Morcerf’s adventure

The Count of Monte-Cristo took no steps to have the miscreants who had invaded the sanctity of his home tracked and apprehended; he did not even instruct the Commissary of Police of the quarter in regard to what had happened. He was entirely satisfied that the sole aim of the wretches had been robbery, and, as that aim had been defeated, he did not desire to court further publicity by putting the matter in the hands of the authorities. One thing, however, gave the Count considerable uneasiness, namely, the fact that Danglars had been one of the robbers. He did not doubt that the former banker, whom he had financially wrecked and forced to fly ignominiously from Paris in the past in pursuit of his scheme of wholesale vengeance against the enemies of his youth, had planned the robbery in order to gratify his burning thirst for revenge; he also felt equally certain that Danglars meant further mischief, if he could accomplish it, and that his presence in the city would be a constant menace to his tranquillity and prosperity, nay, even to his domestic happiness; but his feelings had undergone a radical change since the old days of restless, inexorable retribution, and he now pitied the man he had so ruthlessly overthrown as much as he had formerly hated him. Danglars had fallen very low, indeed, to be the companion and accomplice of midnight marauders, and the Count’s very soul ached as he thought to what depths of poverty and ignominy he had been the means of reducing him. He would have sought him out amid the dangerous criminal population of Paris, traced him to his den of depravity and wretchedness, and offered him money and the means of social rehabilitation had there been the slightest reason to hope that he could thereby rescue the miserable man from the slough of iniquity into which he was plunged, but he knew too well Danglars’ implacable character and deep-seated hatred against himself to attempt anything of the kind. Should he penetrate into his haunts and meet him the result could only be disastrous, for Danglars would take a fiendish delight in betraying him to his desperate associates, who would not hesitate even to murder him at his bidding, and the former banker was fully capable of compassing his assassination in the most horrible fashion as a crowning stroke of diabolical revenge. There was a time when Monte-Cristo valued life very little, when he would gladly have accepted death as a welcome avenue to endless rest and peace, but that time had passed; since then he had contracted ties that bound him to existence with insurmountable strength; he had now a family, was surrounded by beings he tenderly loved and cherished, beings for whom he must live and over whose destinies he must closely watch. He was wedded to Mercedes, who lavished upon him in her maturity all the wealth of overwhelming affection she had showered upon him before the fateful conspiracy that had consigned him as the sailor Dantes to the dark, noisome dungeon of the Chateau d’ If and given her to the arms of Fernand, the Catalan. Haydee had fluttered over the page of his stormy, agitated history, leaving him Esperance and Zuleika as reminders of a happy, but all too brief dream, an elfin vision of enchantment that had vanished as swiftly as it had come. But his son and daughter had twined themselves about the fibres of his heart as the clinging ivy twines about the shattered fragments of some grand and imposing ruin, and each day, each moment, as it sped by, only served the more to reveal to him the longings and the devotion of a father’s soul. Besides, Albert de Morcerf and his young wife Eugenie were now thoroughly endeared to him, and he felt that by doing everything in his power to augment their happiness he was gradually paying off the heavy debt he owed to Danglars’ so long abandoned child. Yes, the Count of Monte-Cristo wished to live, first for his family, then for the great cause of human liberty with which he had become so thoroughly identified. If Danglars came in his way he would endeavor to reclaim and propitiate him, but he could not seek him out.

Mercedes at the period of the attempted robbery was absent on a visit to some friends in Marseilles, and by common consent it was resolved not to inform her of Danglars’ reappearance, as the intelligence could not fail to be a prostrating shock to her.

Ever since that memorable midnight scene in Monte-Cristo’s study young Madame de Morcerf had acted like one overwhelmed. She said nothing, even to her husband or Louise d’ Armilly, concerning her wretched father, but it was plain that intense grief and shame were preying upon her. This greatly distressed Albert and, seeing his beloved wife droop day by day, he, without saying a word to any one, formed a startling and perilous resolution. He determined to find Danglars’ abode, to see his father-in-law and endeavor to persuade him to relinquish his career of crime. In this he was actuated by two powerful motives the desire to relieve Eugenie’s distress and suspense and the wish to avoid the scandal that would be sure to come should the former banker be caught red-handed in the commission of some fearful crime and a legal investigation reveal his identity.

