The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) by Alexandre Dumas Page A
Authors: Alexandre Dumas
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pleased?’
‘He is even insolent about it. He has already offered me his services, like some superior personage; he wanted to lend me money, like some banker or other.’
‘You refused?’
‘Indeed I did, though I could well have accepted, since I am the one who gave him the first silver coins he ever had in his hands. But now Monsieur Dantès has no need of anyone: he is going to be a captain.’
‘Huh!’ said Danglars. ‘He’s not one yet.’
‘My God, it would be a fine thing indeed if he wasn’t,’ said Caderousse. ‘Otherwise there will be no talking to him.’
‘If we really want,’ said Danglars, ‘he will stay as he is, and perhaps even become less than he is.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing, I was talking to myself. Is he still in love with the beautiful Catalan?’
‘Madly. He has gone there now; but, unless I am gravely mistaken, he will not find things altogether to his liking.’
‘Explain.’
‘What does it matter?’
‘This is more important than you may think. You don’t like Dantès, do you?’
‘I don’t like arrogance.’
‘Well, then: tell me what you know about the Catalan woman.’
‘I have no positive proof, but I have seen things, as I said, that make me think the future captain will not be pleased with what he finds around the Chemin des Vieilles-Infirmeries.’
‘What have you seen? Come on, tell me.’
‘Well, I have observed that every time Mercédès comes into town, she is accompanied by a large Catalan lad, with black eyes, ruddy cheeks, very dark in colour and very passionate, whom she calls “my cousin”.’
‘Ah, indeed! And do you think this cousin is courting her?’
‘I imagine so: what else does a fine lad of twenty-one do to a pretty girl of seventeen?’
‘And you say that Dantès has gone to Les Catalans?’
‘He left before me.’
‘Suppose we were to go in the same direction, stop in the Réserve and, over a glass of La Malgue wine, learn what we can learn.’
‘Who would tell us anything?’
‘We shall be on the spot and we’ll see what has happened from Dantès’ face.’
‘Let’s go then,’ said Caderousse. ‘But you are paying?’
‘Certainly,’ Danglars replied.
The two of them set off at a brisk pace for the spot they had mentioned and, when they arrived, called for a bottle and two glasses.
Old Pamphile had seen Dantès go by less than two minutes before. Certain that he was in Les Catalans, they sat under the budding leaves of the plane-trees and sycamores, in the branches of which a happy band of birds was serenading one of the first fine days of spring.
III
LES CATALANS
A hundred yards away from the place where the two friends, staring into the distance with their ears pricked, were enjoying the sparkling wine of La Malgue, lay the village of Les Catalans, behind a bare hillock ravaged by the sun and the mistral.
One day, a mysterious group of colonists set out from Spain and landed on this spit of land, where it still resides today. No one knew where they had come from or what language they spoke. One of the leaders, who understood Provençal, asked the commune of Marseille to give them this bare and arid promontory on to which, like the sailors of Antiquity, they had drawn up their boats. The request was granted and, three months later, a little village grew up around the twelve or fifteen boats that brought these gypsies of the sea.
The same village, built in a bizarre and picturesque manner that is partly Moorish and partly Spanish, is the one that can be seen today, inhabited by the descendants of those men, who speak the language of their forefathers. For three or four centuries they have remained faithful to the little promontory on which they first landed, clinging to it like a flock of seabirds, in no way mixing with the inhabitants of Marseille, marrying among themselves and retaining the habits and dress of their motherland, just as they have retained its tongue.
The reader must
‘He is even insolent about it. He has already offered me his services, like some superior personage; he wanted to lend me money, like some banker or other.’
‘You refused?’
‘Indeed I did, though I could well have accepted, since I am the one who gave him the first silver coins he ever had in his hands. But now Monsieur Dantès has no need of anyone: he is going to be a captain.’
‘Huh!’ said Danglars. ‘He’s not one yet.’
‘My God, it would be a fine thing indeed if he wasn’t,’ said Caderousse. ‘Otherwise there will be no talking to him.’
‘If we really want,’ said Danglars, ‘he will stay as he is, and perhaps even become less than he is.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing, I was talking to myself. Is he still in love with the beautiful Catalan?’
‘Madly. He has gone there now; but, unless I am gravely mistaken, he will not find things altogether to his liking.’
‘Explain.’
‘What does it matter?’
‘This is more important than you may think. You don’t like Dantès, do you?’
‘I don’t like arrogance.’
‘Well, then: tell me what you know about the Catalan woman.’
‘I have no positive proof, but I have seen things, as I said, that make me think the future captain will not be pleased with what he finds around the Chemin des Vieilles-Infirmeries.’
‘What have you seen? Come on, tell me.’
‘Well, I have observed that every time Mercédès comes into town, she is accompanied by a large Catalan lad, with black eyes, ruddy cheeks, very dark in colour and very passionate, whom she calls “my cousin”.’
‘Ah, indeed! And do you think this cousin is courting her?’
‘I imagine so: what else does a fine lad of twenty-one do to a pretty girl of seventeen?’
‘And you say that Dantès has gone to Les Catalans?’
‘He left before me.’
‘Suppose we were to go in the same direction, stop in the Réserve and, over a glass of La Malgue wine, learn what we can learn.’
‘Who would tell us anything?’
‘We shall be on the spot and we’ll see what has happened from Dantès’ face.’
‘Let’s go then,’ said Caderousse. ‘But you are paying?’
‘Certainly,’ Danglars replied.
The two of them set off at a brisk pace for the spot they had mentioned and, when they arrived, called for a bottle and two glasses.
Old Pamphile had seen Dantès go by less than two minutes before. Certain that he was in Les Catalans, they sat under the budding leaves of the plane-trees and sycamores, in the branches of which a happy band of birds was serenading one of the first fine days of spring.
III
LES CATALANS
A hundred yards away from the place where the two friends, staring into the distance with their ears pricked, were enjoying the sparkling wine of La Malgue, lay the village of Les Catalans, behind a bare hillock ravaged by the sun and the mistral.
One day, a mysterious group of colonists set out from Spain and landed on this spit of land, where it still resides today. No one knew where they had come from or what language they spoke. One of the leaders, who understood Provençal, asked the commune of Marseille to give them this bare and arid promontory on to which, like the sailors of Antiquity, they had drawn up their boats. The request was granted and, three months later, a little village grew up around the twelve or fifteen boats that brought these gypsies of the sea.
The same village, built in a bizarre and picturesque manner that is partly Moorish and partly Spanish, is the one that can be seen today, inhabited by the descendants of those men, who speak the language of their forefathers. For three or four centuries they have remained faithful to the little promontory on which they first landed, clinging to it like a flock of seabirds, in no way mixing with the inhabitants of Marseille, marrying among themselves and retaining the habits and dress of their motherland, just as they have retained its tongue.
The reader must
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