Eugénie, instead of bowing under the blow, rose to meet it. ‘Ruined!’ she said.
‘You have hit on the very word, my dear girl, the right word,’ said Danglars, rummaging around his chest with his hands, while his coarse features kept the smile of a man who might be deficient in heart but not in wit. ‘Ruined! Precisely.’
‘Ah!’ said Eugénie.
‘Yes, ruined! Well, now the dreadful secret’s out, as the tragic poets say. So listen here, my dear girl, while I tell you how the disaster can be reduced, not for me, but for you.’
‘Oh, you know very little about the human face, Monsieur,’ Eugénie exclaimed, ‘if you imagine that I deplore the catastrophe you are describing for my own sake.
‘What does it matter if I am ruined? Haven’t I still got my talent? Why should I, like Pasta, Malibran or Grisi,3 not make for myself what you could never have given me, however great your fortune: an income of one hundred or one hundred and fifty thousand livres that I owe to myself alone and which, instead of reaching me like the miserable twelve thousand francs that you used to give me, with sour looks and reproachful reflections on my prodigality, will come with clapping, cheers and flowers? And even if I do not have this talent – your smile suggests you doubt that I do – shall I not still have that passionate love of independence which will always be more important to me than any treasure and which with me even takes precedence over the instinct of self-preservation?
‘No, I am not sorry for myself, because I shall always manage to get by: I shall still have my books, my pencils and my piano, things which are not expensive and which I shall always be able to obtain. And if you think I am sorry for Madame Danglars, then there too you can think again. Either I am very mistaken, or my mother has taken every necessary precaution to ensure that the catastrophe threatening you will pass her by. I hope she has managed to protect herself; she was certainly not distracted in her fortune-hunting by her concern for me because, thank heaven, she left me all my independence on the excuse that I liked my freedom.
‘Oh, no, Monsieur, since my childhood I have seen too many things going on around me, and understood them too well, for misfortune to make any more impression on me than it ought. Ever since I can remember, no one has loved me – too bad! And this has naturally led me to love nobody – so much the better! There you have my credo.’
‘In that case,’ Danglars said, pale with an anger which did not originate in injured paternal love, ‘Mademoiselle… In that case, do you persist in wishing to bring about my ruin?’
‘Your ruin!’ said Eugénie. ‘I, bring about your ruin? What do you mean? I don’t follow you.’
‘I’m glad to hear it: that leaves me a ray of hope. Listen.’
‘I’m listening,’ said Eugénie, staring so hard at her father that he had to make an effort not to lower his eyes beneath the young woman’s powerful gaze.
‘Monsieur Cavalcanti is marrying you,’ Danglars went on. ‘And in doing so he will bring a dowry of three million which he will invest with me.’
‘Splendid,’ said Eugénie with utter contempt, smoothing her gloves against one another.
‘Do you think I would hold those three million against you?’ said Danglars. ‘Not at all. Those three million are intended to produce at least ten more. With another banker, a colleague of mine, I have obtained a concession on a railway, the only industry which nowadays offers those fabulous chances of immediate success that Law managed to convince the good people of Paris, who are always enchanted by speculation, were to be found in some imaginary Mississippi.4 By my estimate, a millionth of a rail should yield the same as formerly an acre of fallow land on the banks of the Ohio. It’s a mortgage investment, which is progressive, as you see, since one will obtain at least ten, fifteen, twenty or a hundred pounds of iron in exchange for one’s money. Well, a week from now, I have to put in four millions in my name. As I have said, these four millions will produce ten or twelve.’
‘But when I visited you, the day before yesterday, Monsieur, as you must remember,’ Eugénie went on, ‘I saw you cashing in – that is the term, I believe? – five and a half million. You even showed me it in two treasury bonds, and you were surprised that a piece of paper which was so valuable didn’t dazzle me like a flash of lightning.’
