The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated, Alexandre Dumas [ereader with android .TXT] 📗
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
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“On y va,” (coming) exclaimed Peppino, who from frequenting the house of Signor Pastrini understood French perfectly in all its idioms.
Danglars immediately recognized him as the man who had called out in such a furious manner, “Put in your head!” But this was not the time for recrimination, so he assumed his most agreeable manner and said with a gracious smile:
“Excuse me, sir, but are they not going to give me any dinner?”
“Does your excellency happen to be hungry?”
“Happen to be hungry,—that’s pretty good, when I haven’t eaten for twenty-four hours!” muttered Danglars. Then he added aloud, “Yes, sir, I am hungry—very hungry.”
“And your excellency wants something to eat?”
“At once, if possible”
“Nothing easier,” said Peppino. “Here you can get anything you want; by paying for it, of course, as among honest folk.”
“Of course!” cried Danglars. “Although, in justice, the people who arrest and imprison you, ought, at least, to feed you.”
“That is not the custom, excellency,” said Peppino.
“A bad reason,” replied Danglars, who reckoned on conciliating his keeper; “but I am content. Let me have some dinner!”
“At once! What would your excellency like?”
And Peppino placed his pan on the ground, so that the steam rose directly under the nostrils of Danglars. “Give your orders.”
“Have you kitchens here?”
“Kitchens?—of course—complete ones.”
“And cooks?”
“Excellent!”
“Well, a fowl, fish, game,—it signifies little, so that I eat.”
“As your excellency pleases. You mentioned a fowl, I think?”
“Yes, a fowl.”
Peppino, turning around, shouted, “A fowl for his excellency!” His voice yet echoed in the archway when a handsome, graceful, and half-naked young man appeared, bearing a fowl in a silver dish on his head, without the assistance of his hands.
“I could almost believe myself at the Café de Paris,” murmured Danglars.
“Here, your excellency,” said Peppino, taking the fowl from the young bandit and placing it on the worm-eaten table, which with the stool and the goat-skin bed formed the entire furniture of the cell. Danglars asked for a knife and fork.
“Here, excellency,” said Peppino, offering him a little blunt knife and a boxwood fork. Danglars took the knife in one hand and the fork in the other, and was about to cut up the fowl.
“Pardon me, excellency,” said Peppino, placing his hand on the banker’s shoulder; “people pay here before they eat. They might not be satisfied, and——”
“Ah, ha,” thought Danglars, “this is not so much like Paris, except that I shall probably be skinned! Never mind, I’ll fix that all right. I have always heard how cheap poultry is in Italy; I should think a fowl is worth about twelve sous at Rome.—There,” he said, throwing a louis down.
Peppino picked up the louis, and Danglars again prepared to carve the fowl.
“Stay a moment, your excellency,” said Peppino, rising; “you still owe me something.”
“I said they would skin me,” thought Danglars; but resolving to resist the extortion, he said, “Come, how much do I owe you for this fowl?”
“Your excellency has given me a louis on account.”
“A louis on account for a fowl?”
“Certainly; and your excellency now owes me 4,999 louis.”
Danglars opened his enormous eyes on hearing this gigantic joke.
“Very droll,” he muttered, “very droll indeed,” and he again began to carve the fowl, when Peppino stopped the baron’s right hand with his left, and held out his other hand.
“Come, now,” he said.
“Is it not a joke?” said Danglars.
“We never joke,” replied Peppino, solemn as a Quaker.
“What! A hundred thousand francs for a fowl!”
“Ah, excellency, you cannot imagine how hard it is to rear fowls in these horrible caves!”
“Come, come, this is very droll—very amusing—I allow; but, as I am very hungry, pray allow me to eat. Stay, here is another louis for you.”
“Then that will make only 4,998 louis more,” said Peppino with the same indifference. “I shall get them all in time.”
