The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre Dumas
wiped away the perspiration steaming from his brow, and slowly entered the arbour, whose shade seemed to restore somewhat of calmness to his senses, and whose coolness, somewhat of refreshment to his exhausted body.
“Good day,” said he. “You called me, didn’t you?” And he fell rather than sat down on one of the seats which surrounded the table.
“I called you because you were running like a madman; and I was afraid you would throw yourself into the sea,” said Caderousse, laughing. “Why! when a man has friends, they are not only to offer him a glass of wine, but, moreover, to prevent his swallowing three or four pints of water unnecessarily!”
Fernand gave a groan, which resembled a sob, and dropped his head into his hands, his elbows leaning on the table.
“Well, Fernand, I must say,” said Caderousse, beginning the conversation, with that brutality of the common people, in which curiosity destroys all diplomacy, “you look uncommonly like a rejected lover;” and he burst into a hoarse laugh.
“Bah!” said Danglars, “a lad of his make was not born to be unhappy in love. You are laughing at him, Caderousse!”
“No,” he replied, “only hark how he sighs! Come, come, Fernand!” said Caderousse, “hold up your head and answer us. It’s not polite not to reply to friends who ask news of your health.”
“My health is well enough,” said Fernand, clenching his hands without raising his head.
“Ah! you see, Danglars,” said Caderousse, winking at his friend, “this it is, Fernand whom you see here is a good and brave Catalan, one of the best fishermen in Marseilles, and he is in love with a very fine girl, named Mercédès; but it appears, unfortunately, that the fine girl is in love with the second in command on board the Pharaon; and, as the Pharaon arrived today—why, you understand!”
“No, I do not understand,” said Danglars.
“Poor Fernand has been dismissed,” continued Caderousse.
“Well, and what then?” said Fernand, lifting up his head, and looking at Caderousse like a man who looks for some one on whom to vent his anger; “Mercédès is not accountable to any person, is she? Is she not free to love whomsoever she will?”
“Oh! if you take it in that sense,” said Caderousse, “it is another thing! But I thought you were a Catalan, and they told me the Catalans were not men to allow themselves to be supplanted by a rival. It was even told me that Fernand, especially, was terrible in his vengeance.”
Fernand smiled piteously. “A lover is never terrible,” he said.
“Poor fellow!” remarked Danglars, affecting to pity the young man from the bottom of his heart. “Why, you see, he did not expect to see Dantès return so suddenly! he thought he was dead, perhaps; or, perchance, faithless! These things always come on us more severely when they come suddenly.”
“Ah, ma foi, under any circumstances!” said Caderousse, who drank as he spoke, and on whom the fumes of the wine of La Malgue began to take effect,—“under any circumstances Fernand is not the only person put out by the fortunate arrival of Dantès; is he, Danglars?”
“No, you are right—and I should say that would bring him ill luck.”
“Well, never mind,” answered Caderousse, pouring out a glass of wine for Fernand, and filling his own for the eighth or ninth time, whilst Danglars had merely sipped his. “Never mind—in the meantime he marries Mercédès—the lovely Mercédès—at least, he returns to do that.”
During this time Danglars fixed his piercing glance on the young man, on whose heart Caderousse’s words fell like molten lead.
“And when is the wedding to be?” he asked.
“Oh, it is not yet fixed!” murmured Fernand.
“No, but it will be,” said Caderousse, “as surely as Dantès will be captain of the Pharaon—eh, Danglars?”
Danglars shuddered at this unexpected attack, and turned to Caderousse, whose countenance he scrutinised to try and detect whether the blow was premeditated; but he read nothing but envy in a countenance already rendered brutal and stupid by drunkenness.
“Well,” said he, filling the glasses, “let us drink to Captain Edmond Dantès, husband of the beautiful Catalane!”
Caderousse raised his glass to his mouth with unsteady hand, and swallowed the contents at a gulp. Fernand dashed his on the ground.
“Eh! eh! eh!” stammered Caderousse. “What do I see down there by the wall in the direction of the Catalans? Look, Fernand! your eyes are better than mine. I believe I see double. You know wine is a deceiver; but I should say it was two lovers walking side by side, and hand in hand. Heaven forgive me! they do not know that we can see them, and they are actually embracing!”
Danglars did not lose one pang that Fernand endured.
“Do you know them, M. Fernand?” he said.
“Yes,” was the reply, in a low voice. “It is M. Edmond and Mademoiselle Mercédès!”
“Ah! see there, now!” said Caderousse; “and I did not recognise them! Holla, Dantès! holla, lovely damsel! Come this way, and let us know when the wedding is to be, for M. Fernand here is so obstinate he will not tell us!”
“Hold your tongue! will you?” said Danglars, pretending to restrain Caderousse, who, with the tenacity of drunkards, leaned out of the arbour. “Try to stand upright, and let the lovers make love without interruption. See, look at M. Fernand, and follow his example—he is well behaved!”
Fernand, probably excited beyond bearing, pricked by Danglars, as the bull is by the banderilleros, was about to rush out; for he had risen from his seat, and seemed to be collecting himself to dash headlong upon his rival, when Mercédès, smiling and graceful, lifted up her lovely head, and showed her clear and bright eye. At this Fernand recollected her threat of dying if Edmond died, and dropped again heavily on his seat.
Danglars looked at the two men, one after the other, the one brutalised by liquor, the other overwhelmed with love.
“I shall extract nothing from these fools,” he muttered; “and I am very much afraid of being here between a drunkard and a coward. Yet this Catalan has eyes that glisten like the Spaniards, Sicilians, and Calabrians, who practise revenge so well. Unquestionably, Edmond’s star is in the ascendant, and he will marry the splendid girl—he will be captain, too, and laugh at us all, unless”—a sinister smile passed over Danglars’ lips—“unless I take a hand in the affair,” he added.
“Hallo!” continued Caderousse, half rising, and with his fist on the table, “hallo, Edmond! do you not see your friends, or are you too proud to speak to them?”
“No, my dear fellow!” replied Dantès, “I am not proud, but I am happy; and happiness blinds, I think, more than pride.”
“Ah! very well, that’s an explanation!” said Caderousse. “Well, good day, Madame Dantès!”
Mercédès curtseyed gravely, and said:
“That is not my name, and in my country it bodes ill fortune, they say, to call young girls by the name of their betrothed before he becomes their husband. Call me, then, Mercédès, if you please.”
“We must excuse our worthy neighbour, Caderousse,” said Dantès, “he is so easily mistaken.”
“So, then, the wedding is to take place immediately, M. Dantès,” said Danglars, bowing to the young couple.
“As soon as possible, M. Danglars; today all preliminaries will be arranged at my father’s, and tomorrow, or next day at latest, the wedding festival here at La Réserve. My friends will be there, I hope; that is to say, you are invited, M. Danglars, and you, Caderousse.”
“And