Chapter 82 The Burglary
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THE
DAY following that on which the conversation we have related took place,
the Count of Monte Cristo set out for Auteuil, accompanied by Ali and
several attendants, and also taking with him some horses whose qualities
he was desirous of ascertaining. He was induced to undertake this journey,
of which the day before he had not even thought and which had not occurred
to Andrea either, by the arrival of Bertuccio from Normandy with
intelligence respecting the house and sloop. The house was ready, and the
sloop which had arrived a week before lay at anchor in a small creek with
her crew of six men, who had observed all the requisite formalities and
were ready again to put to sea. The
count praised Bertuccio's zeal, and ordered him to prepare for a speedy
departure, as his stay in France would not be prolonged more than a mouth.
"Now," said he, "I may require to go in one night from
Paris to Trижport;
let eight fresh horses be in readiness on the road, which will enable me
to go fifty leagues in ten hours." "Your
highness had already expressed that wish," said Bertuccio, "and
the horses are ready. I have bought them, and stationed them myself at the
most desirable posts, that is, in villages, where no one generally
stops." "That's
well," said Monte Cristo; "I remain here a day or two--arrange
accordingly." As Bertuccio was leaving the room to give the requisite
orders, Baptistin opened the door: he held a letter on a silver waiter. "What
are you doing here?" asked the count, seeing him covered with dust;
"I did not send for you, I think?" Baptistin,
without answering, approached the count, and presented the letter.
"Important and urgent," said he. The count opened the letter,
and read:-- "M.
de Monte Cristo is apprised that this night a man will enter his house in
the Champs-Elysижes
with the intention of carrying off some papers supposed to be in the
secretary in the dressing-room. The count's well-known courage will render
unnecessary the aid of the police, whose interference might seriously
affect him who sends this advice. The count, by any opening from the
bedroom, or by concealing himself in the dressing-room, would be able to
defend his property himself. Many attendents or apparent precautions would
prevent the villain from the attempt, and M. de Monte Cristo would lose
the opportunity of discovering an enemy whom chance has revealed to him
who now sends this warning to the count,--a warning he might not be able
to send another time, if this first attempt should fail and another be
made." The
count's first idea was that this was an artifice--a gross deception, to
draw his attention from a minor danger in order to expose him to a
greater. He was on the point of sending the letter to the commissary of
police, notwithstanding the advice of his anonymous friend, or perhaps
because of that advice, when suddenly the idea occurred to him that it
might be some personal enemy, whom he alone should recognize and over
whom, if such were the case, he alone would gain any advantage, as Fiesco*
had done over the Moor who would have killed him. We know the Count's
vigorous and daring mind, denying anything to be impossible, with that
energy which marks the great man. From his past life, from his resolution
to shrink from nothing, the count had acquired an inconceivable relish for
the contests in which he had engaged, sometimes against nature, that is to
say, against God, and sometimes against the world, that is, against the
devil. *
The Genoese conspirator. "They
do not want my papers," said Monte Cristo, "they want to kill
me; they are no robbers, but assassins. I will not allow the prefect of
police to interfere with my private affairs. I am rich enough, forsooth,
to distribute his authority on this occasion." The count recalled
Baptistin, who had left the room after delivering the letter. "Return
to Paris," said he; "assemble the servants who remain there. I
want all my household at Auteuil." "But
will no one remain in the house, my lord?" asked Baptistin. "Yes,
the porter." "My
lord will remember that the lodge is at a distance from the house." "Well?"
