The apartnt on the second floor of the house on Rue Saint-Germain-des-Prés had a secret. Its tenant was a ghost, or at least, that’s what the building’s doorman thought. In all his years managing the property, he’d never once seen the man’s face.
During winter, the mysterious tenant buried his chin in one of those large red scarves that wealthy n’s drivers wore on cold nights. In sumr, he had a convenient habit of blowing his nose with a handkerchief just as he approached the door. Every. Single. Ti.
The doorman had learned not to pry. Word around the building was that this tenant was soone important, the kind of person who valued his privacy and had the power to enforce it. So his secret identity remained just that, a secret.
His schedule was remarkably consistent. Whether in the blazing heat of sumr or the bitter cold of winter, he arrived around four o’clock in the afternoon. He never stayed the night, though. Never.
The routine was precise, almost ritualistic. At three-thirty in winter, a discreet servant would light the fireplace in the small apartnt. In sumr, the sa servant would set out iced drinks at exactly the sa ti. Then, at four o’clock, the mysterious man would arrive.
Twenty minutes later, like clockwork, a carriage would pull up to the building. A woman would step out, always dressed in black or dark blue, her face hidden behind a thick veil. She moved like a shadow through the lobby, her footsteps so light they made no sound as she hurried up the stairs.
No one ever questioned where she was going. Her face, like the gentleman’s, remained a complete mystery to the doorn, who prided themselves on being the most discreet in all of Paris. Everyone knew she stopped at the first floor. She would tap on the door in a peculiar pattern, so kind of signal, obviously, and the door would open just long enough for her to slip inside before closing again. That was where curiosity died.
When they left, they were just as careful. The lady always departed first. As soon as she stepped into her carriage, it would drive away, sotis turning right, sotis left, never following a predictable pattern. About twenty minutes later, the gentleman would also leave, his face still hidden behind his scarf or handkerchief.
Everything changed the day after Monte Cristo paid his visit to Danglars.
That morning, the mysterious tenant arrived at ten o’clock instead of four in the afternoon. Almost imdiately afterward, without the usual waiting period, a cab screeched to a halt outside. The veiled lady practically ran up the stairs, her usual composure completely shattered.
The door opened. Before it could close, her voice rang out, panicked and desperate, "Oh, Lucien! Oh, my friend!"
The doorman’s ears perked up. So the tenant’s na was Lucien. Still, being the picture-perfect doorman that he was, he decided not to share this tidbit with his wife.
"What’s wrong, my dear?" asked the man whose na had just been revealed. "Tell what’s happened."
"Lucien, can I trust you with this?"
"Of course you can. You know that. But what’s going on? Your note this morning completely threw off. This rush, this unusual eting ti, please, either calm my nerves or confirm my worst fears."
"Lucien, sothing terrible has happened!" The lady’s voice trembled as she looked at him with wild eyes. "Monsieur Danglars left last night!"
"Left? What do you an, left? Where did he go?"
"I have no idea."
"Wait, are you saying he’s gone for good?"
"Without a doubt. At ten o’clock last night, his horses took him to the Charenton gate. A private coach was waiting there. He got in with only his personal servant, saying he was heading to Fontainebleau."
"Then what’s the problem-"
"Wait. He left a letter."
"A letter?"
"Yes. Read it." The baroness pulled a letter from her pocket with shaking hands and gave it to Debray.
Debray paused before reading, as if trying to predict what the letter would say, or perhaps figuring out how to react, regardless of its contents. After a mont, he began reading the letter that had thrown the baroness into such distress.
"Mada and most faithful wife,"
Debray stopped automatically and glanced at the baroness. Her face flushed red with embarrassnt.
"Keep reading," she said quietly.
He continued:
"By the ti you receive this, you will no longer have a husband. Don’t panic, I don’t an I’ll be dead. I an I’ll be gone, just like our daughter is gone from your life. I’ll be traveling on one of the thirty or forty roads leading out of France.
I owe you an explanation, and since you’re an intelligent woman who will understand perfectly, I’ll give you one. Listen carefully.
This morning, I received a demand for five million francs, which I paid. Almost imdiately afterward, another demand for the sa amount was presented to . I put that creditor off until tomorrow, except I plan to leave today to avoid that particular tomorrow, which would be rather unpleasant for .
You understand this, don’t you, my precious wife? I’m sure you do, because you’re just as familiar with my financial affairs as I am. Actually, I think you understand them better than I do, since I have no idea what happened to a considerable portion of my fortune, which used to be quite respectable, while I’m certain you know exactly where it went.
Won have infallible instincts about these things. They can explain the impossible through so kind of mysterious calculation they’ve invented. But ? I only understand my own numbers, and all I know is that one day those numbers deceived .
Have you admired how quickly I fell? Were you dazzled by how rapidly my gold lted away? I confess, I only saw the fire. Let’s hope you found so gold in the ashes.
With that consoling thought, I leave you, mada, without any guilt about abandoning you. You have friends, the ashes I ntioned, and most importantly, the freedom I’m now returning to you.
I must add another explanation. As long as I believed you were working for the good of our household and our daughter’s future, I philosophically turned a blind eye. But since you’ve transford our house into ruins, I refuse to beco the foundation for another man’s fortune.
You were rich when I married you, but not particularly respected. Excuse my bluntness, but since this letter is just between us, I see no reason to soften my words. I increased our fortune, and it continued to grow for fifteen years, until extraordinary and unexpected catastrophes suddenly destroyed it. None of that was my fault, I can honestly say.
You, mada, only sought to increase your own wealth, and I’m convinced you succeeded. Therefore, I leave you as I found you: rich, but not particularly respected.
Farewell! From now on, I intend to work for my own benefit. Thank you for the example you’ve set, which I plan to follow.
Your devoted husband,
Baron Danglars"
The baroness had watched Debray’s face carefully as he read the long, painful letter. Despite his self-control, she saw him change color once or twice. When he finished, he folded the letter and fell into a thoughtful silence.
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