CHAPTER IV.
THE NEWS FROM ALGERIA.
Beauchamp, the journalist, sat at his desk in his editorial sanctumearly one bright morning in the autumn of 1841. He had gone to work longbefore his usual hour, for important movements were on foot, thepolitical atmosphere was agitated and Paris was in a state of feverishexcitement; besides, Beauchamp had that day printed in his journal adispatch from Algeria that would be certain to cause a great sensation,and, with the proper spirit of pride, the journalist desired to be athis post that he might receive the numerous congratulations his friendscould not fail to offer, as the dispatch had appeared in his paperalone.
The sanctum had not an attractive look; in fact, it was ratherdilapidated, while, in addition, the disorder occasioned by the previousnight's work had not been repaired, and all was chaos and confusion.
Beauchamp was busily engaged in glancing over the rival morning paperswhen Lucien Debray entered and seated himself at another desk. TheMinisterial Secretary smiled upon the journalist in a knowing way, andthe latter, nodding to him with an air of triumph, silently pointed tothe pile of journals he had finished examining. Lucien took them up,and without a word began scanning their contents.
"Glorious news that from the army in Algeria!" cried Chateau-Renaud,rushing into the sanctum.
"Glorious, indeed!" replied the editor, looking up from the paper overwhich he was hurriedly skimming. On the huge table at his side, as wellas beneath it, and under his feet and his capacious arm-chair, nothingwas to be seen but newspapers.
"Take a chair, Renaud, if you can find one, and help yourself to thenews. You see I have Lucien similarly engaged yonder."
The Ministerial Secretary glanced up from his papers, returned hisfriend's salutation and resumed his reading. He was dressed with hiscustomary elegance and richness, but his form and face were fuller thanwhen last before the reader, and his brown hair was besprinkled withgray.
"I congratulate you, Beauchamp, on being the first to give the news,"continued Chateau-Renaud. "Not a paper in Paris but your own has a linefrom the army this morning."
"Rather congratulate me and my paper on having a friend at court."
"Ha! and that explains the fact, otherwise inexplicable, that anopposition journal has intelligence, which only the Bureau of War couldhave anticipated! Treason--treason!"
The editor and the Secretary exchanged significant smiles.
"Oh! I don't doubt that your favors are reciprocal," continued theyoung aristocrat, laughing. "I've half a mind to be something usefulmyself--Minister--editor--anything but an idler and a law-giver--just toexperience the exquisite sensation of a new pleasure--the pleasure ofrevealing and publishing to the world something it knew not before. Why,you two fellows, in this dark and dirty little room, are the twogreatest men in Paris this morning--or were, rather, before your paper,Beauchamp, laid before the world what only you and Lucien knewpreviously. Oh! the delight, the rapture of knowing something thatnobody else knows, and then of making the revelation!"
"And this news from Algeria is really important," remarked the editor.
"Important! So important that it will be before the Chambers thismorning," replied the Secretary.
"So I supposed," said the Deputy, "and called to learn additionalparticulars, if you had any, on my way to the Chambers."
"We gave all we had, my dear Lycurgus, and for that were indebted to anofficial dispatch, telegraphed to the War Office, and faithfullyre-telegraphed to us by our well-beloved Lucien."
"It's true, then, as I have sometimes suspected, that the wires radiatefrom the Minister's sanctum to the editor's?" was the laughingrejoinder.
"It must be so, or there's witchcraft in it. There's witchcraft, at anyrate, in this new invention. Speed, secrecy, security and surety--noeastern genius of Arabian fiction can be compared to the electrictelegraph; and how Ministers or editors continued to keep the world invassalage, as they always have done, without this ready slave, seems nowscarce less wonderful than the invention itself. Instead of detractingfrom the power of the press, the telegraph renders it more powerful thanever."
"But affairs in Algeria--is not the news splendid!" cried the editor."Why did we not all become Spahis and win immortality, as some of ourgenerals have?"
"As to immortality," said the Secretary, "we should have been far morelikely to win the phantom as dead men than as living heroes."
"Debray was at the raising of the siege of Constantine," said Beauchamplaughing, "and knows all about the honors of war."
"Yes, indeed, and all about the raptures of starvation, of cold andhunger, after victory, and the ecstatic felicity of being pursued by sixBedouins, and after having slain five having my own neck encircled bythe yataghan of the sixth!"
"And how chanced it that you saved your head, Lucien?" asked the Count.
"Save it--I didn't save it; but a most excellent friend of mine--afriend in need--galloped up and saved it for me."
"Yes," replied Beauchamp, "our gallant friend, Maximilian Morrel, theCaptain of Spahis--now colonel of a regiment, and in the direct line ofpromotion to the first vacant baton--eh, Lucien? A lucky thing to savethe head of one of the War Office from a Bedouin's yataghan. Up--up--up,like a balloon, has this young Spahi risen ever since."