"The
house might be stripped without his hearing the least noise." "By
whom?" "By
thieves." "You
are a fool, M. Baptistin. Thieves might strip the house--it would annoy me
less than to be disobeyed." Baptistin bowed. "You
understand me?" said the count. "Bring your comrades here, one
and all; but let everything remain as usual, only close the shutters of
the ground floor." "And
those of the second floor?" "You
know they are never closed. Go!" The
count signified his intention of dining alone, and that no one but Ali
should attend him. Having dined with his usual tranquillity and
moderation, the count, making a signal to Ali to follow him, went out by
the side-gate and on reaching the Bois de Boulogne turned, apparently
without design towards Paris and at twilight; found himself opposite his
house in the Champs-Elysижes. All was dark; one solitary,
feeble light was burning in the porter's lodge, about forty paces distant
from the house, as Baptistin had said. Monte Cristo leaned against a tree,
and with that scrutinizing glance which was so rarely deceived, looked up
and down the avenue, examined the passers-by, and carefully looked down
the neighboring streets, to see that no one was concealed. Ten minutes
passed thus, and he was convinced that no one was watching him. He
hastened to the side-door with Ali, entered hurriedly, and by the
servants' staircase, of which he had the key, gained his bedroom without
opening or disarranging a single curtain, without even the porter having
the slightest suspicion that the house, which he supposed empty, contained
its chief occupant. Arrived
in his bedroom, the count motioned to Ali to stop; then he passed into the
dressing-room, which he examined. Everything appeared as usual--the
precious secretary in its place, and the key in the secretary. He double
locked it, took the key, returned to the bedroom door, removed the double
staple of the bolt, and went in. Meanwhile Ali had procured the arms the
count required--namely, a short carbine and a pair of double-barrelled
pistols, with which as sure an aim might be taken as with a single-barrelled
one. Thus armed, the count held the lives of five men in his hands. It was
about half-past nine. The count and Ali ate in haste a crust of bread and
drank a glass of Spanish wine; then Monte Cristo slipped aside one of the
movable panels, which enabled him to see into the adjoining room. He had
within his reach his pistols and carbine, and Ali, standing near him, held
one of the small Arabian hatchets, whose form has not varied since the
Crusades. Through one of the windows of the bedroom, on a line with that
in the dressing-room, the count could see into the street. Two
hours passed thus. It was intensely dark; still Ali, thanks to his wild
nature, and the count, thanks doubtless to his long confinement, could
distinguish in the darkness the slightest movement of the trees. The
little light in the lodge had long been extinct. It might be expected that
the attack, if indeed an attack was projected, would be made from the
staircase of the ground floor, and not from a window; in Monte Cristo's
opinion, the villains sought his life, not his money. It would be his
bedroom they would attack, and they must reach it by the back staircase,
or by the window in the dressing-room. The clock of the Invalides struck a
quarter to twelve; the west wind bore on its moistened gusts the doleful
vibration of the three strokes. As
the last stroke died away, the count thought he heard a slight noise in
the dressing-room; this first sound, or rather this first grinding, was
followed by a second, then a third; at the fourth, the count knew what to
expect. A firm and well-practised hand was engaged in cutting the four
sides of a pane of glass with a diamond. The count felt his heart beat
more rapidly. Inured as men may be to danger, forewarned as they may be of
peril, they understand, by the fluttering of the heart and the shuddering
of the frame, the enormous difference between a dream and a reality,
between the project and the execution. However, Monte Cristo only made a
sign to apprise Ali, who, understanding that danger was approaching from
the other side, drew nearer to his master. Monte Cristo was eager to
ascertain the strength and number of his enemies. The
window whence the noise proceeded was opposite the opening by which the
count could see into the dressing-room. He fixed his eyes on that
window--he distinguished a shadow in the darkness; then one of the panes
became quite opaque, as if a sheet of paper were stuck on the outside,
then the square cracked without falling. Through the opening an arm was
passed to find the fastening, then a second; the window turned on its
hinges, and a man entered. He was alone. "That's
a daring rascal," whispered the count. At
that moment Ali touched him slightly on the shoulder. He turned; Ali
pointed to the window of the room in which they were, facing the street.
"I see!" said he, "there are two of them; one does the work
while the other stands guard." He made a sign to Ali not to lose
sight of the man in the street, and turned to the one in the
dressing-room. The
glass-cutter had entered, and was feeling his way, his arms stretched out
before him. At last he appeared to have made himself familiar with his
surroundings. There were two doors; he bolted them both. When
he drew near to the bedroom door, Monte Cristo expected that he was coming
in, and raised one of his pistols; but he simply heard the sound of the
bolts sliding in their copper rings. It was only a precaution. The
nocturnal visitor, ignorant of the fact that the count had removed the
staples, might now think himself at home, and pursue his purpose with full
security. Alone and free to act as he wished, the man then drew from his
pocket something which the count could not discern, placed it on a stand,
then went straight to the secretary, felt the lock, and contrary to his
expectation found that the key was missing. But the glass-cutter was a
prudent man who had provided for all emergencies. The count soon heard the
rattling of a bunch of skeleton keys, such as the locksmith brings when
called to force a lock, and which thieves call nightingales, doubtless
from the music of their nightly song when they grind against the bolt.
