and no one hear a sound."
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"But will no one be left in the house, Monsieur le Comte?" Baptistin asked.
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"You are an idiot, Monsieur Baptistin. If thieves were to ransack the whole house, they would not cause me as much displeasure as a service poorly carried out."
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The count gave instructions that he would dine alone and wished to be served only by Ali. He dined with his usual calm and sobriety and, after dinner, motioning to Ali to follow him, he left by the side-door, went to the Bois de Boulogne as though going for a walk, unobtrusively took the road for Paris and by nightfall was standing in front of his house in the Champs-Elysées. Everything was dark except for a faint light burning in the porter's lodge which, as Baptistin had said, was some forty yards from the house.
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Baptistin bowed.
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"Who would do that?"
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"Well?"
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"Yes, there will: the concierge."
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"You know that they are never closed. Now go."
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"Why, thieves!"
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Meanwhile Ali had laid out on a table the weapons which the count had asked for: a short carbine and a pair of double pistols with superimposed barrels that allowed the user to aim as accurately as with a target pistol. Thus armed, the count held the lives of five men in his hands.
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When he got to the bedroom, the count signalled to Ali to stop there, then went into the dressing-room, which he examined. Everything was in its usual state: the precious bureau was in its place and the key in the bureau. He double-locked it, took the key, came back to the bedroom door, removed the double tumbler on the bolt and returned.
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Monte Cristo leant against a tree and, with an eye that was rarely deceived, tested the double pathway, examined the passers-by and looked up and down the neighbouring streets, to see if anyone was waiting in ambush. After ten minutes he was convinced that no one was waiting for him. He at once ran to the little side-door with Ali, hurried in and, using his key to the back stairs, reached his bedroom without opening or stirring a single curtain, so that the concierge himself could not have guessed that the house, which he thought to be empty, was once more occupied by its principal inhabitant.
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Two hours passed in this way. It was completely dark, and yet, through this darkness, Ali, thanks to his savage nature, and the count, no doubt thanks to an acquired ability, could distinguish even the slightest rustle of the trees in the courtyard. The little light in the porter's lodge had long since been extinguished.
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It was about half-past nine. The count and Ali quickly ate a piece of bread and drank a glass of Spanish wine. Then Monte Cristo slid back one of the moving panels that allowed him to see from one room into the next. His pistols and his carbine were within reach, and Ali, beside him, held one of those little Arab axes that have not changed in design since the Crusades. Through one of the bedroom windows, parallel to that in the dressing-room, the count could see into the street.
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Presumably the attack, if one was really planned, would take place by the staircase from the ground floor and not through a window. In Monte Cristo's mind, the criminals were after his life, not his money, so they would attack the bedroom, reaching it either by the hidden staircase, or through the dressing-room window. He placed Ali in front of the door to the staircase and continued his own watch on the dressing-room.
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The window that was the object of attention was opposite the opening through which the count had been staring into the dressing-room. His eyes consequently focused on this window. He could see a thicker shadow against the darkness. Then one of the panes became entirely opaque, as if a sheet of paper had been stuck on to it from outside, and the glass cracked without falling. Through the opening a hand groped for the catch. A second later the window was opening on its hinges and a man entered. The man was alone.
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The count felt his heart beat faster. However much a man is inured to taking risks, however well prepared he is for danger, the fluttering of his heart and the pricking of his skin will always let him know the vast difference that lies between dream and reality, planning and execution.
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A quarter to twelve rang on the Invalides clock, the west wind carrying the dreary resonance of the three blows on its moist breath. As the last one faded, the count thought he could hear a faint noise from the dressing-room. This first sound -- to be precise, this first scraping sound -- was followed by another, then a third. At the fourth, the count knew what was going on. A firm and skilled hand was engaged in cutting the four sides of a window-pane with a diamond.
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However, Monte Cristo only made a sign to alert Ali; and the latter, realizing that the danger came from the direction of the dressing-room, stepped over, closer to his master.
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Monte Cristo was anxious to know what enemies and how many he had to deal with.