“Oh, as for that,” said Danglars, angry at this prolongation of the jest,—“as for that you won’t get them at all. Go to the devil! You do not know with whom you have to deal!”
Peppino made a sign, and the youth hastily removed the fowl. Danglars threw himself upon his goat-skin, and Peppino, reclosing the door, again began eating his peas and bacon. Though Danglars could not see Peppino, the noise of his teeth allowed no doubt as to his occupation. He was certainly eating, and noisily too, like an ill-bred man. “Brute!” said Danglars. Peppino pretended not to hear him, and without even turning his head continued to eat slowly. Danglars’ stomach felt so empty, that it seemed as if it would be impossible ever to fill it again; still he had patience for another half-hour, which appeared to him like a century. He again arose and went to the door.
“Come, sir, do not keep me starving here any longer, but tell me what they want.”
“Nay, your excellency, it is you who should tell us what you want. Give your orders, and we will execute them.”
“Then open the door directly.” Peppino obeyed. “Now look here, I want something to eat! To eat—do you hear?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Come, you understand me.”
“What would your excellency like to eat?”
“A piece of dry bread, since the fowls are beyond all price in this accursed place.”
“Bread? Very well. Holloa, there, some bread!” he called. The youth brought a small loaf. “How much?” asked Danglars.
“Four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight louis,” said Peppino; “You have paid two louis in advance.”
“What? One hundred thousand francs for a loaf?”
“One hundred thousand francs,” repeated Peppino.
“But you only asked 100,000 francs for a fowl!”
“We have a fixed price for all our provisions. It signifies nothing whether you eat much or little—whether you have ten dishes or one—it is always the same price.”
“What, still keeping up this silly jest? My dear fellow, it is perfectly ridiculous—stupid! You had better tell me at once that you intend starving me to death.”
“Oh, dear, no, your excellency, unless you intend to commit suicide. Pay and eat.”
“And what am I to pay with, brute?” said Danglars, enraged. “Do you suppose I carry 100,000 francs in my pocket?”
“Your excellency has 5,050,000 francs in your pocket; that will be fifty fowls at 100,000 francs apiece, and half a fowl for the 50,000.”
Danglars shuddered. The bandage fell from his eyes, and he understood the joke, which he did not think quite so stupid as he had done just before.
“Come,” he said, “if I pay you the 100,000 francs, will you be satisfied, and allow me to eat at my ease?”
“Certainly,” said Peppino.
“But how can I pay them?”
“Oh, nothing easier; you have an account open with Messrs. Thomson & French, Via dei Banchi, Rome; give me a draft for 4,998 louis on these gentlemen, and our banker shall take it.” Danglars thought it as well to comply with a good grace, so he took the pen, ink, and paper Peppino offered him, wrote the draft, and signed it.
“Here,” he said, “here is a draft at sight.”
“And here is your fowl.”
Danglars sighed while he carved the fowl; it appeared very thin for the price it had cost. As for Peppino, he examined the paper attentively, put it into his pocket, and continued eating his peas.
The next day Danglars was again hungry; certainly the air of that dungeon was very provocative of appetite. The prisoner expected that he would be at no expense that day, for like an economical man he had concealed half of his fowl and a piece of the bread in the corner of his cell. But he had no sooner eaten than he felt thirsty; he had forgotten that. He struggled against his thirst till his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth; then, no longer able to resist, he called out. The sentinel opened the door; it was a new face. He thought it would be better to transact business with his old acquaintance, so he sent for Peppino.
“Here I am, your excellency,” said Peppino, with an eagerness which Danglars thought favorable to him. “What do you want?”
“Something to drink.”
“Your excellency knows that wine is beyond all price near Rome.”
“Then give me water,” cried Danglars, endeavoring to parry the blow.
“Oh, water is even more scarce than wine, your excellency,—there has been such a drought.”
“Come,” thought Danglars, “it is the same old story.” And while he smiled as he attempted to regard the affair as a joke, he felt his temples get moist with perspiration.
