LXIV. Le mendiant.

LXIV

The Beggar.

The evening was wearing on; Madame de Villefort had expressed a wish to return to Paris, something Madame Danglars had not dared to do, despite the evident discomfort she was feeling.

At his wife's request, Monsieur de Villefort therefore gave the first signal for departure. He offered Madame Danglars a seat in his landau, so that she might have the care of his wife. As for Monsieur Danglars, absorbed in a most interesting business conversation with Monsieur Cavalcanti, he paid no attention to anything that was happening.

Monte-Cristo, while asking Madame de Villefort for his smelling bottle, had noticed that Monsieur de Villefort had drawn near to Madame Danglars, and guided by her situation, he had guessed what he had said to her, though he had spoken so low that scarcely even Madame Danglars herself had heard him.

He let, without opposing any arrangement, Morrel, Debray and Château-Renaud depart on horseback, and the two ladies mount into Monsieur de Villefort's landau; for his part, Danglars, more and more delighted with Cavalcanti senior, invited him to get into his coupé with him.

As for Andrea Cavalcanti, he made for his tilbury, which was waiting for him before the door, and a groom, who exaggerated the refinements of English fashion, held for him, by rising on tiptoe of his boots, the enormous iron-grey horse.

Andrea had not spoken much during dinner, precisely because he was a very intelligent young man, and had quite naturally felt the fear of saying something foolish amid these wealthy and powerful guests, among whom his dilated eye perhaps perceived, not without dread, a king's attorney.

Then he had been monopolized by Monsieur Danglars, who, after a rapid glance at the old major with the stiff neck and at his son who was still a little shy, and connecting all these symptoms with Monte-Cristo's hospitality, had thought he had to do with some nabob come to Paris to perfect his only son in worldly life.

He had therefore contemplated with ineffable complacency the enormous diamond that shone on the major's little finger, for the major, being a prudent and experienced man, for fear some accident might befall his banknotes, had instantly converted them into an article of value. Then, after dinner, still under pretext of business and travel, he had questioned father and son upon their manner of living; and father and son, warned that it was at Danglars's that there were to be opened for them, for the one his credit of forty-eight thousand francs, once given, for the other his annual credit of fifty thousand livres, had been charming and full of affability toward the banker, whose servants, had they not restrained themselves, they would have shaken by the hand, so much did their gratitude feel the need of expansion.

One thing above all increased the consideration, we might almost say the veneration, of Danglars for Cavalcanti. The latter, faithful to the principle of Horace: _nil admirari_, had contented himself, as we have seen, with showing his knowledge, by saying from which lake the best lampreys were taken. Then he had eaten his share of those without saying a single word. Danglars had concluded that such sumptuousness was familiar to the illustrious descendant of the Cavalcanti, who probably nourished himself, at Lucca, on trout that he had brought from Switzerland, and on lobsters sent him from Brittany, by means similar to those the count had used to have lampreys brought from Lake Fusaro, and sterlets from the Volga River. Also, he had received with very marked benevolence these words of Cavalcanti:

"Tomorrow, sir, I shall have the honor of calling on you on business."

"And I, sir," had answered Danglars, "shall be happy to receive you."

Whereupon he had proposed to Cavalcanti, if however it did not deprive him too much to separate from his son, to drive him back to the Hôtel des Princes.

Cavalcanti had answered that, for a long time, his son had been in the habit of leading the life of a young man; that consequently he had his own horses and equipages, and that, not having come together, he saw no difficulty in their going off separately.

The major had therefore got into Danglars's carriage, and the banker had seated himself at his side, more and more charmed with the orderly and economical ideas of this man, who, however, gave his son fifty thousand francs a year, which supposed a fortune of five or six hundred thousand livres income.

As for Andrea, he began, to give himself an air, by scolding his groom because, instead of coming to fetch him at the steps, he was waiting at the exit gate, which had given him the trouble of walking thirty paces to reach his tilbury.