"You are wrong, Beauchamp. Not like a balloon. Rather like a planet.Maximilian Morrel is one of the most gallant young men in the Frencharmy, and step by step, from rank to rank, has he hewn his own path withhis good sabre, in a strong hand, nerved by a brave heart and proudambition, to the position he now holds."
"His name I see among the immortals in the dispatch of this morning.Well, well, Morrel is a splendid fellow, no doubt, but it's a splendidthing to have friends in the War Office, nevertheless, who will givethat splendor a chance to shine--will plant the lighted candle in acandlestick, and not smother its beams under a bushel."
"Morrel has now been in Africa five whole years," said the Secretary--"afew months only excepted after his marriage with Villefort's fairdaughter, Valentine, (as was said) when he was indulged with a furloughfor his honeymoon."
"She is not in Paris?" asked Beauchamp.
"No; she leads the life of a perfect recluse with her child, during herhusband's absence, at his villa somewhere in the south--near Marseilles,where the department forwards her letters."
"Yet she is said to be a magnificent woman," remarked the Count.
"Wonderful!" cried Beauchamp. "A magnificent woman and a recluse!"
"Oh! but it was a love-match of the most devoted species, you mustremember."
"True; she was to have married our friend, Franz d'Epinay."
"And died to save herself from that fate, I suppose--and afterwards wasresurrected and blessed Morrel with her hand and heart, and the mostexquisite person that even a jaded voluptuary could covet.Happy--happy--happy man!"
"Apropos of dying," said the Secretary, "do you remember how fast peopledied at M. de Villefort's house about that time?"
"Horrible! A whole family of two or three generations, one after theother! First M. and Madame de Saint-Meran--then Barrois, the old servantof M. Noirtier--then Valentine, and, last of all, Madame de Villefortand Edward, her idol. No wonder that M. le Procureur du Roi himself wentmad under such an accumulation of horrors! By the by, Debray, is M. deVillefort still an inmate of the Maison Royale de Charenton?"
"I know nothing to the contrary," replied the Secretary, who had resumedhis paper, and to whom the subject seemed not altogether agreeable. "Heis an incurable." Then, as if to turn the subject, he continued:"Apropos of the immortals of Algeria, here is a name that seems destinedeven to a more rapid apotheosis than that of the favored Morrel."
"You mean Joliette?" said the editor. "Who, in the name of all that ismysterious and heroic, is this same Joliette? I have found it impossibleto discover, with all the means at the command of the press."
"And I, with all the means at the command of the Government. All we candiscover is this--that he is a man of abou
t twenty-five; that heenlisted at Marseilles, and in less than three years has risen from theranks to the command of a battalion. His career has been mostbrilliant."
"And to whose favor does he owe his wonderful advancement, Beauchamp?"asked the Deputy, laughing.
"To that of Marshal Bugeaud, Governor-General of Algeria."
"Ah!"
"Who has indulged him with an appointment in every forlorn hope!"
"Excellent!" cried the Count. "What more could a man resolved to be amilitary immortal desire? Immortality the goal--two paths conduct toit--each sure--death--life!--the former the shorter, and, perhaps, thesurer! But there is one name I never see in the war dispatches. Do youever meet with it, Messrs. editor and Secretary--I mean the name of ourbrilliant friend, Albert de Morcerf? The rumor ran that, after thedisgrace and suicide of the Count, his father, he and his mother wentsouth, and he later to Africa."
"I have hardly seen the name of Morcerf in print since the paragraphheaded 'Yanina' in my paper, about which poor Albert was so anxious tofight me."
"Nor I," said Debray. "But where now is Madame de Morcerf? Withoutexception, she was the most splendid specimen of a woman I ever saw!"
"High praise, that!" cried the Count, laughing. "Who would suppose ourcold, calculating, ambitious, haughty, talented and opulent diplomat andaristocrat had so much blood in his veins? When before was he known toadmire anything, male or female--but himself--or, at all events, to beguilty of the bad taste of expressing that admiration?"
"Debray is right," replied the journalist, somewhat gravely. "Madame deMorcerf was, indeed, a noble and dignified woman--accomplished, lovely,dignified, amiable--"
"Stop!--stop!--in the name of all that's forbearing, be considerate ofmy weak nerves! You, too, Beauchamp. Well, she must have been a paragonto make the conquest of two of the most inveterate bachelors in allParis! But where is this marvel of excellence--pardon me, Beauchamp,"perceiving that the journalist looked yet more grave, and seemed in nomood for bantering or being bantered--"where is Madame de Morcerf at thepresent time?"
"At Marseilles, I have heard."
"And is married again?"
"No. She is yet a widow."
"And is a recluse, like Morrel's beautiful wife?"
"So says report. They dwell together."
