The Count of Monte Cristo

e awake from every sleep except the one dreaded by Danglars. He awoke.
To a Parisian accustomed to silken curtains, walls hung with velvet
drapery, and the soft perfume of burning wood, the white smoke of which
diffuses itself in graceful curves around the room, the appearance of
the whitewashed cell which greeted his eyes on awakening seemed like
the continuation of some disagreeable dream. But in such a situation a
single moment suffices to change the strongest doubt into certainty.

“Yes, yes,” he murmured, “I am in the hands of the brigands of whom
Albert de Morcerf spoke.” His first idea was to breathe, that he might
know whether he was wounded. He borrowed this from Don Quixote, the
only book he had ever read, but which he still slightly remembered.

“No,” he cried, “they have not wounded, but perhaps they have robbed
me!” and he thrust his hands into his pockets. They were untouched; the
hundred louis he had reserved for his journey from Rome to Venice were
in his trousers pocket, and in that of his greatcoat he found the
little note-case containing his letter of credit for 5,050,000 francs.

“Singular bandits!” he exclaimed; “they have left me my purse and
pocket-book. As I was saying last night, they intend me to be ransomed.
Hello, here is my watch! Let me see what time it is.”

Danglars’ watch, one of Breguet’s repeaters, which he had carefully
wound up on the previous night, struck half past five. Without this,
Danglars would have been quite ignorant of the time, for daylight did
not reach his cell. Should he demand an explanation from the bandits,
or should he wait patiently for them to propose it? The last
alternative seemed the most prudent, so he waited until twelve o’clock.
During all this time a sentinel, who had been relieved at eight
o’clock, had been watching his door.

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Danglars suddenly felt a strong inclination to see the person who kept
watch over him. He had noticed that a few rays, not of daylight, but
from a lamp, penetrated through the ill-joined planks of the door; he
approached just as the brigand was refreshing himself with a mouthful
of brandy, which, owing to the leathern bottle containing it, sent
forth an odor which was extremely unpleasant to Danglars. “Faugh!” he
exclaimed, retreating to the farther corner of his cell.

At twelve this man was replaced by another functionary, and Danglars,
wishing to catch sight of his new guardian, approached the door again.

He was an athletic, gigantic bandit, with large eyes, thick lips, and a
flat nose; his red hair fell in dishevelled masses like snakes around
his shoulders.

“Ah, ha,” cried Danglars, “this fellow is more like an ogre than
anything else; however, I am rather too old and tough to be very good
eating!”

We see that Danglars was collected enough to jest; at the same time, as
though to disprove the ogreish propensities, the man took some black
bread, cheese, and onions from his wallet, which he began devouring
voraciously.

“May I be hanged,” said Danglars, glancing at the bandit’s dinner
through the crevices of the door,—“may I be hanged if I can understand
how people can eat such filth!” and he withdrew to seat himself upon
his goat-skin, which reminded him of the smell of the brandy.

But the mysteries of nature are incomprehensible, and there are certain
invitations contained in even the coarsest food which appeal very
irresistibly to a fasting stomach. Danglars felt his own not to be very
well supplied just then, and gradually the man appeared less ugly, the
bread less black, and the cheese more fresh, while those dreadful
vulgar onions recalled to his mind certain sauces and side-dishes,
which his cook prepared in a very superior manner whenever he said,
“Monsieur Deniseau, let me have a nice little fricassee today.” He got
up and knocked on the door; the bandit raised his head. Danglars knew
that he was heard, so he redoubled his blows.

“Che cosa?” asked the bandit.

“Come, come,” said Danglars, tapping his fingers against the door, “I
think it is quite time to think of giving me something to eat!”

But whether he did not understand him, or whether he had received no
orders respecting the nourishment of Danglars, the giant, without
answering, went on with his dinner. Danglars’ feelings were hurt, and
not wishing to put himself under obligations to the brute, the banker
threw himself down again on his goat-skin and did not breathe another
word.

Four hours passed by and the giant was replaced by another bandit.
Danglars, who really began to experience sundry gnawings at the
stomach, arose softly, again applied his eye to the crack of the door,
and recognized the intelligent countenance of his guide. It was,
indeed, Peppino who was preparing to mount guard as comfortably as
possible by seating himself opposite to the door, and placing between
his legs an earthen pan, containing chick-peas stewed with bacon. Near
the pan he also placed a pretty little basket of Villetri grapes and a
flask of Orvieto. Peppino was decidedly an epicure. Danglars watched
these preparations and his mouth watered.

“Come,” he said to himself, “let me try if he will be more tractable
than the other;” and he tapped gently at the door.

“On y va,” (coming) exclaimed Peppino, who from frequenting the house
of Signor Pastrini understood French perfectly in all its idioms.

Danglars immediately recognized him as the man who had called out in
such a furious manner, “Put in your head!” But this was not the time
for recrimination, so he assumed his most agreeable manner and said
with a gracious smile:

“Excuse me, sir, but are they not going to give me any dinner?”

“Does your excellency happen to be hungry?”

“Happen to be hungry,—that’s pretty good, when I haven’t eaten for
twenty-four hours!” muttered Danglars. Then he added aloud, “Yes, sir,
I am hungry—very hungry.”

“And your excellency wants something to eat?”

“At once, if possible”

“Nothing easier,” said Peppino. “Here you can get anything you want; by
paying for it, of course, as among honest folk.”

“Of course!” cried Danglars. “Although, in justice, the people who
arrest and imprison you, ought, at least, to feed you.”

“That is not the custom, excellency,” said Peppino.

“A bad reason,” replied Danglars, who reckoned on conciliating his
keeper; “but I am content. Let me have some dinner!”

“At once! What would your excellency like?”