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When he came across to the door into the bedroom, Monte Cristo thought he was about to enter, and raised one of the pistols; but he heard simply the noise of the bolts sliding in their bronze rings. It was merely a precaution: the nocturnal visitor, not realizing the care with which the count had removed the tumblers, could now consider himself at home and in safety. Alone and free to act, the man now took something out of his pocket which the count could not make out in the darkness, put it on a small table, then went directly over to the bureau and felt around the lock, only to find that, contrary to his expectations, the key was not in place.
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At that moment he felt Ali touch his shoulder. He turned around. Ali was pointing to the window of the room where they were, which looked out on the street. Knowing the superb delicacy of his faithful servant's senses, Monte Cristo went across to the window and there saw another man emerging from the shelter of a doorway and climbing on a boundary stone, apparently so that he could see what was happening in the count's house. "So!" he said. "There are two of them: one to act, the other to keep watch." He motioned to Ali to keep his eyes on the man in the street and returned to the one in his dressing-room.
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"Here is a bold scoundrel," the count muttered.
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The glass-cutter had got inside and was taking his bearings, his arms extended in front of him. Finally he appeared to have understood everything. There were two doors in the dressing-room; he bolted each of them.
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"Oh, oh!" Monte Cristo murmured with a disappointed smile. "It's only a thief."
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But the man, in the darkness, could not find the right key; so he reached for the object which he had placed on the table, and worked a spring. At once a pale light (though bright enough to see by) cast a golden hue across the man's hands and face.
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"Don't move," the count whispered. "And leave your axe here, we won't need to be armed." He added a few more words in an even lower voice, because (stifled though it had been) the count's involuntary exclamation of surprise had been enough to startle the man, who had remained in the pose of the antique knife-grinder. What the count had said to Ali was an order, because he at once tiptoed away and took down a black cloak and a three-cornered hat from the wall of the alcove. Meanwhile Monte Cristo rapidly removed his frock-coat, his waistcoat and his shirt. Now, by the ray of light glowing through the hole in the panelling, you could see that the count was wearing on his chest one of those finely woven and pliable tunics of mail; in a France where people are no longer afraid of being knifed, the last person to wear one of these was probably Louis XVI, who did fear a dagger in his chest -- but died from an axe to the head.
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But the glass-cutter was a resourceful fellow, who had made provision for every eventuality. The count soon heard the clink of iron on iron made by the rustling of that bunch of shapeless keys that locksmiths bring when you call for them to open a door, and which thieves call skeleton keys; or, if they are French thieves, rossignols, which means "nightingales", no doubt because of the pleasure they experience on listening to their nocturnal song when they grate against the bolt of a lock.
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"Well, I never!" said Monte Cristo, starting back in surprise. "It's…"
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Ali raised his axe.
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Meanwhile the man had heard nothing more, so he got up and, while Monte Cristo was changing his appearance, went back to the bureau and began to crack the lock with his "nightingale".
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The mail-coat soon vanished under a long soutane, as the count's hair did under a tonsured wig. The triangular hat, on top of the wig, completed the count's transformation into an abbé.
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"Very well," the count muttered, doubtless aware of some secret of the lock-smith's art unknown to the lockpick, skilled though he was. "You'll be at it for a few minutes." And he went to the window.
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The man whom he had seen climb on to a boundary stone had got down and was still walking up and down in the street; but oddly, instead of watching for anyone who might come, either along the Avenue des Champs-Elysées or down the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, he appeared to be concerned only with what was happening at the count's: all his movements were designed to let him see what was going on in the dressing-room.
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Suddenly Monte Cristo struck his forehead and allowed a silent laugh to play across his lips. Then he went over to Ali and whispered: "Stay here, hiding in the dark, and, whatever noise you may hear or whatever may happen, do not come in and show yourself unless I call you by name."
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Ali nodded to show that he had heard and that he would obey.
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At this, Monte Cristo took a ready-lighted candle out of a cupboard and, at the moment when the thief was concentrating most attentively on his lock, quietly opened the door, making sure that the light in his hand completely illuminated his face. The door opened so quietly that the thief did not hear it. But, to his amazement, he suddenly saw the room light up. He swung around.
