LXXVIII. On nous écrit de Janina.

LXXVIII

We are written to from Janina.

Franz had left Noirtier’s room so staggering and so distraught that Valentine herself had pitied him.

Villefort, who had uttered only a few disconnected words and had fled to his study, received two hours later the following letter:

“After what was revealed this morning, M. Noirtier de Villefort cannot suppose that an alliance is possible between his family and that of M. Franz d’Épinay. M. Franz d’Épinay is horrified to think that M. de Villefort, who seemed to know the events recounted this morning, did not warn him of this intention.”

Anyone who had seen the magistrate at that moment, bowed beneath the blow, would not have believed he had foreseen it; indeed, he had never thought his father would carry frankness, or rather roughness, so far as to tell such a story. It is true that M. Noirtier, disdainful as he was of his son’s opinion, had never troubled to clarify the matter in Villefort’s eyes, and the latter had always believed that the general de Quesnel, or the baron d’Épinay, as one might call him by the name he had given himself or the name others had given him, had been assassinated and not killed honorably in a duel.

This letter, so harsh from a young man until then so respectful, was deadly to the pride of a man like Villefort.

He had scarcely entered his study when his wife came in.

The departure of Franz, summoned by M. Noirtier, had so astonished everyone that Mme de Villefort’s position, left alone with the notary and the witnesses, became from moment to moment more embarrassing. Then Mme de Villefort had made up her mind, and had gone out announcing she was going to inquire.

M. de Villefort merely told her that, following an explanation between him, M. Noirtier and M. d’Épinay, the marriage of Valentine to Franz was broken off.

This was difficult to report to those who were waiting; so Mme de Villefort, on returning, contented herself with saying that M. Noirtier, having had, at the beginning of the conference, a kind of apoplectic fit, the contract was naturally postponed for a few days.

This news, false as it was, arrived so strangely after two misfortunes of the same kind that the listeners looked at one another in astonishment and withdrew without a word.

Meanwhile Valentine, happy and terrified at once, after embracing and thanking the feeble old man who had thus broken with a single blow a chain she had already regarded as indissoluble, had asked to withdraw to her room to recover, and Noirtier had, with his eyes, granted the permission she sought.

But, instead of going up to her room, Valentine, once outside, took the corridor, and, going out by the small door, ran into the garden. Amid all the events that had just piled one upon another, a silent terror had constantly compressed her heart. She expected from moment to moment to see Morrel appear, pale and threatening like the Laird of Ravenswood at the contract of Lucy of Lammermoor.

Indeed, it was time she reached the gate. Maximilien, who had guessed what was about to happen on seeing Franz leave the cemetery with M. de Villefort, had followed him; then, after seeing him enter, had seen him leave again and return once more with Albert and Château-Renaud. For him, therefore, there was no longer any doubt. He had then thrown himself into his enclosure, ready for any event, and quite certain that at the first moment of freedom she could seize, Valentine would run to him.

He had not been mistaken; his eye, pressed to the boards, indeed saw the young girl appear, who, taking none of the usual precautions, ran to the gate. At the first glance he cast upon her, Maximilien was reassured; at the first word she spoke he leapt with joy.

“Saved!” said Valentine.

“Saved!” repeated Morrel, unable to believe such happiness: “but by whom saved?”

“By my grandfather. Oh! love him dearly, Morrel.”

Morrel swore to love the old man with all his soul, and this oath cost him nothing to make, for, at that moment, he did not content himself with loving him as a friend or as a father, he adored him as a god.

“But how did it happen?” asked Morrel; “what strange means did he employ?”

Valentine opened her mouth to tell all; but she reflected that at the bottom of it all lay a terrible secret which was not her grandfather’s alone.

“Later,” she said, “I will tell you all that.”

“But when?”

“When I am your wife.”

This was to turn the conversation to a chapter which made Morrel easy to all understanding: so he even understood that he must content himself with what he knew, and that it was enough for one day. However, he consented to withdraw only on the promise that he would see Valentine the next evening.