Zuleika studiously avoided referring to the attempted robbery and the recognition of Danglars by her father and Eugenie. She was aware of the part Monte-Cristo had played in his enemy’s fall and disgrace, and did not deem it prudent to awaken the bitter recollections of the lurid and dreadful past.

Mlle. d’ Armilly also said nothing in reference to the reappearance of Danglars, but it was very clear to the observant Zuleika that she expected and dreaded further harm from Monte-Cristo’s revengeful enemy. At night she locked herself in her chamber, and, notwithstanding the almost unbearable heat of the weather, securely closed and fastened all her windows.

The Count himself was as reserved as ever, never once mentioning either the midnight invasion of his mansion or the unexpected advent of his most deadly foe. To everybody in the household he seemed either to have forgotten or to have succeeded in dismissing from his mind those events so fraught with excitement and possibilities of future disaster. But Monte-Cristo, though he preserved an impassible exterior, had neither forgotten nor dismissed them. He had simply applied to himself his own famous maxim, “Wait and Hope.” He was waiting and hoping for the best, for God in His inscrutable wisdom to bring mysterious good out of apparent evil.

Meanwhile Captain de Morcerf had been busily engaged in making thorough but cautious investigations. He had formed the acquaintance of a former Agent de la Sûreté, who had been of great use to him in describing the various outlaws and prowlers of Paris, and in pointing out to him their secret dens and the secluded places of rendezvous where they met, drank vile liquors, and, under the maddening influence of absinthe and alcohol, plotted their crimes and atrocities of every description. This man, another Quasimodo in point of hideous aspect, had been dismissed from the detective service because of his inability to keep sober, but he had not forgotten the resources of his profession, and money lavishly bestowed upon him made him Captain de Morcerf’s most obedient and faithful slave. Cash in hand rendered him indefatigable and the prospect of obtaining more kept him discreet. He had taught his employer the art of effectually disguising himself, of passing for a veritable zigue, and, as he was well-known to the desperadoes he had formerly shadowed and was welcomed by them as a sterling good fellow, he was enabled to take the Captain with impunity among scoundrels who would not have hesitated to cut his throat had they known who he was.

As Albert did not know what name Danglars had assumed and was unwilling to give the ex-detective his true cognomen, the latter had nothing to guide him in this respect. Neither was the Captain cognizant of the changes that time and his mode of life had wrought in the former banker’s personal appearance, so he could only describe him as he had looked in the years gone by. This afforded Mange, such was the name of the dismissed policeman, no indication whatever by which he could profit. He, nevertheless, was not disconcerted by the paucity of information. He knew that young Morcerf was searching for a man who had been one of the party engaged in the attempt to rob the Monte-Cristo mansion on the Rue du Helder, and that knowledge was sufficient for him. He very soon discovered that Waldmann, Siebecker, Bouche-de-Miel and two Italians had formed that party, and Bouche-de-Miel being the only Frenchman in the coterie he had no difficulty whatever in fixing upon him as the individual wanted. He imparted his discovery and conclusion to his employer, together with the intelligence that the men were in the habit of congregating in the little caboulot of the Cite d’ Antin. Albert rewarded Mange liberally for his zeal and promised him a very much larger sum should Bouche-de-Miel turn out to be his man. It was immediately arranged that Mange should conduct the Captain to the caboulot that very night and, if possible, bring him face to face with the Frenchman supposed to be Danglars.

In accordance with this agreement, as soon as night had fallen, Mange was waiting for his employer at the corner of the Rue Taitbout and the Rue de Provence. He was not kept long at his post, for Albert speedily made his appearance, dressed in a blouse like a workman; his rough trousers were tucked in the tops of his dusty boots and on his head he wore a battered slouch hat that looked as if it might have seen service behind the revolutionary barricades. Mange surveyed him with a long glance of admiration; then taking him to a neighboring street lamp, he critically examined his face, which was stained to represent the bronzing effect of the sun and smeared with dirt.

“Capital!” exclaimed the ex-detective, as he finished his scrutiny. “You are a zigue out and out! Not a trace of the boulevardier to be seen! The most keen-scented vache in the caboulot would be completely deceived!”

Albert smiled at his companion’s enthusiasm.

“Well, as I pass examination,” he said, “let us go on at once. Do you think our man will be at the caboulot?”