"Ah, ha," whispered Monte Cristo with a smile of disappointment,
"he is only a thief." But
the man in the dark could not find the right key. He reached the
instrument he had placed on the stand, touched a spring, and immediately a
pale light, just bright enough to render objects distinct, was reflected
on his hands and countenance. "By heavens," exclaimed Monte
Cristo, starting back, "it is"-- Ali
raised his hatchet. "Don't stir," whispered Monte Cristo,
"and put down your hatchet; we shall require no arms." Then he
added some words in a low tone, for the exclamation which surprise had
drawn from the count, faint as it had been, had startled the man who
remained in the pose of the old knife-grinder. It was an order the count
had just given, for immediately Ali went noiselessly, and returned,
bearing a black dress and a three-cornered hat. Meanwhile Monte Cristo had
rapidly taken off his great-coat, waistcoat, and shirt, and one might
distinguish by the glimmering through the open panel that he wore a pliant
tunic of steel mail, of which the last in France, where daggers are no
longer dreaded, was worn by King Louis XVI, who feared the dagger at his
breast, and whose head was cleft with a hatchet. The tunic soon
disappeared under a long cassock, as did his hair under a priest's wig;
the three-cornered hat over this effectually transformed the count into an
abbиж. The
man, hearing nothing more, stood erect, and while Monte Cristo was
completing his disguise had advanced straight to the secretary, whose lock
was beginning to crack under his nightingale. "Try again,"
whispered the count, who depended on the secret spring, which was unknown
to the picklock, clever as he might be--"try again, you have a few
minutes' work there." And he advanced to the window. The man whom he
had seen seated on a fence had got down, and was still pacing the street;
but, strange as it appeared, he cared not for those who might pass from
the avenue of the Champs-Elysижes or by the Faubourg St. Honorиж; his attention was engrossed
with what was passing at the count's, and his only aim appeared to be to
discern every movement in the dressing-room. Monte
Cristo suddenly struck his finger on his forehead and a smile passed over
his lips; then drawing near to Ali, he whispered,-- "Remain
here, concealed in the dark, and whatever noise you hear, whatever passes,
only come in or show yourself if I call you." Ali bowed in token of
strict obedience. Monte Cristo then drew a lighted taper from a closet,
and when the thief was deeply engaged with his lock, silently opened the
door, taking care that the light should shine directly on his face. The
door opened so quietly that the thief heard no sound; but, to his
astonishment, the room was suddenly illuminated. He turned. "Ah,
good-evening, my dear M. Caderousse," said Monte Cristo; "what
are you doing here, at such an hour?" "The
Abbиж
Busoni!" exclaimed Caderousse; and, not knowing how this strange
apparition could have entered when he had bolted the doors, he let fall
his bunch of keys, and remained motionless and stupefied. The count placed
himself between Caderousse and the window, thus cutting off from the thief
his only chance of retreat. "The Abbиж Busoni!" repeated Caderousse, fixing his
haggard gaze on the count. "Yes,
undoubtedly, the Abbиж
Busoni himself," replied Monte Cristo. "And I am very glad you
recognize me, dear M. Caderousse; it proves you have a good memory, for it
must be about ten years since we last met." This calmness of Busoni,
combined with his irony and boldness, staggered Caderousse. "The
abbиж,
the abbиж!"
murmured he, clinching his fists, and his teeth chattering. "So
you would rob the Count of Monte Cristo?" continued the false abbиж. "Reverend
sir," murmured Caderousse, seeking to regain the window, which the
count pitilessly blocked--"reverend sir, I don't know--believe me--I
take my oath"-- "A
pane of glass out," continued the count, "a dark lantern, a
bunch of false keys, a secretary half forced--it is tolerably
evident"-- Caderousse
was choking; he looked around for some corner to hide in, some way of
escape. "Come,
come," continued the count, "I see you are still the same,--an
assassin." "Reverend
sir, since you know everything, you know it was not I--it was La Carconte;
that was proved at the trial, since I was only condemned to the
galleys." "Is
your time, then, expired, since I find you in a fair way to return
there?" "No,
reverend sir; I have been liberated by some one." "That
some one has done society a great kindness." "Ah,"
said Caderousse, "I had promised"-- "And
you are breaking your promise!" interrupted Monte Cristo. "Alas,
yes!" said Caderousse very uneasily. "A
bad relapse, that will lead you, if I mistake not, to the Place de Grииve. So much the worse, so much
the worse--diavolo, as they say in my country." "Reverend
sir, I am impelled"-- "Every
criminal says the same thing." "Poverty"--
"Pshaw!"
said Busoni disdainfully; "poverty may make a man beg, steal a loaf
of bread at a baker's door, but not cause him to open a secretary in a
house supposed to be inhabited. And when the jeweller Johannes had just
paid you 40,000 francs for the diamond I had given you, and you killed him
to get the diamond and the money both, was that also poverty?" "Pardon,
reverend sir," said Caderousse; "you have saved my life once,
save me again!" "That
is but poor encouragement." "Are
you alone, reverend sir, or have you there soldiers ready to seize
me?" "I
am alone," said the abbиж,
"and I will again have pity on you, and will let you escape, at the
risk of the fresh miseries my weakness may lead to, if you tell me the
truth." "Ah,
reverend sir," cried Caderousse, clasping his hands, and drawing
nearer to Monte Cristo, "I may indeed say you are my deliverer!"