Valentine promised what Morrel wished. Everything was changed in her eyes, and certainly it was less difficult for her now to believe she would marry Maximilien than to believe, an hour before, that she would not marry Franz.

Meanwhile Mme de Villefort had gone up to Noirtier.

Noirtier looked at her with that dark and severe eye with which he was accustomed to receive her.

“Sir,” she said to him, “I need not tell you that Valentine’s marriage is broken off, since it is here that this rupture took place.”

Noirtier remained impassive.

“But,” continued Mme de Villefort, “what you do not know, sir, is that I have always been opposed to this marriage, which was being made in spite of me.”

Noirtier looked at his daughter-in-law like a man awaiting an explanation.

“Now, then, that this marriage, for which I knew your repugnance, is broken off, I come to make a step near you which neither M. de Villefort nor Valentine could make.”

Noirtier’s eyes asked what this step was.

“I come to beg you, sir,” continued Mme de Villefort, “as the only one who has the right, for I am the only one to whom nothing will return from it; I come to beg you to restore, I will not say your favor—she has always had that—but your fortune, to your granddaughter.”

Noirtier’s eyes remained for an instant uncertain: he was evidently seeking the motives of this step and could not find them.

“May I hope, sir,” said Mme de Villefort, “that your intentions were in harmony with the prayer I came to make you?”

“Yes,” made Noirtier.

“In that case, sir,” said Mme de Villefort, “I retire at once grateful and happy.”

And bowing to M. Noirtier, she withdrew.

Indeed, the next day, Noirtier had the notary brought; the first will was torn up, and a new one was made, in which he left all his fortune to Valentine, on condition that she should not be separated from him.

Some persons then calculated in the world that Mlle de Villefort, heiress of the marquis and marquise de Saint-Méran, and restored to the favor of her grandfather, would one day have nearly three hundred thousand livres of income.

While this marriage was being broken off at the Villeforts’, the Count de Morcerf had received the visit of Monte Cristo, and, to show his eagerness to Danglars, he put on his full dress uniform of lieutenant-general, which he had had decorated with all his crosses, and called for his finest horses. Thus arrayed, he went to the rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin, and had himself announced to Danglars, who was making up his end-of-month statement.

It was not the moment, of late, when one should take the banker to find him in good humor.

Accordingly, at the sight of his old friend, Danglars assumed his majestic air and planted himself squarely in his armchair.

Morcerf, usually so stiff, had on the contrary borrowed a cheerful and affable manner; accordingly, pretty sure that his opening would meet a good reception, he used no diplomacy, and came to the point at a single stroke:

“Baron,” said he, “here I am. For a long time we have been circling around our former words…”

Morcerf expected, at these words, to see the banker’s face brighten, attributing his gloom to his silence; but, on the contrary, that face became, which was almost incredible, even more impassive and colder.

This is why Morcerf had stopped in the middle of his sentence.

“What words, Count?” asked the banker, as if he were vainly searching his mind for the meaning of what the general meant.

“Oh!” said the count, “you are a formalist, my dear sir, and you remind me that the ceremony must be done according to all the rites. Very well! Upon my word. Forgive me, as I have but one son, and this is the first time I have thought of marrying him, I am still at my apprenticeship: come, I perform my part.”

And Morcerf, with a forced smile, rose, made a deep bow to Danglars, and said to him:

“Monsieur le Baron, I have the honor to ask for the hand of Mlle Eugénie Danglars, your daughter, for my son the Vicomte Albert de Morcerf.”

But Danglars, instead of receiving these words with the favor Morcerf might have hoped from him, frowned, and, without inviting the count, who had remained standing, to sit down:

“Monsieur le Comte,” said he, “before answering you, I shall need to reflect.”

“To reflect!” replied Morcerf, more and more astonished; “have you not had time to reflect since well-nigh eight years ago when we first spoke of this marriage?”

“Monsieur le Comte,” said Danglars, “every day things happen which make the reflections one thought finished need to be begun again.”