And Peppino placed his pan on the ground, so that the steam rose
directly under the nostrils of Danglars. “Give your orders.”

“Have you kitchens here?”

“Kitchens?—of course—complete ones.”

“And cooks?”

“Excellent!”

“Well, a fowl, fish, game,—it signifies little, so that I eat.”

“As your excellency pleases. You mentioned a fowl, I think?”

“Yes, a fowl.”

Peppino, turning around, shouted, “A fowl for his excellency!” His
voice yet echoed in the archway when a handsome, graceful, and
half-naked young man appeared, bearing a fowl in a silver dish on his
head, without the assistance of his hands.

“I could almost believe myself at the Café de Paris,” murmured
Danglars.

“Here, your excellency,” said Peppino, taking the fowl from the young
bandit and placing it on the worm-eaten table, which with the stool and
the goat-skin bed formed the entire furniture of the cell. Danglars
asked for a knife and fork.

“Here, excellency,” said Peppino, offering him a little blunt knife and
a boxwood fork. Danglars took the knife in one hand and the fork in the
other, and was about to cut up the fowl.

“Pardon me, excellency,” said Peppino, placing his hand on the banker’s
shoulder; “people pay here before they eat. They might not be
satisfied, and——”

“Ah, ha,” thought Danglars, “this is not so much like Paris, except
that I shall probably be skinned! Never mind, I’ll fix that all right.
I have always heard how cheap poultry is in Italy; I should think a
fowl is worth about twelve sous at Rome.—There,” he said, throwing a
louis down.

Peppino picked up the louis, and Danglars again prepared to carve the
fowl.

“Stay a moment, your excellency,” said Peppino, rising; “you still owe
me something.”

“I said they would skin me,” thought Danglars; but resolving to resist
the extortion, he said, “Come, how much do I owe you for this fowl?”

“Your excellency has given me a louis on account.”

“A louis on account for a fowl?”

“Certainly; and your excellency now owes me 4,999 louis.”

Danglars opened his enormous eyes on hearing this gigantic joke.

“Very droll,” he muttered, “very droll indeed,” and he again began to
carve the fowl, when Peppino stopped the baron’s right hand with his
left, and held out his other hand.

“Come, now,” he said.

“Is it not a joke?” said Danglars.

“We never joke,” replied Peppino, solemn as a Quaker.

“What! A hundred thousand francs for a fowl!”

“Ah, excellency, you cannot imagine how hard it is to rear fowls in
these horrible caves!”

“Come, come, this is very droll—very amusing—I allow; but, as I am very
hungry, pray allow me to eat. Stay, here is another louis for you.”

“Then that will make only 4,998 louis more,” said Peppino with the same
indifference. “I shall get them all in time.”

“Oh, as for that,” said Danglars, angry at this prolongation of the
jest,—“as for that you won’t get them at all. Go to the devil! You do
not know with whom you have to deal!”

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Peppino made a sign, and the youth hastily removed the fowl. Danglars
threw himself upon his goat-skin, and Peppino, reclosing the door,
again began eating his peas and bacon. Though Danglars could not see
Peppino, the noise of his teeth allowed no doubt as to his occupation.
He was certainly eating, and noisily too, like an ill-bred man.
“Brute!” said Danglars. Peppino pretended not to hear him, and without
even turning his head continued to eat slowly. Danglars’ stomach felt
so empty, that it seemed as if it would be impossible ever to fill it
again; still he had patience for another half-hour, which appeared to
him like a century. He again arose and went to the door.

“Come, sir, do not keep me starving here any longer, but tell me what
they want.”

“Nay, your excellency, it is you who should tell us what you want. Give
your orders, and we will execute them.”

“Then open the door directly.” Peppino obeyed. “Now look here, I want
something to eat! To eat—do you hear?”

“Are you hungry?”

“Come, you understand me.”

“What would your excellency like to eat?”

“A piece of dry bread, since the fowls are beyond all price in this
accursed place.”

“Bread? Very well. Holloa, there, some bread!” he called. The youth
brought a small loaf. “How much?” asked Danglars.

“Four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight louis,” said Peppino; “You
have paid two louis in advance.”

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“What? One hundred thousand francs for a loaf?”

“One hundred thousand francs,” repeated Peppino.

“But you only asked 100,000 francs for a fowl!”

“We have a fixed price for all our provisions. It signifies nothing
whether you eat much or little—whether you have ten dishes or one—it is
always the same price.”

“What, still keeping up this silly jest? My dear fellow, it is
perfectly ridiculous—stupid! You had better tell me at once that you
intend starving me to death.”

“Oh, dear, no, your excellency, unless you intend to commit suicide.
Pay and eat.”

“And what am I to pay with, brute?” said Danglars, enraged. “Do you
suppose I carry 100,000 francs in my pocket?”

“Your excellency has 5,050,000 francs in your pocket; that will be
fifty fowls at 100,000 francs apiece, and half a fowl for the 50,000.”

Danglars shuddered. The bandage fell from his eyes, and he understood
the joke, which he did not think quite so stupid as he had done just
before.

“Come,” he said, “if I pay you the 100,000 francs, will you be
satisfied, and allow me to eat at my ease?”

“Certainly,” said Peppino.

“But how can I pay them?”

“Oh, nothing easier; you have an account open with Messrs. Thomson &
French, Via dei Banchi, Rome; give me a draft for 4,998 louis on these
gentlemen, and our banker shall take it.”

Danglars thought it as well to comply with a good grace, so he took the
pen, ink, and paper Peppino offered him, wrote the draft, and signed
it.

“Here,” he said, “here is a draft at sight.”

“And here is your fowl.”

Danglars sighed while he carved the fowl; it appeared very thin for the
price it had cost. As for Peppino, he examined the paper attentively,
put it into his pocket, and continued eating his peas.