“I will come again at that time,” replied the visitor, who then retired.
At the appointed hour the same man returned in the same carriage, which, instead of stopping this time at the end of the Rue Ferou, drove up to the green door. He knocked, and it opened immediately to admit him. From the signs of respect the valet paid him, he saw that his note had produced a good effect. “Is the abbe at home?” asked he.
“Yes; he is at work in his library, but he expects you, sir,” replied the valet. The stranger ascended a rough staircase, and before a table, illumined by a lamp whose light was concentrated by a large shade while the rest of the apartment was in partial darkness, he perceived the abbe in a monk’s dress, with a cowl on his head such as was used by learned men of the Middle Ages. “Have I the honor of addressing the Abbe Busoni?” asked the visitor.
“Yes, sir,” replied the abbe; “and you are the person whom M. de Boville, formerly an inspector of prisons, sends to me from the prefect of police?”
“Exactly, sir.”
“One of the agents appointed to secure the safety of Paris?”
“Yes, sir”” replied the stranger with a slight hesitation, and blushing.
The abbe replaced the large spectacles, which covered not only his eyes but his temples, and sitting down motioned to his visitor to do the same. “I am at your service, sir,” said the abbe, with a marked Italian accent.
“The mission with which I am charged, sir,” replied the visitor, speaking with hesitation, “is a confidential one on the part of him who fulfils it, and him by whom he is employed.” The abbe bowed. “Your probity,” replied the stranger, “is so well known to the prefect that he wishes as a magistrate to ascertain from you some particulars connected with the public safety, to ascertain which I am deputed to see you. It is hoped that no ties of friendship or humane consideration will induce you to conceal the truth.”
“Provided, sir, the particulars you wish for do not interfere with my scruples or my conscience. I am a priest, sir, and the secrets of confession, for instance, must remain between me and God, and not between me and human justice.”
“Do not alarm yourself, monsieur, we will duly respect your conscience.”
At this moment the abbe pressed down his side of the shade and so raised it on the other, throwing a bright light on the stranger’s face, while his own remained obscured. “Excuse me, abbe,” said the envoy of the prefect of the police, “but the light tries my eyes very much.” The abbe lowered the shade. “Now, sir, I am listening — go on.”
“I will come at once to the point. Do you know the Count of Monte Cristo?”
“You mean Monsieur Zaccone, I presume?”
“Zaccone? — is not his name Monte Cristo?”
“Monte Cristo is the name of an estate, or, rather, of a rock, and not a family name.”
“Well, be it so — let us not dispute about words; and since M. de Monte Cristo and M. Zaccone are the same” —
“Absolutely the same.”
“Let us speak of M. Zaccone.”
“Agreed.”
“I asked you if you knew him?”
“Extremely well.”
“Who is he?”
“The son of a rich shipbuilder in Malta.”
“I know that is the report; but, as you are aware, the police does not content itself with vague reports.”
“However,” replied the abbe, with an affable smile, “when that report is in accordance with the truth, everybody must believe it, the police as well as all the rest.”
“Are you sure of what you assert?”
“What do you mean by that question?”
“Understand, sir, I do not in the least suspect your veracity; I ask if you are certain of it?”
“I knew his father, M. Zaccone.”
“Ah, indeed?”
“And when a child I often played with the son in the timber-yards.”
“But whence does he derive the title of count?”
“You are aware that may be bought.”
“In Italy?”
“Everywhere.”
“And his immense riches, whence does he procure them?”
“They may not be so very great.”