“How so?” asked Morcerf; “I no longer understand you, Baron!”

“I mean, sir, that for two weeks new circumstances…”

“Permit me,” said Morcerf; “is it or is it not a comedy we are playing?”

“How, a comedy?”

“Yes, let us explain ourselves categorically.”

“I ask nothing better.”

“You have seen M. de Monte Cristo!”

“I see him very often,” said Danglars, shaking his shirt-frill; “he is one of my friends.”

“Well, one of the last times you saw him, you told him that I seemed forgetful, irresolute, regarding this marriage.”

“That is true.”

“Well, here I am. I am neither forgetful nor irresolute, as you see, since I come to summon you to keep your promise.”

Danglars did not reply.

“Have you so soon changed your mind,” added Morcerf, “or did you provoke my request only to give yourself the pleasure of humiliating me?”

Danglars understood that if he continued the conversation in the tone he had begun it, the matter might turn out badly for him.

“Monsieur le Comte,” said he, “you must be rightly surprised at my reserve, I understand that: also, believe me, I, first of all, am afflicted by it; believe me, it is commanded by imperious circumstances.”

“Those are empty words, my dear sir,” said the count, “and with which perhaps the first comer might content himself; but the Count de Morcerf is not the first comer; and when a man like him comes to another man, reminds him of his given word, and that other man breaks his word, he has the right to demand in place that at least a good reason be given him.”

Danglars was cowardly, but he did not wish to seem so: he was piqued by the tone Morcerf had just taken.

“Also it is not the good reason that fails me,” he replied.

“What do you pretend to say?”

“That the good reason, I have it, but it is difficult to give.”

“You feel, however,” said Morcerf, “that I cannot be put off with your reticences; and one thing, in any case, seems clear to me, which is that you refuse my alliance.”

“No, sir,” said Danglars, “I suspend my decision, that is all.”

“But you do not, however, have the pretension, I suppose, of believing that I subscribe to your caprices, to the point of waiting quietly and humbly for the return of your favor?”

“Then, Monsieur le Comte, if you cannot wait, let us regard our plans as null and void.”

The count bit his lips to the blood so as not to make the scene that his proud and irritable character inclined him to make; however, understanding that in such a circumstance the ridicule would be on his side, he had already begun to gain the door of the salon, when, changing his mind, he came back.

A cloud had just passed over his brow, leaving there, instead of offended pride, the trace of a vague uneasiness.

“Come,” said he, “my dear Danglars, we have known each other for long years, and consequently we must have some consideration for one another. You owe me an explanation, and it is the least that I should know to what unhappy event my son owes the loss of your good intentions toward him.”

“It is not personal to the viscount, that is all I can tell you, sir,” replied Danglars, who became impertinent again on seeing Morcerf soften.

“And to whom then is it personal?” asked Morcerf in an altered voice, whose brow covered itself with pallor.

Danglars, from whom none of these symptoms escaped, fixed upon him a gaze more assured than he was accustomed to do.

“Thank me for not explaining myself further,” said he.

A nervous trembling, which came no doubt from contained anger, agitated Morcerf.

“I have the right,” he answered, making a violent effort upon himself, “I have the intention of demanding that you explain yourself; is it then against Mme de Morcerf that you have something? Is it my fortune which is not sufficient? Are they my opinions which, being contrary to yours…”

“None of that, sir,” said Danglars; “I should be unpardonable, for I engaged myself knowing all that. No, seek no further, I am truly ashamed to make you make this examination of conscience; let us stop there, believe me. Let us take the middle term of the delay, which is neither a rupture nor an engagement. Nothing presses, my God! My daughter is seventeen, and your son twenty-one. During our halt, time will march, it; it will bring events; things that seem obscure the eve are sometimes too clear the morrow; sometimes thus, in a day, the cruellest calumnies fall.”

“Calumnies, did you say, sir!” cried Morcerf, turning livid. “They calumny me, I!”

“Monsieur le Comte, let us not explain ourselves, I tell you.”