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"Abbé Busoni!" cried Caderousse. And, quite at a loss to explain how this strange apparition had reached him, since he had locked the doors, he dropped his bunch of skeleton keys and remained motionless, as though struck dumb with astonishment. The count stepped between Caderousse and the window, cutting the terrified thief off from his only route of escape.
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"Well, good evening, dear Monsieur Caderousse," Monte Cristo said. "What the devil are you doing here at this hour?"
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"Abbé Busoni!" Caderousse repeated, staring at the count in horror.
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"Yes, indeed, Abbé Busoni," Monte Cristo went on. "In person; and I am glad that you recognize me, Monsieur Caderousse, because it shows you have a good memory. If I'm not mistaken, it's nearly ten years since we met."
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"So, are we trying to rob the Count of Monte Cristo?" asked the counterfeit abbé.
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This calm, this irony, this power filled Caderousse with a dizzying sense of terror. "The abbé! The abbé!" he muttered, his hands clasped and his teeth chattering.
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Caderousse was knotting his cravat around his neck, looking for a corner to hide in or a hole down which he might vanish.
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"A broken window-pane," the count went on, "a dark lantern, a bunch of skeleton keys, a lock half forced… It seems clear enough."
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"Monsieur l'Abbé," Caderousse muttered, trying to reach the window, while the count pitilessly barred his way. "Father, I don't know… Please believe me… I swear that…"
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"Monsieur l'Abbé, as you seem to know everything, you must know that it was not me; it was La Carconte. That was acknowledged at the trial, since they only sentenced me to the galleys."
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"Come, now," said the count. "I see you have not changed, my fine murderer."
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"So, did you serve your time, since here you are trying to have yourself sent back for another term?"
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"Ah!" said Caderousse. "But I did promise…"
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"So, you're breaking your parole?" Monte Cristo interrupted.
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"Father, I gave way to temptation…"
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"And necessity…"
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"An unfortunate lapse which, if I'm not mistaken, will lead you to the block. Too bad, too bad, diavolo! -- as worldly folk say in my country."
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"I'm not tempted to."
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"Whoever it was did society a rare favour."
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"Forgive me, Monsieur l'Abbé," said Caderousse. "You saved me once, save me a second time."
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"All criminals say that."
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"Spare me that," Busoni said with contempt. "Necessity may make a man beg for alms or steal a loaf at the baker's door, but not come and crack the lock of a bureau in a house that he thinks is uninhabited. When the jeweller Joannès had just paid you forty-five thousand francs in exchange for the diamond that I gave you, and you killed him so that you could have both the diamond and the money, was that also necessity?"
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"No, father, someone released me."
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"Alas, yes," said Caderousse, deeply unsure of himself.
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"Are you alone, father?" Caderousse asked, clasping his hands. "Or do you have the police waiting, ready to take me in?"
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"I know him, so I shall know if you are lying."
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"Oh, Monsieur l'Abbé!" Caderousse cried, clasping his hands and coming towards the count. "I can tell you, you are my saviour!"
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"Not me, but a young Corsican who was my fellow convict."
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"We were working at Saint-Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know Saint-Mandrier?"
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"He had no other; he was a foundling."
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"So the young man escaped with you?"
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"Lord Wilmore."
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"Well, while we were sleeping, from twelve to one…"
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"What was his name?"
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"Oh, yes, father. I swear on my honour!"
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"What was this Corsican's name?"
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"An Englishman."
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"I am entirely alone," said the abbé. "And I still feel pity for you. I shall let you go, at the risk of whatever new misfortune my weakness may bring, if you tell me the whole truth."
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"So this Englishman protected you?"
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"Benedetto."
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"That's a Christian name."
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"Monsieur l'Abbé, I'm telling you the absolute truth."
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"How?"
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"Yes."
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"You claim you were released from hard labour?"
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"I do."
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"Who did that?"
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"Convicts taking a siesta! Poor creatures!" said the abbé.
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"As best I could."
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"Monsieur l'Abbé!"