"How romantic! The young wife, whose hero-husband is winning glory amidthe perils of war and pestilence, pours her griefs, joys andanticipations into the bosom of the young mother, who appreciates andreciprocates all, because she has a son exposed to the same perils--andboth beautiful as the morning! A charming picture! Two immortals inepaulets and sashes in the background are only wanted instead of one.But I must to the Chambers. M. Dantes is expected to speak in thetribune this morning upon his measure for the workmen."
"Do you know, Count, who this M. Dantes really is?" asked Debray.
"There's a question for a Ministerial Secretary to ask a member while ajournalist sits by! I only know of M. Dantes that he is the mosteloquent man I ever listened to. I don't mean that he's the greatestman, or the profoundest statesman, or the wisest politician, or thesagest political economist; but I do mean that, for natural powers ofpersuasion and denunciation--for natural oratory--I have never known hisrival. If Plato's maxim, 'that oratory must be estimated by itseffects,' is at all correct, then is M. Dantes the greatest orator inFrance, for the effect of his oratory is miraculous. There is a sort ofmagic in his clear, sonorous, powerful, yet most exquisitely modulatedvoice, and the wave of his arm is like that of a necromancer's wand."
"You are enthusiastic, Count," observed Beauchamp, "but very just. M.Dantes is, indeed, a remarkable man, and possessed of remarkableendowments, both of mind and body. His personal advantages arewonderful. Such a figure and grace as his are alone worth more than allthe powers of other distinguished speakers for popular effect. 'The eyesof the multitude are more eloquent than their ears,' as the EnglishShakespeare says."
"I never saw such eyes and such a face," remarked Debray, "but once inmy life. Do you remember the Count of Monte-Cristo, Messieurs?"
"We shall not soon forget him," was the reply. "But this man differsgreatly from the Count in most respects, though certainly not unlike himin others."
"True," replied the Secretary; "in manners, habits, costume and athousand other things there is a marked difference. Besides, the Countwas said to be incalculably rich, while the Deputy has every appearanceof being in very moderate circumstances. But he leads a life so retiredthat he is known only in the Chambers and in his public character. Iallude to the Deputy's person, when I speak of resemblance to thatwonderful Count, who set all Paris in a fever, and, more wonderfulstill, kept it so for a whole season. There is I know not what in hisair and manners that often recalls to me that extraordinary man. Thereare the same large and powerful eyes, the same brilliant teeth for whichthe women envied the Count so much, the same graceful and dignifiedfigure, the same peculiar voice, the same good taste in dress, and,above all, the same colorless, pallid face, as if, to borrow the idea ofthe Countess of G----, he had risen from the dead, or was a visitantfrom another world, or a vampire of this. Her celebrated friend, LordB----, she used to say, was the only man she ever knew with such acomplexion."
"But, if I recollect rightly," said Beauchamp, "the Count ofMonte-Cristo was somewhat noted for his profusion of black hair andbeard. The Deputy Dantes is so utterly out of the mode, and out of goodtaste, too, as to wear no beard, and his hair is short. His face is assmooth as a woman's, and he always wears a white cravat like a cure."
"But he is, nevertheless, one of the handsomest men in Paris," added theCount--"at least the women say so. You might add, the Deputy has manygray hairs among his black ones, and many furrows on his white brow,while Monte-Cristo had neither. Besides, M. Dantes has a handsomedaughter and a son who resembles him greatly, both well grown, while theCount was childless."
"Well, well, be his person and family what they may," said theSecretary, rising, "I wish to God the Ministry could secure his talents.I tell you, Messieurs, that man's influence over the destinies of Franceis to be almost omnipotent. His powerful mind has grasped the greatproblem of the age--remuneration for labor. The next revolution inFrance will hinge upon that--mark the prediction--and this man and hiscoadjutors, among whom Beauchamp here is one, are doing all they can tohasten the crisis. The whole soul of this remarkable man seems devotedto the elevation of the masses--the laboring classes--the people--and tothe amelioration of their condition. His efforts and those of all likehim cannot ultimately succeed. But they will have a temporary triumph,and the streets of Paris will run with blood! These men are rousingterrible agencies. They are evoking the fiends of hunger and misery,which will neither obey them nor lie down at their bidding."
"And the magicians who have summoned these foul fiends will prove theirearliest victims!" said Chateau-Renaud, in some excitement.
"Messieurs, listen a moment!" cried Beauchamp, rising. "Pardon me, butthis discussion must cease, at least here. It can lead to no goodresult. As the conductor of a reform journal, I entirely differ with youboth. But let not political differences interfere with our personalfriendship. Come, come, old friends, let us forsake this place, redolentwith politics, having a very atmosphere of discussion, and repair to theChambers, taking Very's on our way."
"Agreed!" cried the Deputy and the Secretary, and the three left thejournalist's sanctum arm in arm.