“Thus, sir, I must quietly submit to this refusal?”

“Painful especially for me, sir. Yes, more painful for me than for you, for I counted on the honor of your alliance, and a broken marriage always does more harm to the betrothed than to the betrother.”

“Very well, sir, let us speak of it no more,” said Morcerf.

And crushing his gloves with rage, he left the apartment.

Danglars noticed that, not once, had Morcerf dared to ask whether it was on account of him, Morcerf, that Danglars withdrew his word.

In the evening he had a long conference with several friends, and M. Cavalcanti, who had constantly kept himself in the ladies’ salon, left the banker’s house last.

The next morning on waking, Danglars asked for the newspapers, they were brought to him at once: he set aside three or four and took _L’Impartial_.

It was the one of which Beauchamp was the editor-in-chief.

He rapidly broke the wrapper, opened it with nervous haste, passed disdainfully over the _Premier Paris_, and, arriving at the miscellany, stopped with his wicked smile upon a paragraph beginning with these words: _We are written to from Janina_.

“Good,” he said after reading, “here is a little bit of an article on Colonel Fernand which, in all probability, will spare me from giving explanations to M. le Comte de Morcerf.”

At the same moment, that is to say as nine o’clock in the morning was striking, Albert de Morcerf, dressed in black, methodically buttoned, his step agitated and his speech brief, presented himself at the house of the Champs-Élysées.

“M. le Comte went out about half an hour ago,” said the concierge.

“Did he take Baptistin with him?” asked Morcerf.

“No, Monsieur le Vicomte.”

“Call Baptistin, I wish to speak to him.”

The concierge went to fetch the valet de chambre himself, and an instant later returned with him.

“My friend,” said Albert, “I beg your pardon for my indiscretion, but I wished to ask you yourself whether your master was indeed really out?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Baptistin.

“Even for me?”

“I know how happy my master is to receive monsieur, and I should carefully refrain from confounding monsieur in a general measure.”

“You are right, for I have to speak to him of a serious matter. Do you think he will be long in returning?”

“No, for he ordered his breakfast for ten o’clock.”

“Very well, I am going to take a turn on the Champs-Élysées, at ten I shall be here; if M. le Comte returns before me, tell him I beg him to wait.”

“I shall not fail, sir may be certain of it.”

Albert left at the count’s door the hackney cabriolet he had taken and went to walk on foot.

In passing before the Allée des Veuves, he thought he recognized the count’s horses stationed at the door of Gosset’s shooting-gallery; he approached, and, after recognizing the horses, recognized the coachman.

“M. le Comte is at the gallery?” asked Morcerf of the latter.

“Yes, sir,” answered the coachman.

Indeed, several regular shots had been heard since Morcerf had been in the vicinity of the gallery.

He went in.

In the small garden stood the lad.

“Pardon,” said he, “but would Monsieur le Vicomte wait an instant?”

“Why, Philippe?” asked Albert, who, being a regular, was astonished at this obstacle he did not understand.

“Because the person who is exercising at this moment takes the gallery entirely to himself, and never shoots before anyone.”

“Not even before you, Philippe?”

“You see, sir, I am at the door of my booth.”

“And who loads his pistols for him?”

“His servant.”

“A Nubian?”

“A negro.”

“That is it.”

“Then you know this gentleman?”

“I come to fetch him; he is my friend.”

“Oh! then, it is another thing. I am going in to warn him.”

And Philippe, pushed by his own curiosity, entered the wooden cabin. A second later, Monte Cristo appeared on the threshold.

“Pardon for pursuing you even here, my dear count,” said Albert; “but I begin by telling you that it is not the fault of your people, and that I alone am indiscreet. I presented myself at your house; I was told you were out walking, but that you would return at ten for breakfast. I walked in my turn awaiting ten o’clock, and, while walking, I caught sight of your horses and your carriage.”

“What you tell me there gives me the hope that you come to ask me to breakfast.”

“Not at all, thank you, it is not a question of breakfast at this hour; perhaps we shall breakfast later, but in bad company, by Jove!”