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Caderousse looked at him in terror.
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"Fortunately for dogs," said Monte Cristo.
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"Truly, I don't. We parted company at Hyères." And, to give more force to his words, Caderousse took another step towards the abbé, who remained calm and questioning, not moving from the spot.
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"You are lying!" Abbé Busoni said, in tones of unmistakable authority.
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"Oh, Monsieur l'Abbé…"
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"You have been living on the money he has given you," the count continued.
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"You are lying! The man is still your friend, and perhaps you may even be using him as your accomplice?"
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"I have no idea."
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"But you must know."
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"How have you managed to survive since you left Toulon? Answer me!"
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"What became of this Benedetto?"
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"You're lying!" the abbé said for the third time, in an even more compelling voice.
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"So, while the others were taking a siesta, we went a little way off, sawed through our leg-irons with a file that the Englishman had got to us and escaped by swimming."
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"Dammit," said Caderousse. "No one can work all the time. We are not dogs."
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"You are right. It is not your place to warn Monsieur Danglars, but mine."
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"The Count of Monte Cristo, the same in whose house we are."
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"So, he is the young man whom my friend, the Count of Monte Cristo, receives in his home, and who is engaged to Mademoiselle Danglars?"
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"He is called Andrea Cavalcanti."
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"Why should I stand in the way of a comrade's success?"
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"By God, he must be, since the count has found him a false parent, the count gives him forty thousand francs a month and the count is leaving him five hundred thousand francs in his will."
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"And you would allow this, you wretch! Knowing his life and his crimes?"
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"Yes, it's true," said Caderousse. "Benedetto became the son of a great nobleman."
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"The very same."
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"Benedetto is the count's son?" Monte Cristo asked, astonished in his turn.
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"And what is this nobleman's name?"
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"Ah! Ah!" said the fake abbé, starting to understand. "And what name is this young man using in the meantime?"
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"The illegitimate son."
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"How can he be the son of a great nobleman?"
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"Don't do that, father!"
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"Why not?"
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"Monsieur l'Abbé!" Caderousse said, coming still closer.
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"To whom?"
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"Because you would lose us our living."
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"Do you think that, in order to ensure a living for wretches like you, I should become a party to their deception and an accomplice in their crime?"
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"To Monsieur Danglars."
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"I shall tell everything."
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"By the devil and all his works!" cried Caderousse, taking an open knife from under his coat and striking the count full in the chest. "You will say nothing, Abbé!"
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To his great astonishment, instead of burying itself in the count's chest, the dagger glanced off, blunted. At the same time, the count grasped the murderer's wrist in his left hand and twisted it with such force that the knife fell from his numbed fingers and Caderousse gave a cry of pain. But instead of stopping at this cry, the count continued to twist the bandit's wrist until he fell to the ground, at first on his knees, and then face downwards, his arm dislocated. The count put his foot on the man's head and said: "I don't know what is stopping me from breaking your head, scoundrel!"
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"I can't write, Monsieur l'Abbé."
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"Begorrah, what a grip you have, father!" he said, rubbing an arm bruised by the sinewy vice that had gripped it. "By God, what a grip!"
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Monsieur, the man whom you are receiving in your house and to whom you intend to give your daughter's hand, is a former convict, who escaped with me from the prison at Toulon. His number was 59 and mine 58. He was called Benedetto, but he does not himself know his real name, having never known his parents.
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"Be quiet. God gives me the strength to tame a wild beast like yourself. I act in His name. Remember that, wretch; sparing you at this moment is also in accordance with the will of God."
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"Ouch!" said Caderousse, still in pain.
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"Mercy, mercy!" cried Caderousse.
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"You are lying. Take the pen and write."
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"Take this pen and paper and write what I tell you."
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The count took away his foot. "Get up!" he said. Caderousse did as he was told.
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Caderousse, overwhelmed by this superior power, sat down and wrote:
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"Sign!" the count ordered.
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"But do you want to ruin me?"
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The abbé took the letter. "That's good," he said. "Now, go."