‘Yes, but those five and a half million are not mine; they are simply a proof of the confidence that people have in me. My title as a people’s banker has gained me the confidence of the hospitals, and those five and a half million belong to them. At any other time I should not hesitate to make use of them, but today people know the great losses I have made and, as I told you, credit is starting to pull away from me. At any moment the authorities could reclaim the deposit and, if I have spent it on something else, I shall be forced into a shameful bankruptcy. Believe me, I have no objection to bankruptcy, as long as it makes a man richer and doesn’t ruin him. Either you marry Monsieur Cavalcanti and I get the three million from the dowry, or else people will think that I am to get them; then my credit will strengthen and my fortune, which for the past month or two has been slipping into a bottomless pit in front of me, because of some incredible ill-luck, will be re-established. Do you follow me?’
‘Yes. You are pawning me for three million: am I right?’
‘The larger the sum, the more flattering it is. It gives you some idea of your value.’
‘Thank you. One final word, Monsieur. Do you promise me to use the amount of this dowry that Monsieur Cavalcanti is to bring, for as long as you wish, but not to touch the capital? This is not a matter of selfishness, but of scruple. I am quite willing to serve as the instrument for rebuilding your fortune, but I don’t wish to be your accomplice in the ruin of others.’
‘But I’m telling you that with these three million…’
‘Do you think you can get by, Monsieur, without having to touch the three million?’
‘I hope so, provided that the marriage strengthens my credit.’
‘Could you pay Monsieur Cavalcanti the five hundred thousand francs that you are giving me for my contract?’
‘He will get them when he comes back from the town hall.’
‘Good!’
‘Why, good? What do you mean?’
‘I mean that, while asking me for my signature, you will leave me entirely free in myself?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then, “good”. As I told you, Monsieur, I am ready to marry Monsieur Cavalcanti.’
‘But what do you have in mind?’
‘That’s my secret. Where would I get my superiority over you if, knowing your secret, I were to entrust you with mine?’
Danglars bit his lip. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you are prepared to carry out the few official visits that are absolutely necessary?’
‘Yes,’ Eugénie replied.
‘And to sign the contract in three days?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I must say “good” in my turn.’ And he took his daughter’s hand and pressed it between his own.
However, what was extraordinary was that, while their hands were joined, the father did not dare to say: ‘Thank you, my child.’ And the daughter had no smile for her father.
‘Is the meeting over?’ Eugénie asked.
Danglars nodded to show that he had nothing more to say.
Five minutes later the piano was sounding under the fingers of Mlle d’Armilly, and Mlle Danglars was singing Brabantio’s curse from Desdemona.5
At the end of the piece, Etienne came in and told Eugénie that the horses were harnessed and that the baroness was waiting for them to go visiting. We have already seen how the two women went to the Villeforts’, then left to continue their rounds.
XCVI
THE MARRIAGE CONTRACT
Three days after the episode that we have just described, that is to say at around five o’clock in the afternoon on the day appointed for signing the contract of marriage between Mlle Eugénie Danglars and Andrea Cavalcanti, whom the banker i
nsisted on entitling ‘Prince’, a fresh breeze rustled all the leaves in the little garden in front of the Count of Monte Cristo’s house. He was getting ready to go out. His horses were waiting for him, pawing the ground with their hoofs, restrained by the coachman who had already been sitting on his box for a quarter of an hour. At this moment, the elegant phaeton which we have already had occasion to meet several times, particularly during the evening at Auteuil, swung rapidly round the gatehouse and ejected (rather than deposited) on the steps leading up to the house Monsieur Andrea Cavalcanti, as gilded and radiant as if he, for his part, were on the point of marrying a princess.
He enquired after the count’s health with his usual familiarity and, bounding lightly up to the first floor, met Monte Cristo himself at the top of the stairs. When he saw the young man, the count stopped. As for Cavalcanti, he was in full flight and when he was launched nothing would stop him.
‘Ah, good day, my dear Monte Cristo,’ he said.