“Do I think water will run down hill!” cried Mange, with a laugh that resembled nothing so much as the discordant croak of a crow. “He never misses a night, and this is the hour when the brandy begins to flow!”

Albert shuddered at this remark, suggesting as it did the certainty that he would find Eugenie’s father a sot as well as a thief. He, however, took Mange’s arm and together they strolled leisurely into the Cite d’ Antin, making their way to the caboulot without meeting a single suspicious prowler.

They entered the front room where Bouche-de-Miel had found the slatternly young woman reading her greasy copy of the Gazette des Tribunaux on the morning preceding the attempted robbery. She was at her accustomed place behind the counter, but was not reading; eight or ten stalwart ruffians monopolized her attention and, as she furnished her thirsty customers with the various fiery beverages they demanded, she showered her most captivating glances right and left among them. She was as slatternly as ever, but her hair was shining with bear’s grease and a strong odor of musk pervaded her garments; a paste diamond of enormous size but of doubtful brilliancy ornamented her breastpin and on her stumpy, grimy fingers were numerous brass rings containing dull imitations of rubies, amethysts and topazes.

As the new comers came in, Waldmann, standing in front of the counter with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other, was chaffing her.

“See here, Beurre-Sans-Sel,” he said, with a well-counterfeited air of intense admiration, “you are looking like a real beauty to-night. I will wager anything you expect a lover. I never saw you put on such style before. I declare you far outshine the demoiselles of the public balls!”

“Oh! Monsieur Waldmann, how you talk!” returned the girl, with an affected simper and an unsuccessful attempt to blush.

Just then the German looked around and caught sight of Mange, who was looking his ugliest. The spirit of mischief was strong upon him and he instantly cried out:

“I knew it; I knew you were expecting a lover and here he is promptly on time! Come now own up, my little Beurre-Sans-Sel, did you not put on all your pretty fixings for Mange?”

“For that ugly old gorilla!” exclaimed the girl, unceremoniously and disdainfully. “I can get better-looking lovers than either a monkey or a Swab, I’d have you to know, Monsieur Waldmann!”

There was a general laugh at this sally, and none laughed louder than Mange, who had a taste for coarse jokes and sharp retorts.

“So!” said Waldmann, after the merriment had subsided. Then he perceived Mange’s companion for the first time. He examined him closely and suspiciously. Albert did not shrink from his scrutiny, but the ex-detective deemed it prudent to set matters right at the start by a formal introduction of his employer; he, therefore, motioned to Albert to follow him and walked up to the German, offering him his hand, which the latter shook cordially.

The Captain now stood beside Waldmann in front of the counter and Mange presented him without delay.

“Monsieur Waldmann,” said he, “permit me to make you acquainted with my friend Fouquier, from Dijon, a bon zigue.”

“Monsieur Fouquier,” said the German, taking Albert’s outstretched hand, “I am glad to know you, especially as you come so well recommended.”

Mange bowed in acknowledgment of this little tribute to himself.

Morcerf replied that the pleasure was mutual.

Waldmann’s suspicions seemed to be allayed.

“Take something,” he said. “Here, Siebecker and Bouche-de-Miel, join us in drinking the health of Monsieur Fouquier from Dijon!”

Albert was instantly on the alert and Mange watched him attentively as the two individuals named emerged from a corner of the room and lounged up to the counter. There was another presentation, a double one this time, Waldmann doing the honors. Mange required no introduction. Everybody appeared to know him. Beurre-Sans-Sel put forth brandy and glasses, and the health of Monsieur Fouquier was drunk enthusiastically. When this ceremony ended Morcerf called for cigarettes and distributed them among the coterie; then he had leisure to examine Bouche-de-Miel; the latter had turned his back to the counter and leaned his elbows upon it; in this position, with his cigarette between his teeth, he looked the perfect picture of vagabondish idleness. Mange was still watching Morcerf, but saw no sign that he had recognized in Bouche-de-Miel the man for whom he was seeking. This made him uneasy, for it was an indication that the reward his employer had promised him would not be earned.

