Chapter 216: Chapter 216

"Well!" the Count said with warm politeness that set his greeting apart from ordinary social niceties. "My young friend has found me. Good evening, Monsieur de Morcerf."

His face, controlled with such extraordinary discipline, expressed perfect friendliness. Only then did Morrel remember the letter he’d received from Albert asking him to come to the Opera without explanation. He realized something terrible was happening.

"We’re not here for polite small talk or fake friendship," Albert said, his voice trembling and barely audible. "We’re here to demand an explanation."

"An explanation? At the Opera?" The Count’s tone remained calm, his gaze penetrating. "I’m not very familiar with Parisian customs, but I wouldn’t have thought this was the place for such a conversation."

"When people lock themselves away," Albert said louder, "and can’t be seen because they’re bathing or dining or sleeping, you have to take your opportunities when they appear."

"I’m not hard to reach, sir. Yesterday, if I remember correctly, you were at my house."

"Yesterday I was at your house because I didn’t know who you really were!" Albert raised his voice so people in the neighboring boxes and lobby could hear. Many heads turned toward the commotion.

"Where did you come from tonight?" Monte Cristo asked. "You don’t seem to be in your right mind."

"As long as I understand your treachery and make you understand I’ll have my revenge, I’m sane enough!" Albert said furiously.

"I don’t understand you, sir. And even if I did, your tone is too aggressive. I’m at home here, and only I have the right to raise my voice. Leave this box!" Monte Cristo pointed at the door with commanding dignity.

"I’ll make you leave your own home!" Albert clutched his glove convulsively, something Monte Cristo didn’t miss.

"I see you want to fight with me," Monte Cristo said quietly. "But let me give you some advice worth remembering. Making a public spectacle of a challenge shows poor taste. Not everyone can pull it off, Monsieur de Morcerf."

At that name, a murmur of astonishment rippled through the watching crowd. Everyone had been talking about Morcerf all day.

Albert understood the reference immediately and moved to throw his glove at the Count. Morrel grabbed his hand while Beauchamp and Château-Renaud held him back, afraid the scene would go too far.

But Monte Cristo didn’t even rise. He just leaned forward slightly, reached out his arm, and took the damp, crushed glove from Albert’s clenched fist.

"Sir," he said solemnly, "I consider your glove thrown. I’ll return it to you wrapped around a bullet. Now leave, or I’ll have my servants throw you out."

Wild, barely conscious, his eyes inflamed, Albert stepped back. Morrel closed the door. Monte Cristo picked up his opera glasses again as if nothing had happened. His face was like marble, his heart like bronze.

"What did you do to him?" Morrel whispered.

"Me? Nothing, at least not personally."

"There must be some cause for that scene." ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ novel~fire~net

"The Count of Morcerf’s scandal has his son furious."

"Do you have something to do with it?"

"It was through Haydée that the Chamber learned about his father’s treason."

"Really?" Morrel said. "I’d heard rumors that the Greek girl I’ve seen with you here, in this very box, was Ali Pasha’s daughter, but I didn’t believe it."

"Then I understand everything. This scene was planned."

"Albert wrote asking me to come to the Opera. He probably wanted me as a witness to the insult he was going to give you."

"Probably," Monte Cristo said with unshakeable calm.

"But what will you do about him?"

"What will I do?" Monte Cristo took Morrel’s hand and squeezed it. His grip was cold and steady. "As surely as I’m holding your hand right now, Maximilian, I’ll kill him before ten o’clock tomorrow morning."

Morrel shuddered at how cold and certain that hand felt.

"Count," he said, "his father loves him so much!"

"Don’t talk to me about that!" It was the first flash of anger the Count had shown. "I will make him suffer."

Morrel dropped Monte Cristo’s hand in shock. "Count!"

"Dear Maximilian," the Count interrupted, "listen to how beautifully Duprez is singing that line: ’O Mathilde! Beloved of my soul!’ I was the first to discover Duprez in Naples, you know. The first to applaud him. Bravo!"

