Chapter 168: Chapter 168

The next morning, Danglars broke his usual routine. Instead of visiting his wife’s room on his way to the office, he stayed away entirely.

Around half-past twelve, Madame Danglars ordered her carriage and left the house. Hidden behind a curtain, Danglars watched her departure with grim satisfaction. He’d told his servants to inform him the moment she returned, but by two o’clock, she still hadn’t come back. Finally, he called for his own horses and headed to the government chamber, where he signed up to speak against the proposed budget.

Between noon and two, Danglars had locked himself in his study, tearing open letters and financial reports. Each one seemed to bring worse news than the last. The numbers piled up in his head, crushing his spirits further with every calculation. Among his few visitors that morning was Major Cavalcanti, who arrived precisely on time, as stiff and formal as always, to finalize their business arrangement from the night before.

After leaving the chamber, where he’d been visibly agitated and unusually bitter toward the government, Danglars climbed back into his carriage with a single destination in mind.

"Number 30, Avenue des Champs-Élysées," he told his driver.

Monte Cristo was home, but currently occupied with another guest. A servant asked Danglars to wait in the drawing room. While sitting in the anteroom, the door opened and a man dressed in priest’s robes entered. Unlike Danglars, this visitor seemed completely at home, he barely paused to bow before walking straight through to the inner apartments and disappearing from view.

A minute later, the same door reopened and Monte Cristo emerged.

"Forgive me, my dear baron," he said warmly. "That was an old friend of mine, the Abbé Busoni, whom you might have seen just now. He’s just arrived in the capital after a long absence. I hope you’ll understand why I couldn’t cut our meeting short."

"Not at all," Danglars replied, standing. "I’m the one who chose a bad time to visit. I should leave-"

"Absolutely not. Please, sit." Monte Cristo gestured to a chair, his expression shifting to concern. "What’s wrong? You look terrible. A gloomy capitalist is like a comet appearing in the sky, it always signals some disaster for the world."

"I’ve had a string of bad luck these past few days," Danglars admitted, sinking into the offered seat. "Nothing but terrible news."

"Oh?" Monte Cristo leaned forward with interest. "Another crash in the stock market?"

"No, thank God. I’m safe from that for at least a few days. It’s a bankruptcy in Trieste that’s causing me problems."

"Really?" Monte Cristo’s eyebrows rose. "Would it happen to be Jacopo Manfredi?"

"Exactly!" Danglars looked stunned. "How did you know? This man has done business with me for years, we’re talking 800,000 to 900,000 francs annually. Never a single mistake or delay. He always paid like royalty. I was so confident in him that I extended credit worth a million francs. And now my ’reliable’ Jacopo Manfredi has suspended all payments!"

"It’s unbelievable!" Danglars’s voice rose. "I sent him requests for 600,000 francs, all returned unpaid. Worse, I’m holding promissory notes he signed worth another 400,000 francs, all due at his representative’s office here in the capital by the end of this month. Today is the 30th. I went to collect, but his representative has vanished into thin air. Combined with my losses in Spain, this month has been an absolute nightmare."

"So you really did lose money on that Spanish affair?"

"Yes! 700,000 francs straight out of my accounts, nothing more!" The sarcasm in Danglars’s voice was bitter.

"How could someone as experienced as you make such a mistake?"

"It’s all my wife’s fault," Danglars said through gritted teeth. "She dreamed that Don Carlos had returned to Spain. She believes in dreams, calls it magnetism or some nonsense. When she dreams something, she swears it will come true. Based on that conviction, I let her speculate using her own bank account and broker. She speculated, and she lost. Technically, it was her money, not mine, but you understand, when 700,000 francs disappear from your wife’s pocket, the husband always finds out. But surely you’ve heard about this? It made quite a stir."

"I heard it mentioned," Monte Cristo said carefully, "but I didn’t know the details. I’m probably the most ignorant person in the capital when it comes to stock market affairs."

"You don’t speculate at all?"