“What the devil are you telling me?”

“My dear, I am fighting today.”

“You? and what for?”

“For fighting, by Jove!”

“Yes, I understand well, but on account of what? One fights for all sorts of things, you understand.”

“On account of honor.”

“Ah! this is serious.”

“So serious, that I come to beg you to do me a service.”

“Which?”

“That of being my second.”

“Then this becomes grave; let us speak of nothing here, and return to my house. Ali, give me water.”

The count rolled up his sleeves and passed into the small vestibule which precedes the shooting-alleys, and where shooters have the habit of washing their hands.

“Come in, Monsieur le Vicomte,” said Philippe in a low voice, “you will see something funny.”

Morcerf entered. Instead of targets, playing-cards were pasted on the plate.

From afar, Morcerf thought it was the full pack; there were from the ace to the ten.

“Ah! ah!” said Albert, “you were in the middle of playing piquet?”

“No,” said the count, “I was in the middle of making a pack of cards.”

“How so?”

“Yes, those are aces and twos you see; only my balls have made them into threes, fives, sevens, eights, nines and tens.”

Albert approached.

Indeed, the balls had, with perfectly exact lines and perfectly equal distances, replaced the absent signs and pierced the cardboard at the spots where it should have been painted. On going to the plate, Morcerf moreover picked up two or three swallows which had had the imprudence to pass within range of the count’s pistol, and which the count had brought down.

“The devil!” said Morcerf.

“What would you have, my dear vicomte,” said Monte Cristo, drying his hands with linen brought by Ali, “one must occupy one’s idle moments, but come, I am at your service.”

Both mounted Monte Cristo’s coupé, which, a few instants later, set them down at the door of No. 30.

Monte Cristo led Morcerf into his study, and showed him a seat.

Both sat down.

“Now, let us talk quietly,” said the count.

“You see that I am perfectly calm.”

“With whom do you wish to fight?”

“With Beauchamp.”

“One of your friends!”

“It is always with friends that one fights.”

“At least there must be a reason.”

“I have one.”

“What has he done to you?”

“There is, in a newspaper of last evening… but here, read.”

Albert handed Monte Cristo a newspaper in which he read these words:

“We are written to from Janina:

“A fact until now unknown, or at least unpublished, has come to our knowledge; the castles which defended the city were delivered to the Turks by a French officer in whom the vizier Ali-Tebelin had placed all his confidence, and who was called Fernand.”

“Well,” asked Monte Cristo, “what do you see there that offends you?”

“How! what I see?”

“Yes. What is it to you that the castles of Janina were delivered by an officer named Fernand?”

“It matters to me that my father, the Count de Morcerf, is called Fernand by his baptismal name.”

“And your father served Ali Pacha?”

“That is to say that he fought for the independence of the Greeks; that is where the calumny lies.”

“Come now, my dear vicomte, let us talk reason.”

“I ask nothing better.”

“Tell me a bit: who the devil in France knows that the officer Fernand is the same man as the Count de Morcerf, and who troubles himself at this hour with Janina, which was taken in 1822 or 1823, I believe?”

“That is precisely where the perfidy lies: they let time pass on that, then today they go back over forgotten events to draw out a scandal which may tarnish a high position. Well, I, heir to my father’s name, will not even allow the shadow of a doubt to float over that name. I am going to send Beauchamp, whose journal published this note, two seconds, and he will retract it.”

“Beauchamp will retract nothing.”

“Then we shall fight.”

“No, you will not fight, for he will answer you that perhaps there were in the Greek army fifty officers called Fernand.”

“We shall fight despite that answer. Oh! I want it to disappear…. My father, so noble a soldier, so illustrious a career…”

“Or else he will put: We are warranted to believe that this Fernand has nothing in common with M. le Comte de Morcerf, whose baptismal name is also Fernand.”

“I require a full and entire retraction; I shall not content myself with that one!”

“And you are going to send him your seconds?”

“Yes.”

“You are wrong.”

