Chapter 174: Chapter 174

"No, but he treasures them. He prefers recognition for helping humanity rather than destroying it."

"So he’s a pacifist?"

"Essentially, yes, though he doesn’t dress like the traditional Quakers."

"Does he have friends?"

"Everyone who knows him becomes his friend."

"Currently in Paris."

"Can he provide useful information?"

"Very useful. He served with Zaccone in India."

"Do you know his address?"

"Somewhere in the Chaussée d’Antin district, but I don’t know the exact street or number."

"Are you and this Englishman on bad terms?"

"I care about Zaccone, and Wilmore hates him. So naturally, we’re not friends."

"Has the Count of Monte Cristo ever been to France before this current visit?"

"I can answer that with absolute certainty: no. Six months ago, he asked me for information about Paris, and since I didn’t know when I’d return here, I referred him to Mister Cavalcanti."

"No, Bartolomeo, his father."

The visitor leaned forward. "I have one final question, and I’m asking you in the name of honor, humanity, and religion to answer truthfully."

"Do you know why Monte Cristo purchased a house in Auteuil?"

"Yes, he told me himself."

"He wants to convert it into a mental health facility, similar to the one Count Pisani founded in Palermo. Are you familiar with that institution?"

"It’s a magnificent charity."

With that, the abbé bowed, indicating he wanted to return to his studies. The visitor understood, or perhaps had no more questions. He stood, and the abbé walked him to the door. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ Nove1Fire.net

"You’re quite generous with charity," the visitor said. "Although you’re said to be wealthy, I’d like to offer a donation for your charitable work. Would you accept?"

"Thank you, but I have one firm principle: the relief I provide must come entirely from my own resources."

"My decision is unchangeable. But I’m sure if you look around, you’ll find plenty of others in need of your generosity."

The abbé bowed again as he opened the door. The stranger returned the bow and left, his carriage taking him straight back to Villefort’s residence.

An hour later, the same carriage was ordered again, this time heading to 5 Rue Fontaine-Saint-George, Lord Wilmore’s address.

The stranger had written ahead requesting a meeting, which Wilmore had scheduled for ten o’clock sharp. Arriving ten minutes early, the police agent was informed that Lord Wilmore, a man of absolute precision and punctuality, hadn’t returned yet, but would certainly arrive exactly on time.

He was shown into the drawing room, which looked like every other wealthy person’s sitting room: a mantelpiece with two modern vases, a clock featuring a statue of Cupid with his bow, a mirror flanked by engravings, one showing Homer with his guide, the other depicting a beggar, grayish wallpaper, and red and black tapestry.

The room was lit by lamps with frosted glass shades that provided only dim light, perhaps out of consideration for the visitor’s supposedly sensitive eyes.

After exactly ten minutes, the clock struck ten. On the fifth chime, the door opened and Lord Wilmore entered.

He was slightly above average height, with thin reddish sideburns, a pale complexion, and light hair turning gray. He was dressed in distinctly old-fashioned English style: a blue coat with brass buttons and a high collar from decades ago, a white vest, and pants that were three inches too short but held in place by straps.

His first words were, "You know I don’t speak French?"

"I know you prefer not to converse in our language," the agent replied.

"But you may use it," Wilmore said. "I understand it."

"And I," the visitor replied, switching to English, "know enough English to maintain our conversation. Please, don’t inconvenience yourself."

"Aw?" Lord Wilmore said with that peculiarly British intonation that can’t be replicated by foreigners.

The agent presented his letter of introduction. Wilmore read it with typical English coolness, then looked up. "I understand perfectly."

The questioning began, similar to what the abbé had faced, but Lord Wilmore, being the count’s enemy, was less restrained in his answers and provided more detail.

He described Monte Cristo’s youth. At age ten, the boy had entered the service of a minor Indian ruler who was at war with the British. That’s where Wilmore first encountered him, as an enemy. During that conflict, Zaccone was captured, sent to England, and imprisoned on a prison ship. He escaped by swimming to freedom.

Then came years of travel, duels, and wild adventures. When the Greek revolution broke out, he fought in their ranks. While there, he discovered a silver mine in the Thessaly mountains but kept it secret. After the Battle of Navarino and the establishment of the Greek state, he obtained a mining concession from King Otto for that region.

That’s where his massive fortune came from, in Wilmore’s estimation, possibly one or two million per year. Though it was precarious wealth, dependent on the mine’s continued production.

"But," the visitor asked, "do you know why he came to France?"

"He’s speculating in railways," Wilmore said. "And being an expert chemist and physicist, he’s invented a new telegraph system he’s trying to perfect."

"How much does he spend annually?"

"No more than five or six hundred thousand francs. The man’s a miser."

Hatred clearly fueled the Englishman’s words. Unable to find any real faults with the count, he accused him of being cheap.

"Do you know his house in Auteuil?"

"What can you tell me about it?"

"Do you want to know why he bought it?"

"The count is a speculator who’ll bankrupt himself with his experiments. He believes there’s a natural mineral spring near that property, something comparable to the famous spa towns. He plans to turn the house into a health resort, what the Germans call a ’Badhaus.’ He’s already dug up the entire garden two or three times searching for this mythical spring. Since he hasn’t found it, he’ll probably start buying up the neighboring properties too."

Wilmore leaned back with a satisfied smile. "Since I dislike him, I’m hoping his railway ventures, his telegraph, or his spa searches will ruin him. I’m watching and waiting for his downfall, which should come soon."

"What caused your quarrel with him?"

"When he was in England, he seduced the wife of one of my friends."

"Why haven’t you taken revenge?"

"I’ve already fought three duels with him," the Englishman said. "First with pistols, then swords, then sabers."

"The first time, he broke my arm. The second, he wounded me in the chest. The third time..." Wilmore pulled down his collar, revealing a large, fresh red scar on his neck. "He gave me this. So you see, there’s a blood feud between us."

"But," the agent said carefully, "you’re not going about killing him the right way, if I understand correctly."

"Aw?" The Englishman straightened. "I practice shooting every single day. And every other day, the fencing master Grisier comes to my house for lessons."

That was everything the visitor needed to know, or rather, everything the Englishman appeared to know. The agent stood, bowed to Lord Wilmore, who returned the gesture with stiff English formality, and left.

Lord Wilmore listened to the door close, then returned to his bedroom. There, he pulled off his light-colored wig, removed his reddish fake whiskers, peeled away his prosthetic jaw and the artificial scar.

Underneath was black hair, a tan complexion, and perfect white teeth.

Lord Wilmore was the Count of Monte Cristo.

And it wasn’t the prefecture chief who had visited both men, it was Prosecutor Villefort himself, conducting his own investigation in disguise.

Back at home, Villefort felt somewhat relieved, even though he hadn’t learned anything truly alarming. For the first time since that dinner party in Auteuil, he slept soundly through the night.

The Count had successfully deceived him, playing both sides of the investigation while Villefort remained completely unaware.