"Does he wear them?"
"No, but he treasures them. He prefers recognition for helping humanity rather than destroying it."
"So he’s a pacifist?"
"Essentially, yes, though he doesn’t dress like the traditional Quakers."
"Does he have friends?"
"Everyone who knows him becos his friend."
"Any enemies?"
"Just one."
"Who?"
"Lord Wilmore."
"Where is he now?"
"Currently in Paris."
"Can he provide useful information?"
"Very useful. He served with Zaccone in India."
"Do you know his address?"
"Sowhere in the Chaussée d’Antin district, but I don’t know the exact street or number."
"Are you and this Englishman on bad terms?"
"I care about Zaccone, and Wilmore hates him. So naturally, we’re not friends."
"Has the Count of Monte Cristo ever been to France before this current visit?"
"I can answer that with absolute certainty: no. Six months ago, he asked for information about Paris, and since I didn’t know when I’d return here, I referred him to Mister Cavalcanti."
"Andrea?"
"No, Bartoloo, his father."
The visitor leaned forward. "I have one final question, and I’m asking you in the na of honor, humanity, and religion to answer truthfully."
"Go ahead."
"Do you know why Monte Cristo purchased a house in Auteuil?"
"Yes, he told himself."
"What’s the reason?"
"He wants to convert it into a ntal health facility, similar to the one Count Pisani founded in Palermo. Are you familiar with that institution?"
"I’ve heard of it."
"It’s a magnificent charity."
With that, the abbé bowed, indicating he wanted to return to his studies. The visitor understood, or perhaps had no more questions. He stood, and the abbé walked him to the door.
"You’re quite generous with charity," the visitor said. "Although you’re said to be wealthy, I’d like to offer a donation for your charitable work. Would you accept?"
"Thank you, but I have one firm principle: the relief I provide must co entirely from my own resources."
"Still-"
"My decision is unchangeable. But I’m sure if you look around, you’ll find plenty of others in need of your generosity."
The abbé bowed again as he opened the door. The stranger returned the bow and left, his carriage taking him straight back to Villefort’s residence.
An hour later, the sa carriage was ordered again, this ti heading to 5 Rue Fontaine-Saint-George, Lord Wilmore’s address.
The stranger had written ahead requesting a eting, which Wilmore had scheduled for ten o’clock sharp. Arriving ten minutes early, the police agent was inford that Lord Wilmore, a man of absolute precision and punctuality, hadn’t returned yet, but would certainly arrive exactly on ti.
He was shown into the drawing room, which looked like every other wealthy person’s sitting room: a mantelpiece with two modern vases, a clock featuring a statue of Cupid with his bow, a mirror flanked by engravings, one showing Hor with his guide, the other depicting a beggar, grayish wallpaper, and red and black tapestry.
The room was lit by lamps with frosted glass shades that provided only dim light, perhaps out of consideration for the visitor’s supposedly sensitive eyes.
After exactly ten minutes, the clock struck ten. On the fifth chi, the door opened and Lord Wilmore entered.
He was slightly above average height, with thin reddish sideburns, a pale complexion, and light hair turning gray. He was dressed in distinctly old-fashioned English style: a blue coat with brass buttons and a high collar from decades ago, a white vest, and pants that were three inches too short but held in place by straps.
His first words were, "You know I don’t speak French?"
"I know you prefer not to converse in our language," the agent replied.
"But you may use it," Wilmore said. "I understand it."
"And I," the visitor replied, switching to English, "know enough English to maintain our conversation. Please, don’t inconvenience yourself."
"Aw?" Lord Wilmore said with that peculiarly British intonation that can’t be replicated by foreigners.
The agent presented his letter of introduction. Wilmore read it with typical English coolness, then looked up. "I understand perfectly."
The questioning began, similar to what the abbé had faced, but Lord Wilmore, being the count’s enemy, was less restrained in his answers and provided more detail.
He described Monte Cristo’s youth. At age ten, the boy had entered the service of a minor Indian ruler who was at war with the British. That’s where Wilmore first encountered him, as an enemy. During that conflict, Zaccone was captured, sent to England, and imprisoned on a prison ship. He escaped by swimming to freedom.
Then ca years of travel, duels, and wild adventures. When the Greek revolution broke out, he fought in their ranks. While there, he discovered a silver mine in the Thessaly mountains but kept it secret. After the Battle of Navarino and the establishnt of the Greek state, he obtained a mining concession from King Otto for that region.
That’s where his massive fortune ca from, in Wilmore’s estimation, possibly one or two million per year. Though it was precarious wealth, dependent on the mine’s continued production.
"But," the visitor asked, "do you know why he ca to France?"
"He’s speculating in railways," Wilmore said. "And being an expert chemist and physicist, he’s invented a new telegraph system he’s trying to perfect."
"How much does he spend annually?"
"No more than five or six hundred thousand francs. The man’s a miser."
Hatred clearly fueled the Englishman’s words. Unable to find any real faults with the count, he accused him of being cheap.
"Do you know his house in Auteuil?"
"Certainly."
"What can you tell about it?"
"Do you want to know why he bought it?"
"Yes."
"The count is a speculator who’ll bankrupt himself with his experints. He believes there’s a natural mineral spring near that property, sothing comparable to the famous spa towns. He plans to turn the house into a health resort, what the Germans call a ’Badhaus.’ He’s already dug up the entire garden two or three tis searching for this mythical spring. Since he hasn’t found it, he’ll probably start buying up the neighboring properties too."
Wilmore leaned back with a satisfied smile. "Since I dislike him, I’m hoping his railway ventures, his telegraph, or his spa searches will ruin him. I’m watching and waiting for his downfall, which should co soon."
"What caused your quarrel with him?"
"When he was in England, he seduced the wife of one of my friends."
"Why haven’t you taken revenge?"
"I’ve already fought three duels with him," the Englishman said. "First with pistols, then swords, then sabers."
"What happened?"
"The first ti, he broke my arm. The second, he wounded in the chest. The third ti..." Wilmore pulled down his collar, revealing a large, fresh red scar on his neck. "He gave this. So you see, there’s a blood feud between us."
"But," the agent said carefully, "you’re not going about killing him the right way, if I understand correctly."
"Aw?" The Englishman straightened. "I practice shooting every single day. And every other day, the fencing master Grisier cos to my house for lessons."
That was everything the visitor needed to know, or rather, everything the Englishman appeared to know. The agent stood, bowed to Lord Wilmore, who returned the gesture with stiff English formality, and left.
Lord Wilmore listened to the door close, then returned to his bedroom. There, he pulled off his light-colored wig, removed his reddish fake whiskers, peeled away his prosthetic jaw and the artificial scar.
Underneath was black hair, a tan complexion, and perfect white teeth.
Lord Wilmore was the Count of Monte Cristo.
And it wasn’t the prefecture chief who had visited both n, it was Prosecutor Villefort himself, conducting his own investigation in disguise.
Back at ho, Villefort felt sowhat relieved, even though he hadn’t learned anything truly alarming. For the first ti since that dinner party in Auteuil, he slept soundly through the night.
The Count had successfully deceived him, playing both sides of the investigation while Villefort remained completely unaware.
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