Chapter 206: Chapter 206

The day after, the Count of Monte Cristo set out for his estate in Auteuil. He brought Ali and several other servants with him, along with some horses he wanted to test. This journey wasn’t something he’d planned beforehand. It was actually triggered by Bertuccio’s return from Normandy with news about the house and ship arrangements.

Everything was ready. The house stood prepared, and the ship had arrived a week earlier. It now sat anchored in a small cove with its crew of six men, all paperwork completed and ready to sail again at a moment’s notice.

The count praised Bertuccio for his efficiency and told him to prepare for a quick departure. His stay in France wouldn’t last more than a month.

"Now," he said, "I may need to travel from Paris to Tréport in a single night. Have eight fresh horses stationed along the route. That way I can cover fifty leagues in ten hours."

"Your highness already mentioned this wish," Bertuccio replied. "The horses are ready. I bought them myself and positioned them at the most strategic posts. They’re in villages where travelers don’t usually stop."

"Excellent," Monte Cristo said. "I’ll remain here for a day or two. Make the arrangements accordingly."

As Bertuccio was leaving to give the necessary orders, Baptistin opened the door. He held a letter on a silver tray.

"What are you doing here?" the count asked, noticing Baptistin was covered in dust. "I don’t think I sent for you?"

Without answering, Baptistin approached and presented the letter.

"Important and urgent," he said.

The count opened it and read:

Mr. de Monte Cristo is informed that tonight a man will enter his house on the Champs-Élysées with the intention of stealing papers believed to be in the desk in the dressing room. The count’s well-known courage makes police assistance unnecessary. Besides, their interference might seriously affect the person sending this warning. The count could defend his property himself by watching from the bedroom or hiding in the dressing room. Many attendants or obvious precautions would prevent the villain from attempting the theft, and Mr. de Monte Cristo would lose the opportunity to discover an enemy that chance has revealed to the person now sending this warning. A warning they might not be able to send again if this first attempt fails and another is made.

The count’s first thought was that this might be a trick. A crude deception designed to distract him from a minor danger while exposing him to a greater one. He almost sent the letter to the police commissioner, despite, or perhaps because of, his anonymous friend’s advice.

Then suddenly another idea struck him. What if this was a personal enemy? Someone only he would recognize? Someone over whom only he could gain any advantage, like the historical figure Fiesco had done over his would-be assassin?

Those who knew the count understood his vigorous and daring mind. He denied that anything was impossible, with the energy that marked truly great men. From his past life and his resolution to shrink from nothing, the count had acquired an incredible taste for contests. Sometimes against nature itself, sometimes against the world and its devils.

"They don’t want my papers," Monte Cristo decided. "They want to kill me. They’re not robbers but assassins. I won’t let the police prefect interfere with my private affairs. I’m rich enough to handle his authority on my own terms."

The count recalled Baptistin, who had left after delivering the letter.

"Return to Paris," he ordered. "Gather the servants who remain there. I want my entire household at Auteuil."

"But will no one remain in the house, my lord?" Baptistin asked.

"My lord should remember that the porter’s lodge is far from the house."

"The house could be stripped without him hearing anything."

"You’re a fool, Baptistin. Let thieves strip the house. That would annoy me less than being disobeyed."

"Do you understand me?" the count said. "Bring all your colleagues here, every single one. But let everything remain as usual. Just close the ground floor shutters."

"And the first floor shutters?" Chapters fırst released on N()velFire.net

"You know those are never closed. Go!"

The count indicated he would dine alone with only Ali attending him. After eating with his usual calm and moderation, he signaled Ali to follow him. They left through the side gate, and upon reaching the Bois de Boulogne park, turned toward Paris.

At twilight, they found themselves opposite the house on the Champs-Élysées.

Everything was dark. One solitary, weak light burned in the porter’s lodge about forty paces from the house, just as Baptistin had said. Monte Cristo leaned against a tree. With his rarely deceived scrutinizing gaze, he looked up and down the avenue, examined passersby, and carefully studied the neighboring streets to ensure no one was hiding.

Ten minutes passed. He became convinced no one was watching him.

He hurried to the side door with Ali and entered quickly. Using the servants’ staircase, for which he had the key, he reached his bedroom without opening or disturbing a single curtain. Even the porter had no suspicion that the house he believed empty contained its master.

Once in his bedroom, the count motioned for Ali to stop. Then he passed into the dressing room and examined everything. Everything appeared normal. The precious desk stood in its place with the key in the lock. He double-locked it, took the key, returned to the bedroom door, removed the bolt’s double staple, and went back in.

Meanwhile, Ali had procured the weapons the count requested: a short carbine and a pair of double-barreled pistols as accurate as single-barreled ones. Armed this way, the count held the lives of five men in his hands.

It was about half past nine. The count and Ali quickly ate some bread and drank a glass of Spanish wine. Then Monte Cristo slid aside one of the movable panels, which let him see into the adjoining room. He kept his pistols and carbine within reach. Ali stood near him, holding one of the small Arabian hatchets whose design hadn’t changed since the Crusades.