Morrel saw it was useless to argue and fell silent. The curtain, which had risen during the scene with Albert, fell again. A knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," Monte Cristo said, his voice betraying no emotion.

"Good evening, Monsieur Beauchamp," Monte Cristo said, as if seeing the journalist for the first time that evening. "Please, sit down."

Beauchamp bowed and sat. "Sir, as you saw, I just accompanied Monsieur de Morcerf."

"Which means," Monte Cristo said with a laugh, "you probably just had dinner together. I’m happy to see you’re more sober than he was, Monsieur Beauchamp."

"Sir, I admit Albert was wrong to show so much anger. I’ve come on my own account to apologize for him. And having done so, entirely on my own account, understand, I’d like to add that I believe you’re too much of a gentleman to refuse giving him some explanation about your connection to Yanina. And about the young Greek girl."

Monte Cristo gestured for silence. "So," he said, laughing, "all my carefully cultivated mystique is about to be destroyed?"

"You clearly want to make me seem like an eccentric character. I’m like Lara, Manfred, Lord Ruthven in your mind. Then, just as I’m reaching the peak of my mystique, you defeat your own purpose by trying to make me ordinary. You want to bring me down to your level and demand explanations! Really, Monsieur Beauchamp, it’s quite amusing."

"Yet there are times when honor demands-"

"Monsieur Beauchamp," this strange man interrupted, "the Count of Monte Cristo answers to no one but the Count of Monte Cristo himself. Say no more, please. I do what I please, and it’s always right."

"Sir, honest men can’t be paid off with that kind of answer. I need honorable guarantees."

"I am, sir, a living guarantee," Monte Cristo said. He remained motionless, but his look was threatening. "We both have blood in our veins that we’re willing to shed, that’s our mutual guarantee. Tell the viscount that tomorrow, before ten o’clock, I’ll see what color his blood is."

"Then I only need to arrange the details of the duel."

"It makes no difference to me. It was completely unnecessary to disturb me at the Opera for such a trivial matter. In France, people fight with swords or pistols. In the colonies, with rifles. In Arabia, with daggers. Tell your client that although I’m the insulted party, in keeping with my eccentric reputation, I’ll let him choose the weapons. I’ll accept anything without argument, even combat by drawing lots, which is always stupid. Though with me it’s different, since I’m certain to win."

"Certain to win?" Beauchamp stared at him in amazement.

"Of course," Monte Cristo said, shrugging slightly. "Otherwise I wouldn’t fight Monsieur de Morcerf. I’ll kill him, I can’t help it. Just send me a note tonight at my house with the weapons and time. I don’t like being kept waiting."

"Pistols, then. Eight o’clock in the Bois de Vincennes," Beauchamp said, completely disconcerted. He couldn’t tell if he was dealing with an arrogant braggart or something supernatural.

"Very well, sir," Monte Cristo said. "Now that’s settled, let me watch the performance. And tell your friend Albert not to come back tonight. He’ll only hurt himself with his crude behavior. Let him go home and sleep."

Beauchamp left, thoroughly amazed.

"Now," Monte Cristo said, turning to Morrel, "I can count on you, can’t I?"

"Of course. I’m at your service, Count. But-"

"I should know the real reason for this."

"Meaning you’d rather not be my second?"

"No, that’s not what I mean."

"The young man himself is acting blind. He doesn’t know the true cause, which is known only to God and me. But I give you my word, Morrel, God, who knows everything, will be on our side."

"That’s enough for me," Morrel said. "Who’s your other witness?"

"I don’t know anyone in Paris I could ask besides you and your brother Emmanuel. Do you think he’d help me?"

"Then that’s all I need. Tomorrow morning at seven, you’ll be at my house?"

"Shh, the curtain’s rising. Listen! I never miss a note of this opera if I can help it. The music of William Tell is exquisite."