Chapter 110: The Breakfast: II
"I know it," said Château-Renaud. "I nearly got sick there."
"I went one better, I did get sick," Albert replied. "I was informed I’d remain prisoner until I paid four thousand gold coins, about twenty-four thousand in regular currency. Unfortunately, I only had about fifteen hundred on me. I’d reached the end of both my journey and my credit. I sent word to my friend Franz that if he didn’t arrive with the four thousand before six o’clock, by ten minutes past I’d be joining the martyrs buried in those catacombs. And the bandit chief, Luigi Vampa, would have kept his word precisely."
"But Franz came with the money," Château-Renaud said.
"No, he arrived with only the guest I’m about to introduce to you."
"So this gentleman is some kind of legendary hero?"
"No, he’s about my size."
"Armed to the teeth, then?"
"He didn’t even have a weapon on him."
"Then he paid your ransom?"
"He said two words to the chief and I was free."
"And they apologized for kidnapping you?" Beauchamp asked incredulously.
"Exactly."
"He sounds like a character from a fantasy novel."
"His name is the Count of Monte Cristo."
"There’s no such person as the Count of Monte Cristo," said Debray.
"I don’t believe so either," added Château-Renaud, who prided himself on knowing all the important families. "Does anyone know anything about a Count of Monte Cristo?"
"Maybe he’s from some exotic place, and his ancestors owned famous landmarks, like how some old families have historical claims."
"I think I can help," said Maximilian. "Monte Cristo is a small island I’ve often heard the old sailors talk about, a tiny speck of land in the middle of the sea, practically nothing."
"Precisely!" Albert exclaimed. "Well, the man I’m talking about is the lord and owner of that tiny island. He bought a noble title somewhere in Italy."
"So he’s rich?"
"I believe so."
"That should be obvious, then."
"That’s where you’re wrong, Debray."
"I don’t understand."
"Have you ever read fantasy adventure stories?"
"Of course."
"Well, do you remember how you can’t tell if characters are rich or poor? They seem like ordinary people, then suddenly they open some hidden treasure trove filled with unimaginable wealth."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning my Count of Monte Cristo is one of those mysterious figures. He even has a nickname from adventure stories, he calls himself Sinbad the Sailor, and has a cave filled with gold."
"And you’ve seen this cave, Albert?" asked Beauchamp.
"No, but Franz has. For heaven’s sake, don’t mention this in front of him! Franz was led there blindfolded and was served by silent servants and mysterious women who would make ancient queens jealous. Though he’s not entirely sure about the women, since they only appeared after he’d taken some kind of drug, so what he thought were women might have been statues."
The two young men stared at Albert as if wondering whether he was insane or joking.
"I’ve heard similar stories too," Morrel said thoughtfully, "from an old sailor I know."
"See!" cried Albert. "I’m so glad Mr. Morrel is here to back me up. You’re annoyed that he’s confirming my story, aren’t you?"
"My dear Albert," said Debray, "what you’re telling us is simply extraordinary."
"Of course it is! Your government officials don’t report these things because they’re too busy interfering in trivial matters instead of uncovering the truth."
"Now you’re getting angry and attacking our diplomatic corps. How do you expect them to help you when their funding keeps getting cut? They barely have resources as it is. You want to be a diplomat, Albert? I’ll send you overseas."
"No thanks. The moment I make any controversial move, they’d have me executed and make it look like an accident."
"Fair point," Debray conceded.
"But this has nothing to do with whether the Count of Monte Cristo exists."
"Well, everyone exists!"
"Yes, but not like this! Not everyone has servants bound to silence, a small army of weapons worthy of a fortress, horses that cost a fortune each, and exotic mistresses."
"You’ve seen this mistress?"
"I’ve both seen and heard her. I saw her at the theater and heard her sing one morning when I had breakfast with the count."
"He eats, then?"
"Yes, but so little it hardly counts as eating."
"He must be some kind of vampire."
"Laugh if you want. Lady G, who knew famous supernatural legends, declared the count was definitely a vampire."
"Excellent!" said Beauchamp. "For someone not in journalism, you’ve created a story to rival any conspiracy theory."
"Intense eyes that seem to change with his mood," Debray listed off. "Strong facial features, impressive presence, pale complexion, dark beard, perfect teeth, impeccable manners."
"Exactly, Lucien," Albert agreed. "You’ve described him perfectly. Yes, that cutting politeness. This man has often made me uncomfortable. One day when we watched a public execution, I nearly fainted, not from the sight itself, but from hearing him discuss various forms of torture in such a cold, clinical manner."
