“Which of you gentlemen,” asked the magistrate, without replying to the count, “answers to the name of Andrea Cavalcanti?” A cry of astonishment was heard from all parts of the room. They searched; they questioned. “But who then is Andrea Cavalcanti?” asked Danglars in amazement.
“A galley-slave, escaped from confinement at Toulon.”
“And what crime has he committed?”
“He is accused,” said the commissary with his inflexible voice, “of having assassinated the man named Caderousse, his former companion in prison, at the moment he was making his escape from the house of the Count of Monte Cristo.” Monte Cristo cast a rapid glance around him. Andrea was gone.
Chapter 97
* * *
The Departure For Belgium.
A few minutes after the scene of confusion produced in the salons of M. Danglars by the unexpected appearance of the brigade of soldiers, and by the disclosure which had followed, the mansion was deserted with as much rapidity as if a case of plague or of cholera morbus had broken out among the guests. In a few minutes, through all the doors, down all the staircases, by every exit, every one hastened to retire, or rather to fly; for it was a situation where the ordinary condolences, — which even the best friends are so eager to offer in great catastrophes, — were seen to be utterly futile. There remained in the banker’s house only Danglars, closeted in his study, and making his statement to the officer of gendarmes; Madame Danglars, terrified, in the boudoir with which we are acquainted; and Eugenie, who with haughty air and disdainful lip had retired to her room with her inseparable companion, Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly. As for the numerous servants (more numerous that evening than usual, for their number was augmented by cooks and butlers from the Cafe de Paris), venting on their employers their anger at what they termed the insult to which they had been subjected, they collected in groups in the hall, in the kitchens, or in their rooms, thinking very little of their duty, which was thus naturally interrupted. Of all this household, only two persons deserve our notice; these are Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars and Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly.
The betrothed had retired, as we said, with haughty air, disdainful lip, and the demeanor of an outraged queen, followed by her companion, who was paler and more disturbed than herself. On reaching her room Eugenie locked her door, while Louise fell on a chair. “Ah, what a dreadful thing,” said the young musician; “who would have suspected it? M. Andrea Cavalcanti a murderer — a galley-slave escaped — a convict!” An ironical smile curled the lip of Eugenie. “In truth I was fated,” said she. “I escaped the Morcerf only to fall into the Cavalcanti.”
“Oh, do not confound the two, Eugenie.”
“Hold your tongue! The men are all infamous, and I am happy to be able now to do more than detest them — I despise them.”
“What shall we do?” asked Louise.
“What shall we do?”
“Yes.”
“Why, the same we had intended doing three days since — set off.”
“What? — although you are not now going to be married, you intend still” —
“Listen, Louise. I hate this life of the fashionable world, always ordered, measured, ruled, like our music-paper. What I have always wished for, desired, and coveted, is the life of an artist, free and independent, relying only on my own resources, and accountable only to myself. Remain here? What for? — that they may try, a month hence, to marry me again; and to whom? — M. Debray, perhaps, as it was once proposed. No, Louise, no! This evening’s adventure will serve for my excuse. I did not seek one, I did not ask for one. God sends me this, and I hail it joyfully!”
“How strong and courageous you are!” said the fair, frail girl to her brunette companion.
“Did you not yet know me? Come, Louise, let us talk of our affairs. The post-chaise” —
“Was happily bought three days since.”
“Have you had it sent where we are to go for it?”
“Yes.”
“Our passport?”
“Here it is.”
And Eugenie, with her usual precision, opened a printed paper, and read, —