The groom received the rebuke with humility, took, to hold the impatient horse that was pawing the ground, the bit in his left hand, held out the reins with his right to Andrea, who took them and lightly set his varnished boot upon the step.

At that moment, a hand rested on his shoulder. The young man turned round, thinking that Danglars or Monte-Cristo had forgotten something to tell him, and was returning to the charge at the moment of departure.

But, instead of one or the other, he perceived only a strange face, tanned by the sun, framed in a beard of the latest fashion, eyes shining like carbuncles and a mocking smile spreading over a mouth where there shone, ranged in their places and not one missing, thirty-two white teeth, sharp and hungry as those of a wolf or a jackal.

A red-checked handkerchief covered this head with greyish, earthy hair; a smock of the dirtiest and most tattered covered that large, lean, bony body, of which it seemed that the bones, like those of a skeleton, must rattle in walking. Finally, the hand that rested on Andrea's shoulder, and which was the first thing the young man saw, seemed to him of gigantic dimensions. Did the young man recognize that face by the light of his tilbury lantern, or was he merely struck by the horrible aspect of this interlocutor? We could not say; but the fact is that he started and drew back sharply.

"What do you want with me?" said he.

"Pardon! our good sir," answered the man, carrying his hand to his red handkerchief, "I may be disturbing you, but it is that I have to speak with you."

"One does not beg in the evening," said the groom, making a movement to rid his master of this importunate fellow.

"I am not begging, my fine lad," said the unknown man to the servant with an ironical smile, and such a frightful smile that the latter drew back: "I merely wish to say two words to your master, who charged me with a commission some fifteen days ago or so."

"Come," said Andrea in his turn, with enough firmness that the servant might not perceive his uneasiness, "what do you want? speak quickly, my friend."

"I should like... I should like..." said the man with the red handkerchief very low, "that you would kindly spare me the trouble of returning to Paris on foot. I am very tired, and, as I have not dined as well as you, scarcely, if I can keep upright."

The young man started at this strange familiarity.

"But come," said he to him, "let us see, what do you want?"

"Well, I want you to let me get into your fine carriage, and to drive me back."

Andrea turned pale, but answered nothing.

"Oh! my God, yes," said the man with the red handkerchief, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and looking at the young man with provoking eyes, "it is an idea I have like that; do you hear, my little Benedetto?"

At this name, the young man reflected, no doubt, for he drew near to his groom, and said to him:

"This man has indeed been charged by me with a commission of which he has to render me an account. Go on foot as far as the barrier; there, take a cabriolet, so as not to be too late."

The valet, surprised, went off.

"At least let me get into the shade," said Andrea.

"Oh! as for that, I am going to conduct you myself to a fine spot; wait," said the man with the red handkerchief.

And he took the horse by the bit, and led the tilbury to a place where it was indeed impossible for anyone in the world to see the honor Andrea was granting him.

"Oh! me," said he to him, "it is not for the glory of riding in a fine carriage, no, it is only because I am tired, and then, a little, because I have some business to talk over with you."

"Come, get in," said the young man.

It was a pity it was not daylight, for it would have been a curious sight, that of this beggar, squarely seated on the brocaded cushions, beside the young and elegant driver of the tilbury.

Andrea urged his horse to the last house of the village without saying a single word to his companion, who, for his part, smiled and kept silence, as if he had been delighted to ride in so good a locomotive.

Once out of Auteuil, Andrea looked around him, no doubt to assure himself that no one could either see or hear them; and then, stopping his horse and crossing his arms before the man with the red handkerchief:

"Come now!" said he to him, "why do you come to trouble my peace?"

"But, you yourself, my boy, why do you mistrust me?"

"And in what have I mistrusted you?"

"In what? you ask me? we part at the Var bridge, you tell me you are going to travel in Piedmont and Tuscany, and not at all, you come to Paris."

"How does that inconvenience you?"

"In nothing; on the contrary, I even hope it is going to help me."

"Ah! ah!" said Andrea, "that is to say you are speculating on me."