Presently Waldmann and Siebecker were called to another part of the room. Bouche-de-Miel remained, continuing to smoke his cigarette, with his elbows on the counter where he had placed them after the health-drinking. The Captain’s thoughts were of a conflicting nature. Everything pointed to the fact that the man before him was his father-in-law, but, unlike Mlle. d’ Armilly, he saw nothing in him suggestive of the Baron Danglars of other days. Could this vagabond, this wretch, be Danglars? If so, how was it to be proved to his satisfaction? How, above all, in this place, in this den of thieves and cutthroats? The man was certainly the party Eugenie had recognized on the night of the attempted burglary as her father, the party Monte-Cristo himself had so positively pronounced to be the former banker. But was it not probable that his wife and the Count had been mistaken? Was it not probable that they had been deceived by some fancied resemblance when excitement had possessed them to such a degree that it had deprived them of the full use of their mental faculties? At any rate he had come to the caboulot to experiment with Bouche-de-Miel and he would not shrink from cautiously applying the test.

Their cigarettes were now consumed. Albert, in pursuance of his scheme, invited Bouche-de-Miel and Mange to take seats at a table and have some more brandy. They accepted the invitation with alacrity, and the three were soon drinking and chatting. Repeated potations finally opened Bouche-de-Miel’s lips; he began to be confidential.

“You may not believe me, messieurs,” said he, “but I was not always as you see me now!”

Mange winked triumphantly at his employer. Revelations which might be important were coming. Perhaps he would yet earn the promised reward. Morcerf was listening attentively.

“No, sacre nom d’ un chien, I was not always a zigue! Once I had immense wealth, I counted my money by millions! I had position, too, and I may say without egotism that I was honored by the best people of Paris!”

He paused and drained another glass of brandy.

“What were you?” asked Mange.

Albert waited breathlessly for the answer to this question.

“What was I?” repeated Bouche-de-Miel. “You may laugh, but I was a banker!”

Morcerf could not avoid giving a start. The vagabond, half-drunk as he was, noticed it and asked:

“What is the matter with you, Fouquier? Do you think the lie so tremendous that you can’t keep still?”

The young man was glad to accept this interpretation of his behavior; he touched his glass to his lips and said, with a forced smile:

“Well, I do think you are going it rather strong!”

“Not half strong enough, mon Dieu!” cried Bouche-de-Miel, bringing his fist down on the table with such force that the glasses were nearly knocked off. “Not half strong enough, I tell you, messieurs, for I was a Baron as well as a banker!”

Albert groaned. Mange looked at him with sparkling eyes; he was now sure that the promised money was within his reach, that his clutch would soon close on it. His enforced sobriety since he had been in the Captain’s employ made him anxious for a prolonged, reckless spree, frightfully anxious, and his guarded potations since he entered the caboulot had whetted his devouring appetite for alcohol to such an extent that he could scarcely keep it in subjection with the plentiful supply of brandy on the table, almost at his very lips.

Bouche-de-Miel did not hear Morcerf’s groan; his misty eyes were fixed upon space, seemed to be peering into the depths and recesses of the distant past. The Captain judged that the time had come to draw the final, the crowning admission from his lips. He touched him lightly on the arm. The man turned and glanced at him inquiringly. Morcerf’s heart beat wildly; it was with great difficulty that he kept his agitation under control. He hurriedly scanned the other occupants of the room some were very drunk and stupid, others noisy and demonstrative, but all were too busy with their own concerns and pleasures to pay even the slightest attention to the little party at the table; Waldmann and Siebecker were asleep on opposite ends of a bench in a corner. Bouche-de-Miel had meanwhile relapsed into his misty reverie. Albert touched his arm again.

“Don’t bother me!” said the man, impatiently, without removing his eyes from space. “Can’t you let a fellow dream!”

“Baron Danglars!” whispered Morcerf in his ear.

“Eh? What?” cried Bouche-de-Miel, coming back to reality with a start, half-sobered by hearing this name.

“Baron Danglars,” repeated the Captain, in a guarded undertone, “I know you!”

The man got upon his feet lumberingly and unsteadily; he clutched Albert’s shoulder convulsively.

“You are an Agent de la Sûreté!” he hissed. “You have come here to arrest me!”

The attention of some of the less intoxicated ruffians was being excited by Bouche-de-Miel’s behavior, but their ears had failed to seize his words amid the prevailing din. Mange, with his usual keenness and quickness, saw that something must instantly be done to quiet Albert’s companion or all the miscreants who could stir would be aroused and come thronging about them to throttle the supposed Agent de la Sûreté. He, therefore, gave a loud laugh and said to Bouche-de-Miel:

“Don’t be a fool, old man! Monsieur Fouquier belong to la rousse! That’s a good joke! ha! ha! Why he is as much in danger of the violon as you are! ha! ha!”

