Chapter 173: Chapter 173

Prosecutor Villefort had made a promise to Madame Danglars, and he intended to keep it. He needed to find out how the mysterious Count of Monte Cristo knew about the dark history of that house in Auteuil. The very same day, he fired off a letter to his contact, Boville, a former prison inspector who’d climbed the ranks to become a high-ranking police official.

Boville asked for two days to dig up the information. When the deadline arrived, Villefort received his report:

"The man calling himself the Count of Monte Cristo has two known associates. The first is Lord Wilmore, a wealthy foreign aristocrat occasionally seen in Paris, currently in the city. The second is Abbé Busoni, a Sicilian priest with an excellent reputation in the Middle East, where he’s known for his charitable work."

Villefort immediately ordered a full background check on both men. By the next evening, the dossier landed on his desk:

The priest had been in Paris for only a month, living in a modest two-story building tucked behind the Saint-Sulpice church. Four rooms total, two per floor, and he was the only occupant.

The ground floor was spartan, a dining room with a simple walnut table, chairs, and sideboard, plus a plain parlor without decorations, carpet, or even a clock. Clearly, the abbé believed in minimalism, keeping only absolute necessities.

He spent most of his time in the upstairs sitting room, which doubled as a personal library. Theological books and ancient manuscripts crammed every available surface. According to his manservant, the abbé could lose himself in those texts for months without emerging.

The valet screened all visitors through a small window in the door. If he didn’t recognize a face or simply didn’t like the look of someone, he’d claim the abbé wasn’t in Paris. Most people accepted this excuse, after all, everyone knew the priest was an avid traveler who could be anywhere in the world.

Whether home or abroad, the abbé always left money for charity. His valet distributed alms through that same door window, acting on his master’s behalf.

The bedroom matched the rest of the apartment’s austere aesthetic: a curtainless bed, four armchairs, a yellow velvet couch, and a prayer desk. That was it.

Lord Wilmore’s Profile:

The Englishman lived on Rue Fontaine-Saint-George, fitting the stereotype of the wealthy British traveler burning through his fortune while seeing the world. He rented a furnished apartment but barely used it, spending only a few hours there each day and rarely sleeping over.

His most distinctive quirk? He absolutely refused to speak French, though he could write it perfectly.

The day after Villefort received these reports, a carriage pulled up at the corner of Rue Férou. A man stepped out and knocked on an olive-green door, asking for Abbé Busoni.

"He’s not here. Left early this morning," the valet said through the window.

"That answer might not always satisfy me," the visitor replied coolly. "I come on behalf of someone who expects doors to open for him. But I’ll be reasonable, please give the abbé this card and sealed letter when he returns. Will he be available at eight tonight?"

"Most likely, unless he’s working. When he’s deep in his studies, he might as well be out."

At the appointed hour, the same carriage returned, but this time, it rolled right up to the green door instead of stopping at the corner. The man knocked, and the door swung open immediately. From the valet’s deferential manner, it was clear the earlier note had made an impression.

"Is the abbé home?" the visitor asked.

"Yes, sir. He’s in his library but expecting you," the valet replied, leading him inside.

The stranger climbed a rough wooden staircase. At the top, he found a dimly lit room dominated by a single lamp, its shade directing all the light onto a work table. In the shadows sat the abbé, dressed in a monk’s robe with a medieval-style hood pulled over his head.

"Do I have the honor of addressing Abbé Busoni?" the visitor asked.

"You do," the abbé replied, his Italian accent thick. "And you must be the man Boville sent from the police prefecture?"

"One of the agents responsible for keeping Paris safe?"

"Yes, sir," the stranger said, hesitating slightly, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

The abbé adjusted his oversized spectacles, the kind that covered not just his eyes but his temples, and gestured for his guest to sit. "I’m at your service."

The visitor shifted in his seat. "My mission here is confidential, both for me and my employer." The abbé nodded. "The prefecture knows your reputation for honesty. As an officer of justice, I’ve been sent to ask you some questions regarding public safety. We hope no personal loyalties or humanitarian concerns will prevent you from telling the truth."

"As long as your questions don’t conflict with my religious obligations or conscience, I’ll answer honestly. I’m a priest, some things, like confessional secrets, must stay between me and God, not me and the law."

"Don’t worry. We’ll respect your principles."

At that moment, the abbé adjusted his lamp, lowering the shade on his side and raising it on the other. Bright light flooded the visitor’s face while his own remained in shadow.

"Forgive me, abbé," the police agent said, squinting, "but the light is hurting my eyes."

The abbé lowered the shade slightly. "Better? Please, continue." Dıscover more novels at nοvelfire.net

"I’ll get straight to the point. Do you know the Count of Monte Cristo?"

"You mean Monsieur Zaccone?"

"Zaccone? Isn’t his name Monte Cristo?"

"Monte Cristo is an estate, or really, just a rock formation. It’s not a family name."

"Fine, let’s not argue semantics. So Monte Cristo and Zaccone are the same person?"

"Then let’s talk about Zaccone. You know him?"

"The son of a wealthy shipbuilder in Malta."

"I know that’s the official story, but the police don’t accept vague reports at face value."

The abbé smiled pleasantly. "When a report aligns with the truth, everyone should believe it, police included."

"Are you certain of what you’re telling me?"

"I’m not questioning your honesty, understand. I’m asking if you’re personally certain of these facts."

"I knew his father, Mister Zaccone."

"When I was young, I often played with the son in the timber yards."

"Then where did he get the title of count?"

"You can buy titles, you know."

"And his enormous wealth, where does that come from?"

"It might not be as enormous as people think."

"What would you estimate?"

"Maybe one hundred fifty to two hundred thousand a year."

"That seems reasonable," the visitor said. "I’d heard he had three or four million."

"Two hundred thousand annual income would equal about four million in capital."

"But I heard he makes four million *per year*."

"Do you know this Island of Monte Cristo?"

"Of course. Anyone who’s sailed from southern Italy to France passes near it. You can’t miss it."

"I’m told it’s beautiful."

"Then why would the count buy a rock?"

"To legitimize his title. In Italy, you need to own land to be a count."

"Have you heard about Zaccone’s youth?"

"Nothing definite. I lost track of my young friend during that period of his life."

"I believe he entered military service."

"Are you his confessor?"

"No. I believe he’s Lutheran."

"I believe so, I don’t claim to know for certain. Besides, France guarantees freedom of religion."

"Of course. We’re not investigating his beliefs, only his actions. On behalf of the prefecture, I’m asking what you know about him."

"He’s known as extremely charitable. The Pope himself made him a Knight of Christ for his service to Christians in the East. He has five or six rings given to him by Eastern rulers as thanks for his good works."