On the sa day that Mada Danglars t with the prosecutor, a sleek carriage rolled through the iron gates of number 27 and ca to a stop in the courtyard. The door swung open, and Mada de Morcerf stepped out, her hand resting on her son’s arm for support.
Albert helped his mother inside, then quickly changed into fresh clothes and headed straight for the Champs-Élysées district, where the mysterious Count of Monte Cristo lived.
The Count greeted him with his usual smile which was polite, perfectly controlled, and sohow distant despite its warmth. It was strange, really. No matter how hard anyone tried to get close to this man, there was always an invisible wall between them. Even now, as Albert approached with genuine friendliness, he felt that chill. Instead of the embrace he’d intended, he simply extended his hand.
Monte Cristo shook it coolly, as he always did.
"Here I am, dear Count," Albert said, trying to sound casual.
"Welco back."
"I just arrived an hour ago."
"From Dieppe?"
"No, from Tréport actually."
"Really?"
"And I ca to see you right away."
"How thoughtful of you," Monte Cristo replied, his tone perfectly neutral, almost too neutral, like he was reading from a script.
"So, what’s the news?"
"You shouldn’t ask a foreigner like for news," the Count said with a slight smile.
"I know, I know. But when I say ’news,’ what I really an is, have you done anything for ?"
"Did you ask to?" Monte Cristo’s eyebrows raised slightly, feigning concern.
"Co on," Albert laughed. "Don’t play dumb. You know how these things work, sympathy travels fast. While I was in Tréport, I could feel sothing happening. You’ve either been working on my behalf or at least thinking about ."
"Perhaps," Monte Cristo admitted with a mysterious air. "I have thought about you. But whatever forces were at work... they moved without my conscious direction."
"Really? Tell what happened."
"Gladly. I had Monsieur Danglars over for dinner."
"I know, that’s exactly why my mother and I left town, to avoid him."
"Ah, but at that dinner, he t Monsieur Andrea Cavalcanti."
"Your Italian prince?"
"Not quite so grand. Andrea only *calls* himself a count."
"Calls himself?" Albert’s eyes narrowed. "What do you an?"
"Exactly what I said. He calls himself a count."
"Wait, he’s not actually a count?"
"How should I know? He uses the title, so naturally I use it too. Everyone does."
"You’re such a strange man," Albert said, shaking his head. "Anyway, go on. You said Danglars had dinner here?"
"Yes, along with Count Cavalcanti, Andrea’s father, who claims to be a marquis, plus Mada Danglars, Monsieur and Mada de Villefort, lovely people, Monsieur Debray, Maximilian Morrel, and Monsieur de Château-Renaud."
"Did they ntion ?" Albert asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Not a word."
"That’s worse, actually."
"Why? I thought you wanted them to forget about you?"
"If they didn’t talk about , I’m sure they were thinking about . And that’s what worries ."
"How does that matter? Mademoiselle Danglars wasn’t even here to think about you. Though I suppose she might have thought of you at ho."
"I’m not worried about that. And if she did think of , it was probably in the sa way I think of her."
"Touching mutual affection," the Count said dryly. "So you two hate each other?"
"Listen," Albert leaned forward. "If Mademoiselle Danglars wanted to spare from this supposed torture and just skip all the formal marriage arrangents between our families, I’d be totally fine with that. In fact, Mademoiselle Danglars would make an excellent mistress. But a wife? No."
"And this is your opinion of your future bride?"
"Yeah, I know it sounds harsh, but it’s true. The problem is, this isn’t a casual arrangent. Mademoiselle Danglars is supposed to beco my lawful wife. We’d live together forever. She’d sing to , write poetry and music within ten feet of , every single day for the rest of my life. The thought terrifies . You can leave a mistress whenever you want, but a wife? She’s always there. Marrying Mademoiselle Danglars would be a nightmare."
"You’re quite demanding, Viscount."
"That’s because I often want the impossible."
"Such as?"