"Come! there are the big words arriving."

"It is that you would be wrong, Master Caderousse, I warn you of it."

"Eh! my God! do not get angry, little one; you ought however to know what misfortune is; well, misfortune, that makes one jealous. I think you are roaming Piedmont and Tuscany, obliged to make yourself a _faccino_ or a _cicerone_; I pity you from the bottom of my heart, as I would pity my child. You know I have always called you my child."

"Well? well?"

"Patience, then, saltpeter!"

"I have patience enough; come, finish. And I see you all at once pass the Bons-Hommes barrier with a groom, with a tilbury, with clothes all brand-new. Come now! but have you then discovered a mine, or bought a stockbroker's post?"

"So that, as you confess, you are jealous?"

"No, I am pleased, so pleased, that I wanted to give you my compliments, little one! but, as I was not dressed regularly, I took my precautions so as not to compromise you."

"Fine precautions!" said Andrea; "you accost me before my servant."

"Eh! what would you have, my child! I accost you when I can catch you. You have a very lively horse, a very light tilbury; you are naturally slippery as an eel; if I had missed you this evening, I ran the risk of not overtaking you."

"You see well enough that I do not hide myself."

"You are very happy, and I could well say as much; I, I hide: not to mention that I was afraid you would not recognize me; but you recognized me," added Caderousse with his evil smile; "come, you are very nice."

"Come," said Andrea, "what do you need?"

"You no longer use the familiar _tu_ with me, that is wrong, Benedetto, an old comrade; take care, you are going to make me exacting."

This threat made the young man's anger fall: the wind of constraint had just blown upon it. He put his horse back to a trot.

"It is wrong of you too, Caderousse," said he, "to go about it thus toward an old comrade, as you were saying just now; you are Marseillais, I am...."

"You know then what you are now?"

"No, but I was brought up in Corsica; you are old and headstrong; I am young and stubborn. Between people like us, threat is bad, and all should be done amicably. Is it my fault if chance, which continues to be bad for you, is good for me on the contrary?"

"It is then good, chance? it is then not a borrowed groom, it is then not a borrowed tilbury, they are then not borrowed clothes that we have there? Good, so much the better!" said Caderousse with eyes shining with covetousness.

"Oh! you see it well and you know it well, since you accost me," said Andrea, growing more and more animated. "If I had a handkerchief like yours on my head, a filthy smock on my shoulders and worn-out shoes on my feet, you would not recognize me."

"You see well that you despise me, little one, and you are wrong; now that I have found you again, nothing prevents me from being dressed in elbeuf like another, seeing that I know you have a good heart: if you have two coats, you will well give me one; I gave you my share of soup and beans, I, when you were too hungry."

"That is true," said Andrea.

"What an appetite you had! Have you still a good appetite?"

"But yes," said Andrea, laughing.

"As you must have dined at the prince's from whom you come."

"He is not a prince, but simply a count."

"A count? and a rich one, eh?"

"Yes, but do not trust to it; he is a gentleman who does not look easy to deal with."

"Oh! my God! be easy! One has no designs on your count, and one will leave him to you all alone. But," added Caderousse, resuming that evil smile which had already flitted over his lips, "one must give something for that, you understand."

"Come, what do you need?"

"I think that with a hundred francs a month...."

"Well?"

"I should live...."

"On a hundred francs?"

"But badly, you understand well; but with...."

"With?"

"A hundred and fifty francs, I should be very happy."

"There are two hundred," said Andrea.

And he put ten gold louis into Caderousse's hand.

"Good," said Caderousse.

"Present yourself to the concierge every first of the month and you will find as much."

"Come! there is that again, humiliating me!"

"How so?"

"You put me in relation with the servant class; no, you see, I will have to do only with you."

"Well, so be it, ask me, and every first of the month, at least as long as I draw my annuity, you, you will draw yours."

"Come, come! I see I was not mistaken, you are a brave boy, and it is a blessing when happiness comes to folk like you. Come, tell me your good luck."

