Chapter 215: Chapter 215

Albert felt his blood boiling. There was no doubt about it now. Danglars was defending himself with the shamelessness of a guilty man, but also with the confidence of someone telling at least part of the truth. Not from conscience, but from fear.

Besides, what was Albert really looking for? Not to determine who was more guilty, Danglars or Monte Cristo. He needed someone who would answer for this offense. Someone who would fight. And Danglars clearly wouldn’t fight.

But more than that, as everything he’d forgotten or overlooked suddenly clicked into place, Albert realized the truth. Monte Cristo knew everything, he’d even bought Ali Pasha’s daughter. Knowing everything, he’d suggested Danglars write to Yanina. After getting the response, he’d agreed to introduce Albert to Haydée. He’d allowed the conversation to turn to Ali’s death and hadn’t stopped Haydée from telling her story, though he’d probably warned her in Greek not to directly implicate Albert’s father.

And hadn’t he asked Albert specifically not to mention his father’s name in front of Haydée? Finally, he’d taken Albert to Normandy right when he knew the final blow would fall.

It was all calculated. All planned. Monte Cristo was working with his father’s enemies.

Albert pulled Beauchamp aside and explained his thoughts.

"You’re right," Beauchamp agreed. "Danglars was just a tool. It’s Monte Cristo you need to confront."

Albert turned back to Danglars. "Understand this isn’t goodbye. I need to verify your claims first. I’m going to see the Count of Monte Cristo now."

He bowed curtly and left with Beauchamp, ignoring Cavalcanti completely. Danglars followed them to the door, insisting again that no personal hatred had motivated him against the Count of Morcerf.

Outside, Beauchamp grabbed Albert’s arm. "Wait. Think about what you’re doing."

"I am thinking." Latest content publıshed on novel(ꜰ)ire.net

"Consider how serious this is."

"More serious than confronting Danglars?"

"Yes. Danglars loves money too much to risk his life in a duel. But Monte Cristo is a different kind of man, a true nobleman. Aren’t you afraid he might be too dangerous?"

"I’m only afraid of one thing: finding someone who won’t fight."

"Don’t worry about that," Beauchamp said grimly. "He’ll fight. I’m just afraid he’ll be too strong for you."

Albert smiled sadly. "That’s what I’m hoping for, actually. The best thing that could happen would be dying in my father’s place. It would save everyone."

"Your mother would die of grief."

"My poor mother," Albert whispered, rubbing his eyes. "I know. But better that than dying of shame."

"You’re absolutely sure about this?"

They directed the driver to 30 Champs-Élysées. Beauchamp wanted to go in alone, but Albert insisted this was an unusual situation that required breaking normal protocol. The cause was too important for etiquette. Beauchamp agreed and followed him in.

Albert practically flew from the porter’s lodge to the front steps. The butler, Baptistin, greeted them. The Count had just arrived home but was taking a bath and couldn’t see anyone.

"After his bath?" Albert demanded.

"The master will have dinner."

"He’ll rest for an hour."

"He’s going to the Opera."

"Absolutely, sir. He ordered his horses for exactly eight o’clock."

"Fine," Albert said. "That’s all I needed to know." He turned to Beauchamp. "If you have anything to do this evening, cancel it. I need you at the Opera with me. Bring Château-Renaud if you can."

Beauchamp agreed and left, promising to return at quarter to eight. Albert went home and invited Franz, Debray, and Morrel to join them at the Opera that evening. Then he went to see his mother.

She’d been in her room since yesterday, refusing all visitors, overwhelmed by the public humiliation. He found her in bed. When she saw Albert, she grabbed his hand and sobbed. The tears seemed to bring her some relief.

Albert stood speechless beside her bed for a moment. His pale face and furrowed brow showed his resolve weakening.

"Mother," he said finally, "does Father have any enemies that you know of?"

Mercédès noticed he hadn’t said "my father." She stiffened. "Son, men in your father’s position have many secret enemies. The ones you know about aren’t the most dangerous."

"I know. That’s why I’m asking you. You’re so perceptive, nothing escapes you."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you noticed at our ball, for instance, that Monte Cristo wouldn’t eat anything in our house."

Mercédès pushed herself up on her feverish arm. "Monte Cristo? What does he have to do with this?"

"You know he’s practically Oriental, Mother. And Orientals have this custom, they won’t eat or drink in the homes of their enemies. It’s how they maintain freedom for revenge."

"Are you saying Monte Cristo is our enemy?" Mercédès went paler than her sheets. "Who told you that? You’re crazy, Albert! Monte Cristo has only shown us kindness. He saved your life! You introduced him to us yourself. Please, if you’re thinking this, stop. My advice, my prayer, is that you keep his friendship."

"Mother, you have specific reasons for wanting me to stay on good terms with him."

Mercédès blushed, then went even paler. "What do you mean?"

"You’re afraid he might harm us somehow."

She shuddered, studying her son’s face carefully. "You’re speaking very strangely. What has the Count done? Three days ago you were with him in Normandy. Three days ago we considered him our best friend."

An ironic smile crossed Albert’s face. Mercédès saw it, and with a mother’s double instinct, she understood everything. But she was careful and strong, so she hid both her sorrow and her fears.

After a silence, she said, "You came to check on me. I’ll admit I’m not well. Stay with me. I don’t want to be alone."

"Mother, you know I’d love to stay, but I have something urgent to take care of tonight."

Mercédès sighed. "All right, Albert. I won’t chain you here with guilt."

Albert pretended not to hear the pain in her voice. He bowed and left. As soon as the door closed, Mercédès called a trusted servant and ordered him to follow Albert everywhere that evening and report back immediately with whatever he observed. Then she rang for her maid. Weak as she was, she dressed, preparing herself for whatever might happen.

The servant’s job was easy. Albert went to his room and dressed with unusual care. At ten minutes to eight, Beauchamp arrived. He’d found Château-Renaud, who’d promised to be in the orchestra section before the curtain rose.

They climbed into Albert’s carriage. Since he had no reason to hide his destination, he called out clearly, "The Opera!"

He arrived early in his impatience. Château-Renaud was already there. Beauchamp had briefed him on the situation, so no explanation was needed. The idea of a son defending his father’s honor was so natural that Château-Renaud didn’t try to talk him out of it. He simply renewed his promises of support.

Debray hadn’t arrived yet, but Albert knew he rarely missed a performance. Albert wandered the theatre until the curtain rose, hoping to encounter Monte Cristo in the lobby or on the stairs. The bell summoned him to his seat, and he entered the orchestra section with his two friends.

But his eyes barely left the box between the columns. It remained stubbornly closed throughout the entire first act. Finally, as Albert checked his watch for about the hundredth time, the door opened at the start of the second act.

Monte Cristo entered, dressed in black. He leaned over the front of the box and scanned the audience below. Morrel followed him in, also looking around, searching for his sister and brother-in-law. He spotted them in another box and blew them a kiss.

The Count’s gaze swept the orchestra section and landed on a pale face with threatening eyes clearly trying to catch his attention. He recognized Albert but thought it better to ignore him, given how angry and agitated he looked. Without saying anything to Morrel, he sat down, took out his opera glasses, and looked elsewhere.

Though he appeared not to notice Albert, he never lost track of him. When the curtain fell at the end of the second act, he saw Albert leave the orchestra with his two friends. Then he spotted a head passing along the back of the boxes. The Count knew the storm was about to break over him.

He’d been chatting cheerfully with Morrel, but he was ready for anything. The door opened. Monte Cristo turned to see Albert, pale and shaking, followed by Beauchamp and Château-Renaud.