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"Monsieur l'Abbé," said Caderousse. "Try one last time."
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"Which way?"
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"The address: To Monsieur le Baron Danglars, banker, rue de la Chaussée-d'Antin."
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Caderousse wrote the address.
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"What do you want to do with me?"
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"You came in by it."
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"You are an idiot and a coward."
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"Then why not open the door to me?"
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"If I wanted to ruin you, idiot, I should take you to the first officer of the watch. In any case, it is likely that by the time the letter reaches the person to whom it is addressed, you will have nothing more to fear. So sign it."
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Caderousse signed.
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"What is the point in waking the concierge?"
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"Are you planning something against me, father?"
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"Are you asking me to leave by this window?"
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"The way you came."
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"Monsieur l'Abbé, tell me that you don't want me dead."
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"I want what God wants."
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"I'm asking you. I tried to make you into a happy man, and I only created a murderer!"
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"But swear to me that you will not strike me while I am going down."
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"You fool, what could I be planning?"
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Though still not entirely reassured by the promise, Caderousse climbed out of the window and put his foot on the ladder. There he paused, shivering.
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"Now, go down it," said the abbé, folding his arms. Caderousse started to realize that he had nothing to fear from that side, and went down. As he did so, the count held up the candle, so that from the Champs-Elysées one could see this man coming out of the window, lit by another.
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"As true as I'm a Christian," Caderousse stammered, shrinking back, "you're scaring me to death!"
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"Whom do I have to fear, except you?"
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"If you return home safe and sound, leave Paris, leave France; and wherever you are, as long as you live an honest life, I shall ensure that you receive a small salary. Because, if you get home safe and sound, well, then…"
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"Well, I shall think that God has pardoned you and I shall do the same."
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"Well, then?" Caderousse asked, trembling.
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"Yes," said Caderousse.
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"Go!" said the count, pointing to the window.
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"If you return home safe and sound…"
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"Very well," said the count. "You know I am a man of my word?"
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"But what are you doing, father?" Caderousse said. "Suppose the watch were to go past." And he blew out the candle. Then he continued to go down the ladder, but it was not until he felt the earth of the garden under his feet that he felt truly secure.
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Caderousse slowly climbed the ladder and, reaching the top rungs, put his head above the parapet to make sure that the street was empty. No one was to be seen, no sound to be heard. One o'clock struck at the Invalides.
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Monte Cristo went back into his bedroom and glanced quickly from the garden to the street. First of all he saw Caderousse, after reaching the ground, walk around the garden and place his ladder at the far end of the wall, so as to leave by a different place from the one where he had entered. Then, looking from the garden to the street, he saw the man, who had seemed to be waiting there, run along the street on the far side of the wall and station himself at the very corner near which Caderousse was about to descend.
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At that, Caderousse sat astride the top of the wall and, drawing the ladder up, passed it over to the other side and prepared to go down; or, rather, to slide down the two uprights, which he did with a degree of skill that proved how accustomed he was to the operation.
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This mournful cry pierced the darkness. The door to the hidden stairway flew open, then the little door into the garden, and Ali and his master hurried out, carrying lights.
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Caderousse, hearing the footsteps fade in the distance, lifted himself on his elbow and, making one final effort, cried faintly: "Murder! I am dying! Help me, Monsieur l'Abbé!"
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The murderer, seeing that he could no longer cry out, lifted his head by the hair. Caderousse's eyes were closed and his mouth twisted. The murderer, thinking he was dead, let his head fall back and vanished.
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However, once he had started to let himself slide, he was unable to stop. When he was half-way down, he saw a man dash out of the shadows -- but to no avail; he saw an arm raised at the very moment he reached the ground -- but to no avail: before he could defend himself, the arm struck him so savagely in the back that he let go of the ladder and he cried out: "Help!" A second blow followed almost immediately, striking him in the side, and he fell down, crying: "Murder!" And finally, as he writhed on the ground, his adversary grasped his hair and struck him another blow on the chest. This time Caderousse tried to cry out again, but could do no more than groan: he groaned, and three streams of blood flowed from his three stab wounds.
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