"What need have you to know that?" said Cavalcanti.

"Bah! still distrust!"

"No. Well, I have found my father again."

"A real father?"

"Why! as long as he pays...."

"You will believe and honor him; that is right. What do you call him, your father?"

"Major Cavalcanti."

"And he is satisfied with you?"

"Up to now it appears that I suffice him."

"And who made you find that father?"

"The Count of Monte-Cristo."

"The one you are coming from?"

"Yes."

"I say, try to place me with him as grandfather, since he keeps an office."

"So be it, I will speak to him of you; but meanwhile what are you going to do?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"You are very good to concern yourself with that," said Caderousse.

"It seems to me, since you take interest in me," resumed Andrea, "that I can well in my turn take some information."

"That is right... I am going to rent a room in a respectable house, cover myself with a decent coat, have myself shaved every day, and go read the newspapers at the café. In the evening, I shall go into some spectacle with a claque chief, I shall look like a retired baker, that is my dream."

"Come, that is good! If you wish to put this plan into execution and be wise, all will go marvelously."

"See M. Bossuet!... and you, what are you going to become?... peer of France?"

"Eh! eh!" said Andrea, "who knows?"

"M. the Major Cavalcanti perhaps is... but unfortunately heredity is abolished."

"No politics, Caderousse!... And now that you have what you want and that we have arrived, jump down from my carriage and disappear."

"Not so, dear friend!"

"How, not so?"

"But think of it, little one, a red handkerchief on the head, scarce any shoes, no papers at all and ten napoleons in gold in my pocket, not to mention what was already there, which makes just two hundred francs; but they would infallibly arrest me at the barrier! Then I should be forced, to justify myself, to say that it was you who gave me those ten napoleons: thence information, inquiry; they learn that I left Toulon without giving notice, and they reconduct me from brigade to brigade to the shore of the Mediterranean. I become purely and simply No. 106 again, and farewell my dream of resembling a retired baker! Not so, my son; I prefer to remain honorably in the capital."

Andrea frowned; it was, as he had boasted himself, rather a bad head, that of the putative son of M. the Major Cavalcanti. He stopped an instant, cast a rapid glance around him, and as his look finished describing the investigating circle, his hand descended innocently into his fob, where it began to caress the guard of a pocket pistol.

But during this time, Caderousse, who had not lost sight of his companion, passed his hands behind his back, and softly opened a long Spanish knife that he carried on him for any event.

The two friends, as one sees, were worthy to understand each other, and understood each other; Andrea's hand came out harmless from his pocket, and went up to his reddish mustache, which it caressed for some time.

"Good Caderousse," said he, "you are then going to be happy?"

"I shall do my possible," answered the innkeeper of the Gard bridge, thrusting his knife back into his sleeve.

"Come, see, let us return then to Paris. But how are you going to pass the barrier without awakening suspicion? It seems to me that with your costume you risk even more in a carriage than on foot."

"Wait," said Caderousse, "you are going to see."

He took Andrea's hat, the great-collared greatcoat that the exiled groom of the tilbury had left in his place, and put it on his back, after which he took the sullen pose of a good-house servant whose master drives himself.

"And I," said Andrea, "am I then going to remain bareheaded?"

"Puh!" said Caderousse, "there is so much wind that the north wind may well have carried off your hat."

"Come then," said Andrea, "and let us finish."

"Who is stopping you?" said Caderousse; "it is not I, I hope?"

"Hush!" made Cavalcanti.

They crossed the barrier without accident.

At the first cross street, Andrea stopped his horse, and Caderousse jumped to the ground.

"Well," said Andrea, "and my servant's coat, and my hat?"

"Ah!" answered Caderousse, "you would not wish me to risk catching cold?"

"But I?"

"You, you are young, while I, I am beginning to grow old; farewell, Benedetto!"

And he plunged into the narrow street, where he disappeared.

"Alas!" said Andrea, sighing, "can one then not be completely happy in this world!"

“Stories of the world, in your language.”