“That means you refuse me the service I came to ask you.”

“Ah! you know my theory regarding the duel; I made my profession of faith to you at Rome, you remember it?”

“However, my dear count, I found you this morning, just now, exercising an occupation little in harmony with that theory.”

“Because, my dear friend, you understand, one must never be exclusive. When one lives with fools, one must also do one’s apprenticeship as a madman; from one moment to another some hothead, who will have no more reason to seek a quarrel with me than you have to go seek a quarrel with Beauchamp, will come find me for the first foolishness come along, or send me his seconds, or insult me in a public place: well, that hothead, I shall have to kill him.”

“You admit then that you yourself would fight?”

“By Jove!”

“Well then, why do you wish that I, for my part, should not fight?”

“I do not say you must not fight; I say only that a duel is a grave thing and one must reflect upon it.”

“Did he reflect, he, to insult my father?”

“If he did not reflect, and confesses it to you; one must not bear him ill will.”

“Oh! my dear count, you are much too indulgent!”

“And you, much too rigorous. Let us see, I suppose… listen well to this: I suppose…. Do not get angry at what I tell you!”

“I listen.”

“I suppose the reported fact to be true…”

“A son must not admit such a supposition regarding his father’s honor.”

“Eh! my God! we are in an age when so many things are admitted!”

“That is precisely the vice of the age.”

“Do you pretend to reform it?”

“Yes, as regards what concerns me.”

“My God! what a rigorist you make, my dear friend!”

“I am so.”

“Are you inaccessible to good counsel?”

“No, when it comes from a friend.”

“Do you believe me yours?”

“Yes.”

“Well, before sending your seconds to Beauchamp, inform yourself.”

“From whom?”

“Eh, by Jove! from Haydée, for example.”

“To mix a woman in all that, what can she do there?”

“To declare to you that your father had no part in the defeat or death of hers, for example, or to enlighten you on that subject, if by chance your father had had the misfortune…”

“I have already told you, my dear count, that I could not admit such a supposition.”

“You refuse then this means?”

“I refuse it.”

“Absolutely?”

“Absolutely!”

“Then, a last counsel.”

“Be it, but the last.”

“Do you not wish it?”

“On the contrary, I ask it of you.”

“Send no seconds to Beauchamp.”

“How?”

“Go find him yourself.”

“That is against all custom.”

“Your affair is outside ordinary affairs.”

“And why must I go myself, come now?”

“Because thus the affair remains between you and Beauchamp.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Certainly; if Beauchamp is disposed to retract, one must leave him the merit of good will: the retraction will be none the less made. If he refuses, on the contrary, it will be time to put two strangers into your secret.”

“They will not be two strangers, they will be two friends.”

“The friends of today are the enemies of tomorrow.”

“Oh! that is too much!”

“Witness Beauchamp.”

“Thus…”

“Thus, I recommend prudence to you.”

“Thus, you believe I should go find Beauchamp myself?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Alone. When one wishes to obtain something from a man’s self-love, one must spare that man’s self-love even the appearance of suffering.”

“I believe you are right.”

“Ah! that is fortunate!”

“I shall go alone.”

“Go; but you would do still better not to go at all.”

“That is impossible.”

“Do so then; it will always be better than what you wished to do.”

“But in that case, come now, if despite all my precautions, all my proceedings, if I have a duel, will you serve me as second?”

“My dear vicomte,” said Monte Cristo with supreme gravity, “you must have seen that in time and place I was wholly at your devotion; but the service you ask me there is outside the circle of those I can render you.”

“Why so?”

“Perhaps you will know one day.”

“But meanwhile?”

“I ask your indulgence for my secret.”

“Very well. I shall take Franz and Château-Renaud.”

“Take Franz and Château-Renaud, that will be admirable.”

“But finally, if I fight, you will at least give me a little lesson in sword or pistol?”

“No, that again is impossible.”

“Singular man you make, go! Then you wish to meddle in nothing?”

“In nothing absolutely.”

“Then let us speak of it no more. Farewell, count.”