He arose, still laughing, and, playfully taking Bouche-de-Miel by the collar, gently forced him back into his chair. As he did so, he glanced at Beurre-Sans-Sel. The slatternly young woman had her hand on the screw of the huge lamp suspended above the counter, by which alone the room was lighted, ready to turn it out and leave the whole place in darkness at the first alarm. She was evidently accustomed to police descents and knew how to act in such cases. Mange’s words and merriment, however, reassured her and she withdrew her fingers from the screw.

But Bouche-de-Miel was not altogether satisfied. He sat uneasily in his chair, facing Morcerf and anxiously scanning his countenance.

“What did you mean by calling me Baron Danglars and saying that you knew me?” he asked, in a low, somewhat tremulous voice.

Instead of replying directly to this question, the young man said, slowly and in a half-whisper:

“I am Albert de Morcerf, the husband of your daughter Eugenie!”

“What!” exclaimed Bouche-de-Miel. “Eugenie married and to you!”

“Yes,” said the Captain, “Fate has again brought us together after a long and painful separation.”

“I saw Eugenie in the house of the Count of Monte-Cristo, no matter how, no matter when. What was she doing there?”

“Monte-Cristo is married to my mother, Mercedes, and we are living with him.”

“Living with him Eugenie, my daughter, living beneath the roof of the man who ruined her father and made him what he is!”

Bouche-de-Miel grew absolutely livid with rage; he was entirely sobered now and all his evil instincts had full possession of him.

“I will never forgive her or you!” he hissed.

“Listen to me,” said Albert, with comparative calmness. “I have come here to-night at the risk of my life to offer you money, the means of rehabilitation. Be advised. Leave these miscreants with whom you are associated and become a man again!”

“I reject both your offer and advice!” said Bouche-de-Miel, excitedly. “They are insults, coming as they do from the stepson of Monte-Cristo, my relentless enemy! But I will have vengeance upon you for them and through you on Edmond Dantes! Ho, Waldmann Siebecker!”

The two Germans awoke, sprang from their bench and advanced towards the table.

Mange uttered a groan of despair. He could do nothing now to avert the impending danger.

Bouche-de-Miel had leaped to his feet and grappled with Albert de Morcerf. Waldmann and Siebecker, realizing that something was wrong and at once connecting the alleged Monsieur Fouquier with it, drew long, keen-bladed knives as they rushed forward.

All the thieves and marauders who were sober enough to stand were now on their feet, ready to hurl themselves upon the suspected man. Weapons flashed in every direction daggers, knives and pistols. Loud oaths and abusive epithets were heard on all sides; it was a perfect pandemonium, a babel of evil sounds.

Amid all the confusion and danger Mange’s self-possession did not desert him. Seeing that it was useless to attempt to pacify the surging pack of desperadoes, he determined upon a bold measure, one that would enable him to save Captain de Morcerf and, at the same time, keep up his reputation with the criminal frequenters of the caboulot, with whom he desired for reasons of his own to be on good terms. He ran to the counter, where Beurre-Sans-Sel already had her hand on the screw of the hanging lamp, waiting for events to decide what action she should take. He leaned over the counter and whispered to the girl:

“Beurre-Sans-Sel, I was deceived in Monsieur Fouquier. He imposed upon me. He told me he was from Dijon. He turns out to be a Parisian and an Agent de la Sûreté. He has betrayed himself. More Agents are coming! They will be here in a moment! Put off the light!”

The girl did not hesitate a second; she gave the screw a quick twist and the caboulot was instantly as dark as a tomb.

Having executed this manoeuvre, Mange sprang to Albert de Morcerf’s side, striking Bouche-de-Miel a crushing blow in the face that caused him to lose his grip of the young man. Then, seizing his employer in his brawny arms, he lifted him as if he had been a child and ran with him to the front door; this he opened, leaping into the street with his burden.

“Now run for your life!” he exclaimed, depositing the young man on the sidewalk.

With this he started off at a tearing pace, closely followed by Morcerf. They did not pause until they had reached the Rue de Provence, where, in the blaze of the lights, amid the throngs of honest citizens, they were safe.