"Me?" Monte Cristo laughed. "How could I? I already have enough trouble managing my regular income. I’d need to hire additional staff just to keep track of it all. But regarding these Spanish matters, I don’t think your wife dreamed the entire Don Carlos situation. Didn’t the newspapers report something about it?"

"You believe the newspapers?"

"Me? Not in the slightest. But I thought that particular paper, the honest Messenger, was different. I assumed it only reported verified telegraph communications."

"That’s exactly what puzzles me," Danglars replied, his frustration evident. "The news about Don Carlos’s return came through telegraph."

"So," Monte Cristo said slowly, "you’ve lost nearly 1,700,000 francs this month alone."

"Not nearly, that’s exactly my loss."

"My God," Monte Cristo said with genuine sympathy. "That’s a devastating blow for a third-tier fortune."

"Third-tier?" Danglars bristled, though his voice wavered. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well," Monte Cristo continued matter-of-factly, "I divide fortunes into three categories. First-tier fortunes consist of tangible assets you can actually hold, mines, land, government bonds in stable countries. We’re talking about a total worth of around a hundred million. Second-tier fortunes come from manufacturing businesses, joint-stock companies, or administrative positions that generate around 1,500,000 in annual income, totaling about fifty million in capital. Finally, third-tier fortunes are built on volatile capital, money that depends on other people’s decisions or pure chance. A single bankruptcy or false telegraph can shake everything. This includes banks, daily speculations, and any ventures subject to unpredictable risks. These typically represent about fifteen million in real or apparent capital. That’s about where you stand, isn’t it?"

"Damn it, yes," Danglars muttered.

"So six more months one would completely destroy a third-tier fortune."

"Oh God," Danglars said, his face draining of color. "You’re being dramatic!"

"Let’s imagine seven such months," Monte Cristo pressed on in the same analytical tone. "Have you ever considered that seven times 1,700,000 francs equals nearly twelve million? No? Well, you shouldn’t think about it, because if you did, you’d never risk your core capital. That capital is to a speculator what skin is to a civilized person. We have our clothes, some fancier than others, that’s our credit. But when someone dies, they have only their skin. Similarly, when you retire from business, you have nothing but your real capital, maybe five or six million at most. Third-tier fortunes are never more than a quarter of what they appear to be, like a train engine that looks enormous because of all the smoke and steam around it. Out of your five or six million in actual capital, you’ve just lost nearly two million. This proportionally damages both your credit and your apparent fortune. To continue my analogy, your skin has been cut and is bleeding. If this happens three or four more times, it will kill you. So pay attention, my dear Monsieur Danglars. Do you need money? Would you like me to lend you some?"

"What a terrible mathematician you are!" Danglars exclaimed, summoning all his self-control and cunning. "I’ve made money at the same time through successful ventures. I’ve replenished the blood loss through nutrition, so to speak. I lost a battle in Spain and was defeated in Trieste, but my shipping interests in India have surely captured valuable cargo, and my Mexican mining operations have probably discovered new veins of ore."

"Very good, very good. But the wound remains and will reopen at the first new loss."

"No, because I only invest in certainties now," Danglars replied with the confidence of a con artist praising his own scheme. "For me to fail, three governments would have to collapse."

"Such things have happened."

"There would have to be a famine!"

"Remember the biblical story of seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine."

"Or the seas would have to dry up like in the days of the Pharaohs, and even then, my ships would simply become caravans traveling over land."

"All the better. Congratulations, my dear Monsieur Danglars," Monte Cristo said smoothly. "I see I was wrong about you. You actually belong to the second tier of fortunes."

"I think I can claim that honor," Danglars said with a smile that reminded Monte Cristo of the sickly moon that mediocre painters love to include in ruins. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴠɪsɪᴛ Novᴇl_Fire(.)net

"But speaking of business," Danglars added, clearly happy to change the subject, "tell me what I should do for Monsieur Cavalcanti."

"Give him money if he comes with good recommendations and they seem legitimate."