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My dear count, cried Morcerf, you are at fault -- you,
one of the most formidable logicians I know -- and you must
see it clearly proved that instead of being an egotist, you
are a philanthropist. Ah, you call yourself Oriental, a
Levantine, Maltese, Indian, Chinese; your family name is
Monte Cristo; Sinbad the Sailor is your baptismal
appellation, and yet the first day you set foot in Paris you
instinctively display the greatest virtue, or rather the
chief defect, of us eccentric Parisians, -- that is, you
assume the vices you have not, and conceal the virtues you
possess.
My dear vicomte, returned Monte Cristo, I do not see, in
all I have done, anything that merits, either from you or
these gentlemen, the pretended eulogies I have received. You
were no stranger to me, for I knew you from the time I gave
up two rooms to you, invited you to breakfast with me, lent
you one of my carriages, witnessed the Carnival in your
company, and saw with you from a window in the Piazza del
Popolo the execution that affected you so much that you
nearly fainted. I will appeal to any of these gentlemen,
could I leave my guest in the hands of a hideous bandit, as
you term him? Besides, you know, I had the idea that you
could introduce me into some of the Paris salons when I came
to France. You might some time ago have looked upon this
resolution as a vague project, but to-day you see it was a
reality, and you must submit to it under penalty of breaking
your word.
I will keep it, returned Morcerf; but I fear that you
will be much disappointed, accustomed as you are to
picturesque events and fantastic horizons. Amongst us you
will not meet with any of those episodes with which your
adventurous existence has so familiarized you; our
Chimborazo is Mortmartre, our Himalaya is Mount Valerien,
our Great Desert is the plain of Grenelle, where they are
now boring an artesian well to water the caravans. We have
plenty of thieves, though not so many as is said; but these
thieves stand in far more dread of a policeman than a lord.
France is so prosaic, and Paris so civilized a city, that
you will not find in its eighty-five departments -- I say
eighty-five, because I do not include Corsica -- you will
not find, then, in these eighty-five departments a single
hill on which there is not a telegraph, or a grotto in which
the commissary of police has not put up a gaslamp. There is
but one service I can render you, and for that I place
myself entirely at your orders, that is, to present, or make
my friends present, you everywhere; besides, you have no
need of any one to introduce you -- with your name, and your
fortune, and your talent (Monte Cristo bowed with a
somewhat ironical smile) you can present yourself
everywhere, and be well received. I can be useful in one way
only -- if knowledge of Parisian habits, of the means of
rendering yourself comfortable, or of the bazaars, can
assist, you may depend upon me to find you a fitting
dwelling here. I do not dare offer to share my apartments
with you, as I shared yours at Rome -- I, who do not profess
egotism, but am yet egotist par excellence; for, except
myself, these rooms would not hold a shadow more, unless
that shadow were feminine.
Ah, said the count, that is a most conjugal reservation;
I recollect that at Rome you said something of a projected
marriage. May I congratulate you?
The affair is still in projection.
And he who says in projection, means already decided,
said Debray.
No, replied Morcerf, my father is most anxious about it;
and I hope, ere long, to introduce you, if not to my wife,
at least to my betrothed -- Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars.
Eugenie Danglars, said Monte Cristo; tell me, is not her
father Baron Danglars?
Yes, returned Morcerf, a baron of a new creation.
What matter, said Monte Cristo if he has rendered the
State services which merit this distinction?
Enormous ones, answered Beauchamp. Although in reality a
Liberal, he negotiated a loan of six millions for Charles
X., in 1829, who made him a baron and chevalier of the
Legion of Honor; so that he wears the ribbon, not, as you
would think, in his waistcoat-pocket, but at his
button-hole.
Ah, interrupted Morcerf, laughing, Beauchamp, Beauchamp,
keep that for the Corsaire or the Charivari, but spare my
future father-in-law before me. Then, turning to Monte
Cristo, You just now spoke his name as if you knew the
baron?
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Then it is settled, said the count, and I give you my
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