"Finding a wife like the one my father found."
Monte Cristo’s face went pale. He looked at Albert intently while absently toying with a pair of ornate pistols on his desk.
"Your father was lucky, then?" he asked carefully.
"You know how I feel about my mother, Count. Just look at her, still beautiful, still witty, more charming than ever. For most guys, spending four days alone with their mother would be either patronizing or torture. But I ca back from Tréport more content, more peaceful, more... I don’t know, inspired than if I’d spent the ti with so fairy tale queen."
"That’s quite the endorsent. You’ll make everyone want to stay single."
"These are exactly the reasons I don’t want to marry Mademoiselle Danglars. Have you ever noticed how we only truly value things once we possess them? That diamond sparkling in the jewelry store window seems so much more brilliant when it’s actually yours. But when you’re forced to accept sothing inferior while knowing sothing superior exists, do you understand what kind of torture that is?"
"Materialistic," the Count murmured.
"So yes, I’ll be relieved when Mademoiselle Eugénie realizes I’m just a nobody with a few hundred thousand francs compared to her millions."
Monte Cristo smiled faintly.
"I actually had one idea," Albert continued. "Franz loves unusual things. I tried to make him fall for Mademoiselle Danglars. I wrote him four letters in the most persuasive style I could manage, but he kept responding with the sa thing: ’My taste for the unusual may be strong, but it won’t make break my word.’"
"That’s what I call true friendship, recomnding soone you wouldn’t marry yourself."
Albert grinned. "Speaking of Franz, he’s coming back soon. Though that probably doesn’t interest you, I think you dislike him?"
"?" Monte Cristo raised an eyebrow. "My dear Viscount, what gave you the idea that I dislike Monsieur Franz? I like everyone."
"And I’m included in this ’everyone’? How generous!"
"Let clarify," the Count said. "I love everyone as we’re commanded to love our neighbors, in the general sense. But I genuinely hate only a select few. Now, back to Monsieur Franz d’Epinay, you said he’s coming?"
"Yes, summoned by Monsieur de Villefort, who seems just as eager to marry off his daughter Valentine as Monsieur Danglars is to settle Eugénie. Being the father of a grown daughter must be exhausting, it seems to make n feverish, raising their pulse until the marriage is done."
"But unlike you, Monsieur d’Epinay accepts his fate patiently."
"More than that, he’s actually serious about it. He dresses formally, talks about family matters. He has a very high opinion of Monsieur and Mada de Villefort."
"Which they deserve, don’t they?"
"I think so. Monsieur de Villefort has always been known as strict but fair."
"So there’s one person you don’t condemn like poor Danglars?"
"Probably because I’m not being forced to marry his daughter," Albert replied with a laugh.
"My dear sir," Monte Cristo said, "you’re being disgustingly superficial."
"? Superficial? How?"
"Yes. Here, take a cigar and stop defending yourself. Stop fighting this marriage to Mademoiselle Danglars. Let things unfold naturally, you might not need to back out after all."
"What?" Albert stared.
"Obviously, my dear Viscount, no one will drag you to the altar by force. But seriously, do you actually want to break off the engagent?"
"I’d pay a hundred thousand francs to make it happen."
"Then relax. Monsieur Danglars would pay *double* that to achieve the sa thing."
"Am I really that fortunate?" Albert’s expression brightened, though a shadow of doubt crossed his face. "But Count, does Monsieur Danglars have a reason?"
"Ah, there’s your pride speaking. You’re happy to attack soone else’s ego with a sledgehamr, but you flinch when your own gets pricked with a needle."
"But Monsieur Danglars seed-"
"Delighted with you? Sure. Well, he has terrible taste, and he’s even more enchanted with soone else. I don’t know who exactly, look around and judge for yourself."
"I see. Thanks for the information. But my mother, no, wait, not my mother, my father is planning to host a ball."
"A ball? In this season?"
"Sumr balls are trendy now."
