Prosecutor Villefort had made a promise to Mada Danglars, and he intended to keep it. He needed to find out how the mysterious Count of Monte Cristo knew about the dark history of that house in Auteuil. The very sa day, he fired off a letter to his contact, Boville, a forr prison inspector who’d climbed the ranks to beco a high-ranking police official.
Boville asked for two days to dig up the information. When the deadline arrived, Villefort received his report:
"The man calling himself the Count of Monte Cristo has two known associates. The first is Lord Wilmore, a wealthy foreign aristocrat occasionally seen in Paris, currently in the city. The second is Abbé Busoni, a Sicilian priest with an excellent reputation in the Middle East, where he’s known for his charitable work."
Villefort imdiately ordered a full background check on both n. By the next evening, the dossier landed on his desk:
The Abbé’s Profile:
The priest had been in Paris for only a month, living in a modest two-story building tucked behind the Saint-Sulpice church. Four rooms total, two per floor, and he was the only occupant.
The ground floor was spartan, a dining room with a simple walnut table, chairs, and sideboard, plus a plain parlor without decorations, carpet, or even a clock. Clearly, the abbé believed in minimalism, keeping only absolute necessities.
He spent most of his ti in the upstairs sitting room, which doubled as a personal library. Theological books and ancient manuscripts cramd every available surface. According to his manservant, the abbé could lose himself in those texts for months without erging.
The valet screened all visitors through a small window in the door. If he didn’t recognize a face or simply didn’t like the look of soone, he’d claim the abbé wasn’t in Paris. Most people accepted this excuse, after all, everyone knew the priest was an avid traveler who could be anywhere in the world.
Whether ho or abroad, the abbé always left money for charity. His valet distributed alms through that sa door window, acting on his master’s behalf.
The bedroom matched the rest of the apartnt’s austere aesthetic: a curtainless bed, four armchairs, a yellow velvet couch, and a prayer desk. That was it.
Lord Wilmore’s Profile:
The Englishman lived on Rue Fontaine-Saint-George, fitting the stereotype of the wealthy British traveler burning through his fortune while seeing the world. He rented a furnished apartnt but barely used it, spending only a few hours there each day and rarely sleeping over.
His most distinctive quirk? He absolutely refused to speak French, though he could write it perfectly.
The day after Villefort received these reports, a carriage pulled up at the corner of Rue Férou. A man stepped out and knocked on an olive-green door, asking for Abbé Busoni.
"He’s not here. Left early this morning," the valet said through the window.
"That answer might not always satisfy ," the visitor replied coolly. "I co on behalf of soone who expects doors to open for him. But I’ll be reasonable, please give the abbé this card and sealed letter when he returns. Will he be available at eight tonight?"
"Most likely, unless he’s working. When he’s deep in his studies, he might as well be out."
"I’ll return then."
At the appointed hour, the sa carriage returned, but this ti, it rolled right up to the green door instead of stopping at the corner. The man knocked, and the door swung open imdiately. From the valet’s deferential manner, it was clear the earlier note had made an impression.
"Is the abbé ho?" the visitor asked.
"Yes, sir. He’s in his library but expecting you," the valet replied, leading him inside.
The stranger climbed a rough wooden staircase. At the top, he found a dimly lit room dominated by a single lamp, its shade directing all the light onto a work table. In the shadows sat the abbé, dressed in a monk’s robe with a dieval-style hood pulled over his head.
"Do I have the honor of addressing Abbé Busoni?" the visitor asked.
"You do," the abbé replied, his Italian accent thick. "And you must be the man Boville sent from the police prefecture?"
"Exactly."
"One of the agents responsible for keeping Paris safe?"
"Yes, sir," the stranger said, hesitating slightly, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.
The abbé adjusted his oversized spectacles, the kind that covered not just his eyes but his temples, and gestured for his guest to sit. "I’m at your service."
The visitor shifted in his seat. "My mission here is confidential, both for and my employer." The abbé nodded. "The prefecture knows your reputation for honesty. As an officer of justice, I’ve been sent to ask you so questions regarding public safety. We hope no personal loyalties or humanitarian concerns will prevent you from telling the truth."
"As long as your questions don’t conflict with my religious obligations or conscience, I’ll answer honestly. I’m a priest, so things, like confessional secrets, must stay between and God, not and the law."
"Don’t worry. We’ll respect your principles."
At that mont, the abbé adjusted his lamp, lowering the shade on his side and raising it on the other. Bright light flooded the visitor’s face while his own remained in shadow.
"Forgive , abbé," the police agent said, squinting, "but the light is hurting my eyes."
The abbé lowered the shade slightly. "Better? Please, continue."
"I’ll get straight to the point. Do you know the Count of Monte Cristo?"
"You an Monsieur Zaccone?"
"Zaccone? Isn’t his na Monte Cristo?"
"Monte Cristo is an estate, or really, just a rock formation. It’s not a family na."
"Fine, let’s not argue semantics. So Monte Cristo and Zaccone are the sa person?"
"Exactly the sa."
"Then let’s talk about Zaccone. You know him?"
"Extrely well."
"Who is he?"
"The son of a wealthy shipbuilder in Malta."
"I know that’s the official story, but the police don’t accept vague reports at face value."
The abbé smiled pleasantly. "When a report aligns with the truth, everyone should believe it, police included."
"Are you certain of what you’re telling ?"
"What do you an?"
"I’m not questioning your honesty, understand. I’m asking if you’re personally certain of these facts."
"I knew his father, Mister Zaccone."
"Really?"
"When I was young, I often played with the son in the timber yards."
"Then where did he get the title of count?"
"You can buy titles, you know."
"In Italy?"
"Everywhere."
"And his enormous wealth, where does that co from?"
"It might not be as enormous as people think."
"What would you estimate?"
"Maybe one hundred fifty to two hundred thousand a year."
"That seems reasonable," the visitor said. "I’d heard he had three or four million."
"Two hundred thousand annual inco would equal about four million in capital."
"But I heard he makes four million *per year*."
"That’s unlikely."
"Do you know this Island of Monte Cristo?"
"Of course. Anyone who’s sailed from southern Italy to France passes near it. You can’t miss it."
"I’m told it’s beautiful."
"It’s a rock."
"Then why would the count buy a rock?"
"To legitimize his title. In Italy, you need to own land to be a count."
"Have you heard about Zaccone’s youth?"
"The father’s?"
"No, the son’s."
"Nothing definite. I lost track of my young friend during that period of his life."
"Was he a soldier?"
"I believe he entered military service."
"Which branch?"
"The navy, I think."
"Are you his confessor?"
"No. I believe he’s Lutheran."
"Lutheran?"
"I believe so, I don’t claim to know for certain. Besides, France guarantees freedom of religion."
"Of course. We’re not investigating his beliefs, only his actions. On behalf of the prefecture, I’m asking what you know about him."
"He’s known as extrely charitable. The Pope himself made him a Knight of Christ for his service to Christians in the East. He has five or six rings given to him by Eastern rulers as thanks for his good works."
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