“Farewell, vicomte.”

Morcerf took his hat and left.

At the door, he found his cabriolet, and, containing his anger as best he could, had himself driven to Beauchamp’s; Beauchamp was at his newspaper.

Albert had himself driven to the newspaper.

Beauchamp was in a dark and dusty cabinet, as newspaper offices are by foundation.

He was announced Albert de Morcerf. He had the announcement repeated twice; then, still ill-convinced, he cried:

“Come in!”

Albert appeared. Beauchamp uttered an exclamation on seeing his friend cross the bundles of paper and tread with an unaccustomed foot the newspapers of all sizes which strewed not the parquet but the reddened tiles of his office.

“This way, this way, my dear Albert,” said he, holding out his hand to the young man; “who the devil brings you? Are you lost like Tom Thumb, or do you simply come to ask me to breakfast? Try to find a chair; there, yonder, near that geranium which alone here reminds me that there are leaves in the world which are not paper leaves.”

“Beauchamp,” said Albert, “it is of your journal I come to speak to you.”

“You, Morcerf? what do you wish?”

“I wish a rectification.”

“You, a rectification? About what, Albert? but do sit down!”

“Thank you,” answered Albert for the second time, with a slight nod.

“Explain yourself.”

“A rectification on a fact which attacks the honor of a member of my family.”

“Come now!” said Beauchamp, surprised. “What fact? That cannot be.”

“The fact that was written to you from Janina.”

“From Janina?”

“Yes, from Janina. Truly you have the air of ignoring what brings me?”

“Upon my honor… Baptiste! a yesterday’s paper!” cried Beauchamp.

“It is useless, I bring you mine.”

Beauchamp read, stammering:

“We are written to from Janina, etc.”

“You understand that the fact is grave,” said Morcerf when Beauchamp had finished.

“This officer is then your relation?” asked the journalist.

“Yes,” said Albert, blushing.

“Well, what would you have me do to please you?” said Beauchamp with gentleness.

“I should like, my dear Beauchamp, that you retract this fact.”

Beauchamp looked at Albert with an attention which assuredly announced much goodwill.

“Come,” said he, “this will lead us into a long talk; for a retraction is always a grave thing. Sit down; I am going to reread those three or four lines.”

Albert sat down, and Beauchamp reread the lines incriminated by his friend with more attention than the first time.

“Well, you see it,” said Albert with firmness, even with roughness, “someone of my family has been insulted in your journal, and I want a retraction.”

“You… want…”

“Yes, I want!”

“Permit me to tell you that you are no parleyer, my dear vicomte.”

“I do not wish to be one,” replied the young man, rising; “I pursue the retraction of a fact you stated yesterday, and I shall obtain it. You are enough my friend,” continued Albert, his lips compressed, seeing that Beauchamp, on his side, began to raise his disdainful head, “you are enough my friend and, as such, you know me well enough, I hope, to understand my tenacity in such a circumstance.”

“If I am your friend, Morcerf, you will end by making me forget it with words like those of a moment ago…. But come, let us not quarrel, or at least, not yet…. You are uneasy, irritated, stung…. Come, who is this relation called Fernand?”

“It is my father, simply,” said Albert; “M. Fernand Mondego, Count de Morcerf, an old soldier who has seen twenty battlefields, and whose noble scars they would cover with the impure mud gathered in the gutter.”

“Your father?” said Beauchamp; “then it is another thing; I conceive your indignation, my dear Albert… Let us reread then…”

And he reread the note, weighing this time each word.

“But where do you see,” asked Beauchamp, “that the Fernand of the journal is your father?”

“Nowhere, I know it well; but others will see it. That is why I want the fact denied.”

At the words _I want_, Beauchamp raised his eyes upon Morcerf, and lowering them almost at once, remained an instant pensive.

“You will deny this fact, will you not, Beauchamp?” repeated Morcerf with growing anger, though still concentrated.

“Yes,” said Beauchamp.

“That is well!” said Albert.