"You
mean to say you have been freed from confinement?" "Yes,
that is true, reverend sir." "Who
was your liberator?" "An
Englishman." "What
was his name?" "Lord
Wilmore." "I
know him; I shall know if you lie." "Ah,
reverend sir, I tell you the simple truth." "Was
this Englishman protecting you?" "No,
not me, but a young Corsican, my companion." "What
was this young Corsican's name?" "Benedetto."
"Is
that his Christian name?" "He
had no other; he was a foundling." "Then
this young man escaped with you?" "He
did." "In
what way?" "We
were working at St. Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know St. Mandrier?"
"I
do." "In
the hour of rest, between noon and one o'clock"-- "Galley-slaves
having a nap after dinner! We may well pity the poor fellows!" said
the abbиж.
"Nay,"
said Caderousse, "one can't always work--one is not a dog." "So
much the better for the dogs," said Monte Cristo. "While
the rest slept, then, we went away a short distance; we severed our
fetters with a file the Englishman had given us, and swam away." "And
what is become of this Benedetto?" "I
don't know." "You
ought to know." "No,
in truth; we parted at Hyииres."
And, to give more weight to his protestation, Caderousse advanced another
step towards the abbиж,
who remained motionless in his place, as calm as ever, and pursuing his
interrogation. "You lie," said the Abbиж Busoni, with a tone of irresistible authority. "Reverend
sir!" "You
lie! This man is still your friend, and you, perhaps, make use of him as
your accomplice." "Oh,
reverend sir!" "Since
you left Toulon what have you lived on? Answer me!" "On
what I could get." "You
lie," repeated the abbиж
a third time, with a still more imperative tone. Caderousse, terrified,
looked at the count. "You have lived on the money he has given
you." "True,"
said Caderousse; "Benedetto has become the son of a great lord."
"How
can he be the son of a great lord?" "A
natural son." "And
what is that great lord's name?" "The
Count of Monte Cristo, the very same in whose house we are." "Benedetto
the count's son?" replied Monte Cristo, astonished in his turn. "Well,
I should think so, since the count has found him a false father--since the
count gives him four thousand francs a month, and leaves him 500,000
francs in his will." "Ah,
yes," said the factitious abbиж, who began to understand; "and what name does
the young man bear meanwhile?" "Andrea Cavalcanti." "Is
it, then, that young man whom my friend the Count of Monte Cristo has
received into his house, and who is going to marry Mademoiselle
Danglars?" "Exactly."
"And
you suffer that, you wretch--you, who know his life and his crime?" "Why
should I stand in a comrade's way?" said Caderousse. "You
are right; it is not you who should apprise M. Danglars, it is I." "Do
not do so, reverend sir." "Why
not?" "Because
you would bring us to ruin." "And
you think that to save such villains as you I will become an abettor of
their plot, an accomplice in their crimes?" "Reverend
sir," said Caderousse, drawing still nearer. "I
will expose all." "To
whom?" "To
M. Danglars." "By
heaven!" cried Caderousse, drawing from his waistcoat an open knife,
and striking the count in the breast, "you shall disclose nothing,
reverend sir!" To Caderousse's great astonishment, the knife, instead
of piercing the count's breast, flew back blunted. At the same moment the
count seized with his left hand the assassin's wrist, and wrung it with
such strength that the knife fell from his stiffened fingers, and
Caderousse uttered a cry of pain. But the count, disregarding his cry,
continued to wring the bandit's wrist, until, his arm being dislocated, he
fell first on his knees, then flat on the floor. The count then placed his
foot on his head, saying, "I know not what restrains me from crushing
thy skull, rascal." "Ah,
mercy--mercy!" cried Caderousse. The count withdrew his foot.
"Rise!" said he. Caderousse rose. "What
a wrist you have, reverend sir!" said Caderousse. stroking his arm,
all bruised by the fleshy pincers which had held it; "what a
wrist!" "Silence!