Through one of the bedroom windows, aligned with one in the dressing room, the count could see into the street.

Two hours passed this way. The darkness was intense. Still, thanks to Ali’s wild nature and the count’s long experience, perhaps from his time in confinement, they could distinguish the slightest movement of the trees in the darkness. The small light in the lodge had long been extinguished.

If an attack was coming, it would likely come from the ground floor staircase, not from a window. In Monte Cristo’s opinion, these villains sought his life, not his money. They would attack his bedroom, reaching it by the back staircase or through the dressing room window.

The clock struck a quarter to twelve. The west wind carried the doleful sound of three strokes on its moist gusts.

As the last stroke faded, the count thought he heard a slight noise in the dressing room. This first sound, or rather, this first grinding, was followed by a second, then a third. At the fourth, the count knew what to expect.

A firm and practiced hand was cutting the four sides of a windowpane with a diamond tool.

The count felt his heart beat faster. No matter how used to danger men become, no matter how forewarned of peril, they still understand, from the fluttering heart and shuddering frame, the enormous difference between a dream and reality, between a plan and its execution.

However, Monte Cristo only made a sign to warn Ali, who understood danger approached from the other side and drew nearer to his master. Monte Cristo was eager to determine the strength and number of his enemies.

The window making the noise stood opposite the opening through which the count could see into the dressing room. He fixed his eyes on it. He distinguished a shadow in the darkness, then one of the panes became completely opaque, as if paper had been stuck on the outside. Then the square cracked without falling.

Through the opening, an arm passed to find the latch, then a second. The window turned on its hinges, and a man entered.

"That’s a daring criminal," the count whispered.

At that moment, Ali touched his shoulder lightly. He turned. Ali pointed to the window of the room where they stood, facing the street.

"I see," he said. "There are two of them. One does the work while the other stands guard."

He signaled Ali not to lose sight of the man in the street and turned back to the one in the dressing room.

The glass-cutter had entered and was feeling his way forward, arms stretched out before him. At last, he seemed to have familiarized himself with his surroundings. There were two doors. He bolted them both.

When he approached the bedroom door, Monte Cristo expected him to enter and raised one of his pistols. But he simply heard the sound of bolts sliding in their copper rings. It was just a precaution.

The nocturnal visitor, unaware that the count had removed the bolt staples, might now think himself secure and pursue his goal freely. Alone and free to act, the man drew something from his pocket that the count couldn’t identify. He placed it on a stand, then went straight to the desk. He felt the lock and, contrary to his expectation, found the key missing.

But the glass-cutter was a cautious man who had prepared for all possibilities. The count soon heard the rattling of skeleton keys, the kind locksmiths use to force locks. Thieves called them "nightingales," probably from the music of their nightly song when grinding against bolts.

"Ah," Monte Cristo whispered with a disappointed smile, "he’s only a thief."

But the man couldn’t find the right key. He reached for the instrument he’d placed on the stand and touched a spring. Immediately, a pale light just bright enough to make objects distinct reflected on his hands and face.

"By heaven," Monte Cristo exclaimed, starting back. "It is..."

Ali raised his hatchet.

"Don’t move," Monte Cristo whispered, "and put down your hatchet. We won’t need weapons."

Then he added some words in a low tone. The exclamation that surprise had drawn from the count, faint as it was, had startled the man, who remained frozen like an old knife grinder.

What the count had just given was an order. Immediately Ali left silently and returned bearing a black dress and a three-cornered hat. Meanwhile, Monte Cristo had rapidly removed his coat, waistcoat, and shirt. One could see by the glimmer through the open panel that he wore a flexible steel mail tunic. The last person in France to wear such armor was King Louis XVI, who feared daggers at his breast but whose head was split with a hatchet anyway.

The tunic soon disappeared under a long cassock, his hair under a priest’s wig. The three-cornered hat completed the transformation of the count into a priest.

Hearing nothing more, the man stood upright. While Monte Cristo completed his disguise, the intruder had advanced straight to the desk, whose lock was beginning to crack under his lockpick.

"Try again," the count whispered. He relied on the secret spring unknown to the picklock, however skilled. "Try again. You have a few more minutes of work there."

He advanced to the window. The man he’d seen sitting on a fence had gotten down and was still pacing the street. But strangely, he didn’t care about those who might pass from the avenue or the neighboring street. His attention was focused entirely on what was happening at the count’s house. His only aim seemed to be watching every movement in the dressing room.

Monte Cristo suddenly struck his finger against his forehead, and a smile crossed his lips. Drawing near to Ali, he whispered, "Stay here, hidden in the dark. Whatever noise you hear, whatever happens, only come in or show yourself if I call you."

Ali bowed in strict obedience.

Monte Cristo drew a lit candle from a closet. When the thief was deeply engaged with his lock, the count silently opened the door, making sure the light shone directly on the man’s face. The door opened so quietly that the thief heard nothing. But to his astonishment, the room was suddenly illuminated.

"Ah, good evening, my dear Mr. Caderousse," Monte Cristo said. "What are you doing here at such an hour?"