‘Monsieur Andrea!’ the other said, in his half-mocking tone. ‘How are you?’
‘Excellent, as you see. I have come to tell you lots of things – but, first, are you coming in or going out?’
‘I was going out, Monsieur.’
‘Well, then, so as not to delay you, I’ll get into your coach, if I may, and Tom will follow behind, with my phaeton in tow.’
‘No,’ the count said, with an imperceptible smile of contempt, not wanting to be seen in the young man’s company. ‘No, I prefer to listen to what you have to say here, my dear Monsieur Andrea. One can speak better in a room where there is no coachman to catch what you say.’
The count led the way into a little drawing-room on the first floor, sat down, crossed his legs and motioned to the young man to take a seat.
Andrea adopted his most jovial expression. ‘You know, Count,’ he said, ‘the ceremony takes place this evening. The contract will be signed at the father-in-law’s, at nine o’clock.’
‘Really?’ Monte Cristo asked.
‘What! Is this news to you? Didn’t Monsieur Danglars inform you of this solemn occasion?’
‘Yes, he did,’ the count said. ‘I had a letter from him yesterday, but I don’t think any time was mentioned in it.’
‘That’s possible. I suppose my father-in-law was relying on word getting around.’
‘Well, now,’ Monte Cristo said, ‘you’re happy then, Monsieur Cavalcanti. That’s a very desirable match you are entering; and Mademoiselle Danglars is pretty.’
‘She is,’ Cavalcanti replied, with a good deal of modesty.
‘And most of all, she is very rich, or at least so I understand,’ said Monte Cristo.
‘Very rich, do you think?’ the young man repeated.
‘No doubt of it. They say that Monsieur Danglars hides at least half his wealth.’
‘And he admits to fifteen or twenty million,’ Andrea said, his eyes shining with joy.
‘Besides which,’ Monte Cristo added, ‘he is on the point of engaging in a form of speculation that is already a bit overdone in the United States and in England, but quite new in France.’
‘Yes, yes, I know what you mean: it’s the railway for which he has just been awarded the contract, I suppose?’
‘Precisely! The general view is that he will make at least ten million on the affair.’
‘Ten million? Do you really think so? Marvellous…’ said Cavalcanti, intoxicated by the metallic sound of these golden words.
‘Not to mention,’ Monte Cristo went on, ‘that this whole fortune will revert to you, which is only right, since Mademoiselle Danglars is an only child. In any case, your own fortune is almost as great as that of your fiancée, at least, so your father told me. But let’s put aside these money matters. Do you know, Monsieur Andrea, that you have managed this business quite neatly and skilfully?’
‘Not bad,’ said the young man. ‘Not bad at all: I am a born diplomat.’
‘Well, you shall be one. You know, diplomacy is not learnt; it’s a matter of instinct… So, this is a love match for you?’
‘Indeed, I fear it is,’ Andrea replied, in the tone of voice he had heard Dorante or Valère using to answer Alceste in the Théâtre Français.1
‘And does she love you a little?’
‘She must,’ Andrea said, with a victor’s smile, ‘since she’s marrying me. But let’s not forget one very important thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘That I was greatly helped in all this.’
‘Pooh!’
‘But, certainly.’
‘By events?’
‘No, by you.’
‘By me? Come, come, Prince,’ Monte Cristo said, ironically stressing the title. ‘What could I do for you? Were not your name, your social standing and your personal qualities enough?’
‘No,’ said Andrea, ‘they weren’t. And, Monsieur le Comte, whatever you say, I maintain that the position of a man such as yourself did more than my name, my social standing and my personal qualities.’
‘You are utterly mistaken, Monsieur,’ Monte Cristo said, grasping the young man’s treacherous skill and the implication of his words. ‘You gained my protection only after I had enquired into the influence and wealth of your respected father. For who allowed me the honour of knowing you, when I had never seen you in my life, either you or your illustrious sire? It was two close friends of mine, Lord Wilmore and Abbé Busoni. What encouraged me, not to serve as a guarantor for you, but to support you? Your father’s name, which is so well known and honoured in Italy. Personally, I don’t know you.’