“Come, my friend,” said Danglars, seeing that he made no impression on Peppino, “you will not refuse me a glass of wine?”
“I have already told you that we do not sell at retail.”
“Well, then, let me have a bottle of the least expensive.”
“They are all the same price.”
“And what is that?”
“Twenty-five thousand francs a bottle.”
“Tell me,” cried Danglars, in a tone whose bitterness Harpagon[30] alone has been capable of revealing—“tell me that you wish to despoil me of all; it will be sooner over than devouring me piecemeal.”
“It is possible such may be the master’s intention.”
“The master?—who is he?”
“The person to whom you were conducted yesterday.”
“Where is he?”
“Here.”
“Let me see him.”
“Certainly.”
And the next moment Luigi Vampa appeared before Danglars.
“You sent for me?” he said to the prisoner.
“Are you, sir, the chief of the people who brought me here?”
“Yes, your excellency. What then?”
“How much do you require for my ransom?”
“Merely the 5,000,000 you have about you.” Danglars felt a dreadful spasm dart through his heart.
“But this is all I have left in the world,” he said, “out of an immense fortune. If you deprive me of that, take away my life also.”
“We are forbidden to shed your blood.”
“And by whom are you forbidden?”
“By him we obey.”
“You do, then, obey someone?”
“Yes, a chief.”
“I thought you said you were the chief?”
“So I am of these men; but there is another over me.”
“And did your superior order you to treat me in this way?”
“Yes.”
“But my purse will be exhausted.”
“Probably.”
“Come,” said Danglars, “will you take a million?”
“No.”
“Two millions?—three?—four? Come, four? I will give them to you on condition that you let me go.”
“Why do you offer me 4,000,000 for what is worth 5,000,000? This is a kind of usury, banker, that I do not understand.”
“Take all, then—take all, I tell you, and kill me!”
“Come, come, calm yourself. You will excite your blood, and that would produce an appetite it would require a million a day to satisfy. Be more economical.”
“But when I have no more money left to pay you?” asked the infuriated Danglars.
“Then you must suffer hunger.”
“Suffer hunger?” said Danglars, becoming pale.
“Most likely,” replied Vampa coolly.
“But you say you do not wish to kill me?”
“No.”
“And yet you will let me perish with hunger?”
“Ah, that is a different thing.”
“Well, then, wretches,” cried Danglars, “I will defy your infamous calculations—I would rather die at once! You may torture, torment, kill me, but you shall not have my signature again!”
“As your excellency pleases,” said Vampa, as he left the cell.
Danglars, raving, threw himself on the goat-skin. Who could these men be? Who was the invisible chief? What could be his intentions towards him? And why, when everyone else was allowed to be ransomed, might he not also be? Oh, yes; certainly a speedy, violent death would be a fine means of deceiving these remorseless enemies, who appeared to pursue him with such incomprehensible vengeance. But to die? For the first time in his life, Danglars contemplated death with a mixture of dread and desire; the time had come when the implacable spectre, which exists in the mind of every human creature, arrested his attention and called out with every pulsation of his heart, “Thou shalt die!”
Danglars resembled a timid animal excited in the chase; first it flies, then despairs, and at last, by the very force of desperation, sometimes succeeds in eluding its pursuers. Danglars meditated an escape; but the walls were solid rock, a man was sitting reading at the only outlet to the cell, and behind that man shapes armed with guns continually passed. His resolution not to sign lasted two days, after which he offered a million for some food. They sent him a magnificent supper, and took his million.
From this time the prisoner resolved to suffer no longer, but to have everything he wanted. At the end of twelve days, after having made a splendid dinner, he reckoned his accounts, and found that he had only 50,000 francs left. Then a strange reaction took place; he who had just abandoned 5,000,000 endeavored to save the 50,000 francs he had left, and sooner than give them up he resolved to enter again upon a life of privation—he was deluded by the hopefulness that is a premonition
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