Chapter 66. Matrimonial Projects
The next morning, Debray’s coupé did not appear. At half-past twelve Madame Danglars ordered her carriage; Danglars watched her go. He waited until two, then drove to the Chamber. Major Cavalcanti had come and gone at the appointed hour.
Danglars drove to the Champs-Élysées, where Monte Cristo kept him waiting. Danglars detailed his disaster: Jacopo Manfredi of Trieste had suspended payment, plus the Spanish loss—1,700,000 francs for the month. Monte Cristo outlined three classes of fortune, warned seven such months would ruin a third-rate house, and offered to lend.
They turned to Cavalcanti. The major had presented a 40,000-franc bond signed by Busoni and endorsed by Monte Cristo; Andrea would draw 5,000 francs monthly. Danglars probed marriage: seeking a Parisian bride? What fortune? Perhaps millions, perhaps nothing; old Italian families bury their gold. Danglars hinted Andrea might suit Eugénie as well as Albert de Morcerf. Monte Cristo drew out that Morcerf was no count but the former fisherman Fernand Mondego. Danglars urged the count to share anything scandalous about that name in Greece—and rushed out with new fire in his eyes.
Chapter 67. The Office of the King’s Attorney
Madame Danglars went to the Palais. Plainly dressed, veiled in black, she entered the Salle des Pas-Perdus, was admitted by private passage to Villefort’s office, and found the procureur ready.
Villefort bolted the door, drew the curtains, and said he felt less a judge than a prisoner. Monte Cristo had dug the garden and found nothing—either the child had never been buried there or someone had removed the remains.
He confessed everything. Years ago, a child born motionless and breathless, he placed it in a chest and descended to the garden. He dug the hole, flung it down, and while trampling the earth, a Corsican’s arm struck him in the chest. He fell, bled, was carried away, and lay near death for months. On his return, the chest was gone. The Corsican must have taken it; perhaps the child lived and was carried to the Paris foundling hospital. He traced it: a child in half a napkin marked with half a baron’s crown and the letter H. A woman reclaimed it six months later with the matching half; the trail vanished at Châlons.
Madame Danglars wept, demanding where her child might be. Villefort could not say. He feared Monte Cristo knew everything and had manufactured the scene. Had she spoken of their connection? Kept a journal? Talked in her sleep? No, no, no. He swore to discover who Monte Cristo was within a week, led her to the door, and she returned by cab.
Chapter 68. A Summer Ball
The same day, Albert de Morcerf returned from Tréport with his mother and drove to Monte Cristo. The count received him coolly; Albert, who had felt electric sympathy even from a distance, begged for news of Mademoiselle Danglars.
The count told him of the Auteuil dinner, the Cavalcantis, every detail. When Albert confessed he would gladly pay 100,000 francs to escape his betrothed, the count smiled. “Make yourself easy. M. Danglars would give double.” Albert was alarmed and intrigued.
They discussed Franz d’Épinay and the Morcerfs’ planned ball. Albert delivered his mother’s invitation—the count agreed to Saturday. Bertuccio reported Madame Danglars had gone to the Palais for an hour and a half. The count sent Bertuccio to seek the little estate in Normandy, and the steward departed that evening.
Chapter 69. The Inquiry
Villefort kept his promise. Through M. de Boville, formerly an inspector of prisons, he learned Monte Cristo was known to Lord Wilmore and Abbé Busoni, and sent agents to question both.
At the Abbé Busoni’s dwelling behind Saint-Sulpice, a priest identified the count as M. Zaccone, son of a Maltese shipbuilder, a Lutheran but a knight of Jesus Christ by papal favor—fortune from a Thessalian silver mine, title from a Mediterranean rock. The abbé confirmed the Auteuil purchase as the count’s intention to found a charitable lunatic asylum like Palermo’s.
The visitor went to Lord Wilmore on the Chaussée d’Antin. The Englishman spoke no French and answered through an interpreter. He described Zaccone’s wild youth, duels, imprisonment, Greek service, the Thessalian mine. He called the count a Quaker who had seduced his friend’s wife and a speculator-risible miser; he had fought Monte Cristo three times—pistol, sword, sabre—and carried the scars.
When the visitor departed, Lord Wilmore locked his door, removed his red whiskers, light hair, false jaw, and scar, and became once again the Count of Monte Cristo. Villefort slept soundly that night for the first time since the Auteuil dinner.
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