“But when I shall have assured myself that the fact is false.”

“How!”

“Yes, the thing is worth being cleared up, and I shall clear it up.”

“But what do you see to clear up in all that, sir?” said Albert, beside himself. “If you do not believe it is my father, say so at once; if you believe it is he, render me account of that opinion.”

Beauchamp looked at Albert with that smile which was peculiar to him, and which knew how to take the shade of all passions.

“Sir,” he resumed, “since it is monsieur now, if it was to demand account that you came, it should have been done first and not come talk to me of friendship and other idle things such as I have had the patience to hear for half an hour. Is it indeed on this ground we are to walk henceforth, come now!”

“Yes, if you do not retract the infamous calumny!”

“A moment! no threats, if you please, Monsieur Albert Mondego, Vicomte de Morcerf, I suffer them not from my enemies, still less from my friends. Therefore, you wish that I deny the fact about Colonel Fernand, a fact in which I took, upon my honor, no part?”

“Yes, I wish it!” said Albert, whose head was beginning to wander.

“Or else we fight?” continued Beauchamp with the same calm.

“Yes!” replied Albert, raising his voice.

“Well,” said Beauchamp, “here is my answer, my dear sir: this fact was not inserted by me, I did not know it; but you have, by your step, drawn my attention to this fact, it clings there; it shall therefore subsist until it is denied or confirmed by whoever has the right.”

“Sir,” said Albert, rising, “I shall then have the honor of sending you my seconds, you will discuss with them the place and the weapons.”

“Perfectly, my dear sir.”

“And this evening, if you please, or tomorrow at the latest, we shall meet.”

“Not so! not so! I shall be on the field when needful, and, in my opinion (I have the right to give it, since it is I who receive the challenge), and, in my opinion, I say, the hour is not yet come. I know that you fence very well, I fence passably; I know that you make three hits out of six, that is about my strength; I know that a duel between us will be a serious duel, because you are brave and that… I am so too. I do not wish therefore to expose myself to kill you or to be killed by you, without cause. It is my turn to put the question and ca-te-go-ri-cal-ly.

“Do you hold to this retraction to the point of killing me if I do not make it, though I have told you, though I repeat to you, though I affirm to you upon my honor that I did not know the fact; though I declare to you finally that it is impossible for anyone but a Don Quixote like you to guess M. le Comte de Morcerf under this name of Fernand?”

“I hold to it absolutely.”

“Well, my dear sir, I consent to cut my throat with you, but I want three weeks; in three weeks you will find me again to tell you: Yes, the fact is false, I erase it; or else: Yes, the fact is true, and I draw the swords from the scabbard, or the pistols from the case, at your choice.”

“Three weeks!” cried Albert; “but three weeks, that is three centuries during which I am dishonored!”

“If you had remained my friend, I should have said to you: Patience, friend; you have made yourself my enemy and I say to you: What is it to me, I!”

“Well, in three weeks, be it,” said Morcerf. “But think on it, in three weeks there will be no delay nor subterfuge that can excuse you…”

“Monsieur Albert de Morcerf,” said Beauchamp, rising in his turn, “I can throw you out the window only in three weeks, that is to say in twenty-four days, and you, you have the right to run me through only at that time. We are the 29th of August, therefore the 21st of September. Until then, believe me, and it is a gentleman’s counsel I give you, let us spare ourselves the barking of two hounds chained at a distance.”

And Beauchamp, gravely saluting the young man, turned his back and passed into his printing-room.

Albert took his revenge on a pile of newspapers which he scattered, lashing them with great strokes of his cane, after which he departed, not without turning two or three times toward the door of the printing-room.

While Albert whipped the front of his cabriolet after having whipped the innocent blackened papers which could do nothing about his discomfiture, he perceived across the boulevard Morrel who, nose to the wind, eye alert and arms free, passed before the Chinese Baths, coming from the Porte Saint-Martin side and going toward the Madeleine.

“Ah!” said he, sighing, “there is a happy man!”

By chance, Albert was not mistaken.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”