THE BANKER.

Signor Fagiano was standing, when Monsieur de Laisangy entered the room. He was a man of fifty, but extremely fine looking, with a little of the air of the Duc de Morny in his best days. He had, however, a scar across one cheek that disfigured him. No one would have recognized him as the convict Benedetto. Laisangy entered with a pale face of disdain.

We must not omit to mention what took place in the garden the previous evening. When the banker, overcome by the heat of the rooms, took refuge in the fresh air, he had been followed by Fagiano, who said to him, when out of hearing of every one:

“Monsieur de Laisangy, I know your past.”

Laisangy started, and even uttered an exclamation of surprise. The other continued a threat in every word. He asked for money much money. Laisangy knew that in his long career he had left many creditors in the lurch, and finally he said:

“Who are you? Why should I give you money? What is your name?”

To these questions the mysterious stranger replied:

“Take care you will know my name only too soon!”

Since then Laisangy had been very uneasy. Possibly his conscience was not quite clear. He now came to see this Fagiano in a state of rage, exasperated by the scene with Carmen, and the favorite of the Emperor now came to measure weapons with this stranger.

“Well, sir,” said the banker, “this is the second time that you have seen fit to throw yourself in my path. Yesterday you addressed me in a fashion that savored of blackmail. What do you want? I do not know you, nor you me. I am a patient man, but even my patience has limits; and it may happen that I give my servants orders to throw you out of doors, neck and heels!”

The other, leaning with one elbow on the mantel, laughed aloud as he said:

“Ring, if you choose, my good fellow. There will then be a nice scandal!”

The banker’s hand, even then on the bell, dropped at his side.

“Ah! I see you do not care for witnesses!”

Laisangy opened his lips to speak.

“And you are right, perhaps. Napoleon, who knew the world, said, ’It is always best to wash your dirty linen at home!’ and we have you and I a tremendous wash on hand!”

Laisangy did not move; his eyes were fixed on the face of this man, to whom he could not give a name. He finally managed to say:

“I am not fond of mysteries. Who are you?”

“You do not know me, then?”

Fagiano laughed, and in this laugh was a certain ferocity.

“Give me two hundred thousand francs and you will never see me again!”

Laisangy answered with a certain dignity:

“I never give alms to strangers.”

“Bless my soul!” cried Fagiano, “your manners are improving. You do not know my name, but I know yours, Monsieur Danglars!”

At this name the banker started back.

“You are mad!” he cried.

“Very well; but what would you say if at the Tuileries you heard yourself announced by your real name, Monsieur Danglars?”

Danglars, for it was he, drew a pistol from his pocket and presented it to Fagiano’s breast. He with a quick blow struck it from the banker’s hand. It fell on the floor and fortunately did not go off. Fagiano picked it up and drew the charge.

“Dangerous playthings and sad interruptions in a conversation,” he said. “We can understand each other without this. And now, having gotten through with this melodramatic scene, I tell you that I shall not be content with less than five hundred thousand francs.”

Danglars was utterly confounded. But presently, gathering himself together, he said:

“I am not intimidated by your threats. You can make what use you please of your knowledge, you share it with many others. No one cares.”

“But I have more to say. I propose to reveal my own name to you. Can I so change that you do not recognize me?”

“I never saw you before.”

“How does it happen, Monsieur Danglars, that you have a daughter of twenty when your wife was living fifteen years since? She had a daughter by you, and her name was not Carmen.”

Danglars was disconcerted. He threw himself upon a chair.

“Go on,” he said.

“Ah! you are beginning to understand me, are you? I know what I say, and will prove it to you. You, as a banker, enriched yourself in speculations, each more dishonorable than the other, and you encountered a man who crushed you like a worm under his heel. You fell, but you are of the kind that bounds, and to-day you are once more upon a pinnacle. You vegetated for years, until the moment came when you could once more seize fortune in your grasp. You are no longer Danglars the bankrupt and thief you are Laisangy, respected and trusted. Know then that I have it in my power to throw you back into the mire from which you have struggled. I am ready to be your enemy or your accomplice, the choice is in your hands.”

“Ah! I know you!” cried Danglars, throwing up his hands. “You are Andrea Cavalcanti. Yes, it is all coming back to me. You called yourself by a title to which you had no claim; you professed to have a fortune that had no existence, and you introduced yourself into my family. But the day came when the law interfered!”

“Ah! your memory is an excellent one!” Then relinquishing his sneer and his smile, he leaned toward Danglars. “I am Benedetto, the assassin; Benedetto, the convict. But that is not all. Are you acquainted with my father’s name?”

“I heard of a scandalous suit, but I was not in France.”

“No, you had fled. You were not here when, in the court-room, I flung my hatred and my loathing at the head of the Procureur du Roi at the head of my father, Monsieur de Villefort. And do you know the name of my mother?”

“It was never given.”

“I will tell it to you, nevertheless. She was Madame Danglars.”

The banker started to his feet, his whole frame twitching nervously.

“It is not true! It is not true!” he cried.

“She was my mother, I tell you, and I punished her as she deserved, for I killed her!”

“Horrible! Horrible!” And the wretched man who listened to these words wrung his hands.

“Yes, and here is the proof.”

Benedetto drew from his pocketbook the paper on which Sanselme had written the lines he had dictated.

“Read this,” he said. “I was not alone; the witness is still living, and I can produce him if necessary.”

Danglars had fallen back in his chair.

“Now then,” continued Benedetto, “you know who I am, and you know, too, that I hesitate at nothing. Once more, will you obey me?”

“But what do you wish me to do?”

“In the first place, I want money. I am tired of poverty, and of the incessant perils which it forces me to run. You are rich. Make me rich.”

“You shall have money.”

“And much money. But this is not all.”

Benedetto laid his hand on the shoulder of his companion.

“Have you forgotten,” he said, in a stern voice, “the man who humiliated and tortured you? Do you feel no thirst for revenge?”

Danglars looked up quickly.

“That man,” continued Benedetto, “was and is your evil genius, as well as mine. He tempted me. He launched me into a world where all my appetite for luxury was developed, then suddenly he sent me to a prison. You remember all the tortures he inflicted on you. Now it is in our power to heap on this man a vengeance so terrible that he will writhe at our feet. This vengeance I mean to have. Danglars, do you wish to see this man suffer? Then give me your hand, and we will work together.”

Danglars murmured:

“It is impossible. Vengeance is sweet, but it can not be.”

“Impossible!” sneered Benedetto. “We two will succeed, I swear to you.”

“No, no, I am afraid of him!”

“Are you a child? Once more, Danglars, do you wish to be revenged on Monte-Cristo, if I can prove to you that you personally run no risk? I too am afraid of him. I too have thought for a long time that he was all-powerful and not to be reached. To-day I have discovered a fault in his armor, and intend that this man shall weep tears of blood. Once more, will you assist me?”

“Ah! if it were possible!” sighed Danglars.

“Listen to me a moment. This man has one immense passion, his love for his son, and it is through this love that we shall reach him. The Count of Monte-Cristo is invincible, you say. You forget that he has a son.”

“The Vicomte Esperance!”

“To strike the son is to kill the father!”

“You are right and I, like you, hate him!”

“Then join me, and we shall have a terrible revenge. I must have money, though, and you must swear to obey me blindly.”

“And you say that we will crush Monte-Cristo?”

“I swear it!”

“Then,” said Danglars, “I join you, for I hate him!”

And the two men shook hands in ratification of their oath.