The count’s calm and easy manner gave Andrea to understand that for the time being he was in the grasp of a stronger hand than his own and that its grip would not easily be broken.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Does my father really have a huge fortune, Count?’
‘It appears so, Monsieur,’ Monte Cristo answered.
‘Do you know if the dowry he promised me has arrived?’
‘I have received the advice note.’
‘And the three million?’
‘In all probability the three million are on their way.’
‘So I shall really have them?’
‘Dammit!’ the count said. ‘It doesn’t seem to me, Monsieur, that you have lacked for money so far!’
Andrea was so surprised that he could not prevent himself from pausing to think for a moment. Then, coming out of his reverie, he said: ‘Monsieur, I have just one request left to make of you, and this one you will understand, however disagreeable it may be.’
‘Tell me,’ said Monte Cristo.
‘Thanks to my wealth, I have been brought into contact with many distinguished people and, for the time being at least, I have a host of friends. But in marrying as I shall do, before all of Parisian society, I should be sponsored by someone with a famous name and, failing my father’s hand, it should be that of some powerful man who will lead me to the altar. My father never comes to Paris, does he?’
‘He is old, covered in wounds and, he says, suffers mortal agonies every time he travels.’
‘I understand. Well, I have a request to make of you.’
‘Of me?’
‘Yes, you.’
‘Good Lord, what is it?’
‘That you should take his place.’
‘What! My dear fellow, after the various contacts that you have had with me, do you know me so little that you could make such a request?
‘Ask me for the loan of half a million and, though it’s an unusually large sum, I swear that the request would be less of a burden to me. You should know – I thought I had already told you – that when the Count of Monte Cristo is involved in any of the things of this world, particularly in spiritual matters, he has never ceased to regard them with the scruples, I might even say the superstitions, of an Oriental.
‘I have a seraglio in Cairo, another in Smyrna and another in Constantinople… And you ask me to preside at a wedding! Never!’
‘
So you are refusing me?’
‘Outright. Even if you were my son, or my brother, I should refuse in the same way.’
‘Well, I never!’ Andrea said, disappointed. ‘So what is to be done?’
‘You have a hundred friends, as you said yourself.’
‘Yes, but you were the person who introduced me to Monsieur Danglars.’
‘Not at all! Let’s get the facts straight: I arranged for you to have dinner with him in Auteuil, and you introduced yourself. Why, it’s entirely different!’
‘Yes, but my marriage… you helped…’
‘I did? In no way, believe me. Remember what I said to you when you came to ask me to make the proposal: I never matchmake, my dear Prince, it’s an absolute rule with me.’
Andrea bit his lips. ‘But you will at least be there?’
‘All of Parisian society will be coming?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Then I shall be there with the rest,’ the count said.
‘Will you sign the contract?’
‘I see no objection; my scruples don’t extend that far.’
‘Well, then, if you will not agree to anything more, I shall have to make do with what you will give me. But one final word, Count.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I need some advice.’
‘Beware! A piece of advice is worse than a helping hand.’
‘Oh, you can give me this without compromising yourself.’
‘Tell me, then.’
‘My wife’s dowry is five hundred thousand livres.’
‘That’s the figure that Monsieur Danglars told me himself.’
‘Should I take it or deposit it with the lawyers?’
‘Here is how things are usually done, when the parties want to show some gallantry: at the time of the contract, your two notaries agree to meet the following day or the one after. On the appointed day, they exchange the two dowries, each giving the other a receipt. Then, once the marriage has been celebrated, they put the millions at your disposal, as the one in charge of the joint estate.’
‘The reason I ask,’ Andrea said, with ill-disguised unease, ‘is that I thought I understood my father-in-law to say that he intended to invest our funds in the famous railway that you were speaking about a little while ago.’