"Did he take you to ancient ruins and drain your blood?" Beauchamp joked.
"Or did he make you sign away your soul in exchange for saving you?"
"Mock me all you want, gentlemen," Albert said, somewhat irritated. "When I look at you spoiled city dwellers and think of this man, it seems we’re not even the same species."
"I’m deeply flattered," Beauchamp replied dryly.
"At the same time," Château-Renaud added, "your Count of Monte Cristo sounds impressive, despite his questionable connections with bandits."
"There are no bandits," Debray insisted.
"No vampires," added Beauchamp.
"No Count of Monte Cristo," Debray concluded. "Look, it’s half past ten, Albert."
"Just admit you dreamed all this and let’s eat," Beauchamp said.
But before the clock finished chiming, the servant announced: "His Excellency, the Count of Monte Cristo."
Everyone involuntarily started, proof that Albert’s story had affected them more than they’d admitted. Even Albert couldn’t hide his sudden rush of emotion. No one had heard a carriage arrive or footsteps in the hall. The door had simply opened silently.
The Count appeared, dressed with elegant simplicity. Every item, from his hat to his gloves to his boots, was clearly expensive and perfectly fitted. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties.
What struck everyone immediately was how closely he matched Debray’s earlier joking description.
The Count moved forward with a slight smile, approaching Albert, who hurried to greet him formally.
"Punctuality," Monte Cristo said, "is the courtesy of kings, according to one of your rulers. But it’s not the same for travelers. I hope you’ll forgive me being a few seconds late. Five hundred miles can’t be covered without some difficulty, especially in France, where apparently one isn’t allowed to hurry the drivers."
"My dear Count," Albert replied, "I was just telling my friends about you. I invited them because of the promise you made me, and now I’m pleased to introduce them. This is Count de Château-Renaud, whose family goes back centuries to legendary times. This is Mr. Lucien Debray, private secretary to the interior minister. This is Mr. Beauchamp, a newspaper editor, though his paper is banned in Italy, so you may not have heard of him despite his national fame. And this is Captain Maximilian Morrel of the cavalry."
At that name, the Count, who had been greeting everyone with courteous but cool formality, stepped forward. A slight flush of color touched his pale cheeks.
"You wear the uniform of France’s new military forces, sir," he said. His voice carried a strange vibration that no one could quite explain, and his usually clear eyes flashed with intensity. "It’s a handsome uniform."
"Have you never seen our African troops, Count?" Albert asked.
"Never," the Count replied, quickly regaining his composure.
"Well, beneath that uniform beats one of the bravest and most noble hearts in the entire army."
"Please, Mr. de Morcerf," Morrel protested.
"Let me continue, Captain. We’ve just heard about another heroic deed of his, and though I only met him today, I’d like to introduce him as my friend."
At these words, it was still possible to see in Monte Cristo a concentrated intensity, a slight change of color, and a barely perceptible trembling that revealed emotion.
"You have a noble heart," the Count said. "All the better."
This exclamation seemed more a response to his own thoughts than to what Albert had said. It surprised everyone, especially Morrel, who looked at Monte Cristo with wonder. Yet the tone was so gentle that despite the strangeness of the comment, no one could take offense.
"Why would he doubt it?" Beauchamp whispered to Château-Renaud.
"Actually," the latter replied, using his aristocratic intuition to read people, "Albert didn’t deceive us. The Count is truly extraordinary. What do you think, Morrel?"
"He seems genuine enough," Morrel said. "I like his directness, despite that odd remark about me."
"Gentlemen," said Albert, "the servant tells me breakfast is ready. My dear Count, allow me to show you the way."
They moved silently into the dining room, each taking their seat.
"Gentlemen," the Count said as he sat, "permit me to offer an explanation for any cultural mistakes I might make. I’m a foreigner, so foreign that this is my first time in Paris. I know nothing about French customs, and until now I’ve followed traditions from other parts of the world that completely contrast with Parisian ways. So please forgive anything that seems too foreign or unusual in my behavior. Now then, shall we begin?"
"Listen to how confidently he says all this," Beauchamp muttered. "He’s definitely someone important."
"Important in his own country," Debray added.
"Important anywhere," Château-Renaud corrected.
As they’d noticed before, the Count ate very little. Albert observed this with concern.
"My dear Count," he said, "I fear our local cuisine may not suit your tastes compared to what you’re used to in other cities. I should have consulted you first and arranged for special dishes to be prepared."