Chapter 2 Father and Son
We will leave Danglars struggling with the demon of hatred, and endeavoring to insinuate in the ear of the shipowner some evil suspicions against his comrade, and follow Dantes, who, after having traversed La Canebiere, took the Rue de Noailles, and entering a small house, on the left of the Allees de Meillan, rapidly ascended four flights of a dark staircase, holding the baluster with one hand, while with the other he repressed the beatings of his heart, and paused before a half-open door, from which he could see the whole of a small room.
This room was occupied by Dantes’ father. The news of the arrival of the Pharaon had not yet reached the old man, who, mounted on a chair, was amusing himself by training with trembling hand the nasturtiums and sprays of clematis that clambered over the trellis at his window. Suddenly, he felt an arm thrown around his body, and a well-known voice behind him exclaimed, “Father — dear father!”
The old man uttered a cry, and turned round; then, seeing his son, he fell into his arms, pale and trembling.
“What ails you, my dearest father? Are you ill?” inquired the young man, much alarmed.
“No, no, my dear Edmond — my boy — my son! — no; but I did not expect you; and joy, the surprise of seeing you so suddenly — Ah, I feel as if I were going to die.”
“Come, come, cheer up, my dear father! ‘Tis I — really I! They say joy never hurts, and so I came to you without any warning. Come now, do smile, instead of looking at me so solemnly. Here I am back again, and we are going to be happy.”
“Yes, yes, my boy, so we will — so we will,” replied the old man; “but how shall we be happy? Shall you never leave me again? Come, tell me all the good fortune that has befallen you.”
“God forgive me,” said the young man, “for rejoicing at happiness derived from the misery of others, but, Heaven knows, I did not seek this good fortune; it has happened, and I really cannot pretend to lament it. The good Captain Leclere is dead, father, and it is probable that, with the aid of M. Morrel, I shall have his place. Do you understand, father? Only imagine me a captain at twenty, with a hundred louis pay, and a share in the profits! Is this not more than a poor sailor like me could have hoped for?”
“Yes, my dear boy,” replied the old man, “it is very fortunate.”
“Well, then, with the first money I touch, I mean you to have a small house, with a garden in which to plant clematis, nasturtiums, and honeysuckle. But what ails you, father? Are you not well?”
“‘Tis nothing, nothing; it will soon pass away” — and as he said so the old man’s strength failed him, and he fell backwards.
“Come, come,” said the young man, “a glass of wine, father, will revive you. Where do you keep your wine?”
“No, no; thanks. You need not look for it; I do not want it,” said the old man.
“Yes, yes, father, tell me where it is,” and he opened two or three cupboards.
“It is no use,” said the old man, “there is no wine.”
“What, no wine?” said Dantes, turning pale, and looking alternately at the hollow cheeks of the old man and the empty cupboards. “What, no wine? Have you wanted money, father?”
“I want nothing now that I have you,” said the old man.
“Yet,” stammered Dantes, wiping the perspiration from his brow, — “yet I gave you two hundred francs when I left, three months ago.”
“Yes, yes, Edmond, that is true, but you forgot at that time a little debt to our neighbor, Caderousse. He reminded me of it, telling me if I did not pay for you, he would be paid by M. Morrel; and so, you see, lest he might do you an injury” —
“Well?”
“Why, I paid him.”
“But,” cried Dantes, “it was a hundred and forty francs I owed Caderousse.”
“Yes,” stammered the old man.
“And you paid him out of the two hundred francs I left you?”
The old man nodded.
“So that you have lived for three months on sixty francs,” muttered Edmond.
“You know how little I require,” said the old man.
“Heaven pardon me,” cried Edmond, falling on his knees before his father.
“What are you doing?”
“You have wounded me to the heart.”
“Never mind it, for I see you once more,” said the old man; “and now it’s all over — everything is all right again.”
“Yes, here I am,” said the young man, “with a promising future and a little money. Here, father, here!” he said, “take this — take it, and send for something immediately.” And he emptied his pockets on the table, the contents consisting of a dozen gold pieces, five or six five-franc pieces, and some smaller coin. The countenance of old Dantes brightened.
“Whom does this belong to?” he inquired.
“To me, to you, to us! Take it; buy some provisions; be happy, and tomorrow we shall have more.”
“Gently, gently,” said the old man, with a smile; “and by your leave I will use your purse moderately, for they would say, if they saw me buy too many things at a time, that I had been obliged to await your return, in order to be able to purchase them.”
“Do as you please; but, first of all, pray have a servant, father. I will not have you left alone so long. I have some smuggled coffee and most capital tobacco, in a small chest in the hold, which you shall have tomorrow. But, hush, here comes somebody.”
“‘Tis Caderousse, who has heard of your arrival, and no doubt comes to congratulate you on your fortunate return.”
“Ah, lips that say one thing, while the heart thinks another,” murmured Edmond. “But, never mind, he is a neighbor who has done us a service on a time, so he’s welcome.”
As Edmond paused, the black and bearded head of Caderousse appeared at the door. He was a man of twenty-five or six, and held a piece of cloth, which, being a tailor, he was about to make into a coat-lining.
“What, is it you, Edmond, back again?” said he, with a broad Marseillaise accent, and a grin that displayed his ivory-white teeth.
“Yes, as you see, neighbor Caderousse; and ready to be agreeable to you in any and every way,” replied Dantes, but ill-concealing his coldness under this cloak of civility.
“Thanks — thanks; but, fortunately, I do not want for anything; and it chances that at times there are others who have need of me.” Dantes made a gesture. “I do not allude to you, my boy. No! — no! I lent you money, and you returned it; that’s like good neighbors, and we are quits.”
“We are never quits with those who oblige us,” was Dantes’ reply; “for when we do not owe them money, we owe them gratitude.”
“What’s the use of mentioning that? What is done is done. Let us talk of your happy return, my boy. I had gone on the quay to match a piece of mulberry