"Even if they weren’t, your mother only needs to want it, and it would beco fashionable."
"You’re right about that. You know these will be exclusive events, only true Parisians who stay in the city during July. Will you pass along an invitation to the Cavalcantis?"
"When is it?"
"This Saturday."
"The older Cavalcanti will be gone by then."
"But the son will still be here. Will you invite young Cavalcanti?"
"I don’t actually know him, Viscount."
"You don’t know him?"
"No. I only t him a few days ago, and I’m not responsible for him."
"But you receive him in your ho?"
"That’s different. He was recomnded to by a good priest who might have been deceived. Send him a direct invitation yourself, but don’t ask to vouch for him. If he ends up marrying Mademoiselle Danglars, you’d accuse of scheming and probably challenge to a duel. Besides, I might not even be there."
"Where?"
"At your ball."
"Why wouldn’t you be there?"
"Because you haven’t invited yet."
"But that’s exactly why I’m here!"
"How kind. But I might have other commitnts."
"If I tell you one thing, you’ll be gracious enough to cancel any conflicting plans."
"Tell ."
"My mother is asking you to co."
"The Countess de Morcerf?" Monte Cristo looked startled.
"Count," Albert said earnestly, "I assure you, my mother speaks freely to . And if you haven’t felt those instinctive connections I ntioned earlier, you must be completely dead inside, because for the past four days, we’ve talked about nothing but you."
"You’ve been talking about ?"
"Yes, that’s the price of being a living mystery."
"So I’m a puzzle to your mother too? I would have thought she was too rational to let her imagination run wild."
"A puzzle to everyone, Count, including my mother. Much studied but never solved. You remain an enigma, don’t worry. My mother is simply amazed that you’ve stayed mysterious for so long. I think while Countess G suspects you might be so kind of vampire lord, my mother imagines you’re either Cagliostro or the Count of Saint-Germain. When you get the chance, you should confirm her theory, it’ll be easy since you have the wisdom of one and the wit of the other."
"Thanks for the warning. I’ll try to be prepared for all theories."
"So you’ll co Saturday?"
"Yes, since Mada de Morcerf is inviting ."
"You’re very kind."
"Will Monsieur Danglars be there?"
"My father already invited him. We’ll try to convince the distinguished Monsieur de Villefort to attend, but we’re not optimistic."
"’Never give up hope,’ as they say."
"Do you dance, Count?"
"Dance?"
"Yes, you. It wouldn’t be surprising."
"That’s fine when you’re under forty. No, I don’t dance, but I enjoy watching others. Does Mada de Morcerf dance?"
"Never. But you can talk with her, she loves your conversation."
"Really?"
"Absolutely. I promise you, you’re the only man I’ve ever heard her speak about with genuine interest."
Albert stood and picked up his hat. The Count walked him to the door.
"I need to apologize for sothing," he said, stopping Albert on the steps.
"What is it?"
"I spoke carelessly about Danglars."
"On the contrary, always speak to that way about him."
"I’m relieved to hear that. By the way, when do you expect Monsieur d’Epinay?"
"Five or six days at most."
"And when is his wedding?"
"As soon as Monsieur and Mada de Saint-Méran arrive."
"Bring him to visit . Even though you say I don’t like him, I’d actually be happy to see him."
"I’ll follow your orders, my lord."
"Goodbye."
"Until Saturday then. I can count on you, right?"
"Yes, I promised."
The Count watched Albert leave, waving as the young man climbed into his carriage. Once Albert had driven away, Monte Cristo turned to find Bertuccio, his steward, waiting.
"What news?" he asked.
"She went to the courthouse," Bertuccio reported.
"How long did she stay?"
"An hour and a half."
"Did she return ho?"
"Imdiately."
"Well, my dear Bertuccio," the Count said thoughtfully, "I suggest you start looking for that small estate I ntioned in Normandy."
Bertuccio bowed. Since the order aligned perfectly with his own wishes, he departed that very evening.
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