God gives me strength to overcome a wild beast like you; in the name of
that God I act,--remember that, wretch,--and to spare thee at this moment
is still serving him." "Oh!"
said Caderousse, groaning with pain. "Take
this pen and paper, and write what I dictate." "I
don't know how to write, reverend sir." "You
lie! Take this pen, and write!" Caderousse, awed by the superior
power of the abbиж,
sat down and wrote:-- Sir,--The
man whom you are receiving at your house, and to whom you intend to marry
your daughter, is a felon who escaped with me from confinement at Toulon.
He was No. 59, and I No. 58. He was called Benedetto, but he is ignorant
of his real name, having never known his parents. "Sign
it!" continued the count. "But
would you ruin me?" "If
I sought your ruin, fool, I should drag you to the first guard-house;
besides, when that note is delivered, in all probability you will have no
more to fear. Sign it, then!" Caderousse
signed it. "The address, 'To monsieur the Baron Danglars, banker, Rue
de la Chaussижe
d'Antin.'" Caderousse wrote the address. The abbиж took the note. "Now,"
said he, "that suffices--begone!" "Which
way?" "The
way you came." "You
wish me to get out at that window?" "You
got in very well." "Oh,
you have some design against me, reverend sir." "Idiot!
what design can I have?" "Why,
then, not let me out by the door?" "What
would be the advantage of waking the porter?"-- "Ah,
reverend sir, tell me, do you wish me dead?" "I
wish what God wills." "But
swear that you will not strike me as I go down." "Cowardly
fool!" "What
do you intend doing with me?" "I
ask you what can I do? I have tried to make you a happy man, and you have
turned out a murderer." "Oh,
monsieur," said Caderousse, "make one more attempt--try me once
more!" "I
will," said the count. "Listen--you know if I may be relied
on." "Yes,"
said Caderousse. "If
you arrive safely at home"-- "What
have I to fear, except from you?" "If
you reach your home safely, leave Paris, leave France, and wherever you
may be, so long as you conduct yourself well, I will send you a small
annuity; for, if you return home safely, then"-- "Then?"
asked Caderousse, shuddering. "Then
I shall believe God has forgiven you, and I will forgive you too." "As
true as I am a Christian," stammered Caderousse, "you will make
me die of fright!" "Now
begone," said the count, pointing to the window. Caderousse,
scarcely yet relying on this promise, put his legs out of the window and
stood on the ladder. "Now go down," said the abbиж, folding his arms. Understanding
he had nothing more to fear from him, Caderousse began to go down. Then
the count brought the taper to the window, that it might be seen in the
Champs-Elysижes
that a man was getting out of the window while another held a light. "What
are you doing, reverend sir? Suppose a watchman should pass?" And he
blew out the light. He then descended, but it was only when he felt his
foot touch the ground that he was satisfied of his safety. Monte
Cristo returned to his bedroom, and, glancing rapidly from the garden to
the street, he saw first Caderousse, who after walking to the end of the
garden, fixed his ladder against the wall at a different part from where
he came in. The count then looking over into the street, saw the man who
appeared to be waiting run in the same direction, and place himself
against the angle of the wall where Caderousse would come over. Caderousse
climbed the ladder slowly, and looked over the coping to see if the street
was quiet. No one could be seen or heard. The clock of the Invalides
struck one. Then Caderousse sat astride the coping, and drawing up his
ladder passed it over the wall; then he began to descend, or rather to
slide down by the two stanchions, which he did with an ease which proved
how accustomed he was to the exercise. But, once started, he could not
stop. In vain did he see a man start from the shadow when he was halfway
down--in vain did he see an arm raised as he touched the ground. Before he
could defend himself that arm struck him so violently in the back that he
let go the ladder, crying, "Help!" A second blow struck him
almost immediately in the side, and he fell, calling, "Help,
murder!" Then, as he rolled on the ground, his adversary seized him
by the hair, and struck him a third blow in the chest. This time
Caderousse endeavored to call again, but he could only utter a groan, and
he shuddered as the blood flowed from his three wounds. The assassin,
finding that he no longer cried out, lifted his head up by the hair; his
eyes were closed, and the mouth was distorted. The murderer, supposing him
dead, let fall his head and disappeared. Then Caderousse, feeling that he
was leaving him, raised himself on his elbow, and with a dying voice cried
with great effort, "Murder! I am dying! Help, reverend
sir,--help!" This
mournful appeal pierced the darkness. The door of the back-staircase
opened, then the side-gate of the garden, and Ali and his master were on
the spot with lights. |
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