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    Chapter 81

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    Chapter 81
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    CHAPTER 81
    The Room of the Retired Baker.

    The evening of the day on which the Count of Morcerf had
    left Danglars' house with feelings of shame and anger at the
    rejection of the projected alliance, M. Andrea Cavalcanti,
    with curled hair, mustaches in perfect order, and white
    gloves which fitted admirably, had entered the courtyard of
    the banker's house in La Chaussee d'Antin. He had not been
    more than ten minutes in the drawing-room before he drew
    Danglars aside into the recess of a bow-window, and, after
    an ingenious preamble, related to him all his anxieties and
    cares since his noble father's departure. He acknowledged
    the extreme kindness which had been shown him by the
    banker's family, in which he had been received as a son, and
    where, besides, his warmest affections had found an object
    on which to centre in Mademoiselle Danglars. Danglars
    listened with the most profound attention; he had expected
    this declaration for the last two or three days, and when at
    last it came his eyes glistened as much as they had lowered
    on listening to Morcerf. He would not, however, yield
    immediately to the young man's request, but made a few
    conscientious objections. "Are you not rather young, M.
    Andrea, to think of marrying?"

    "I think not, sir," replied M. Cavalcanti; "in Italy the
    nobility generally marry young. Life is so uncertain, that
    we ought to secure happiness while it is within our reach."

    "Well, sir," said Danglars, "in case your proposals, which
    do me honor, are accepted by my wife and daughter, by whom
    shall the preliminary arrangements be settled? So important
    a negotiation should, I think, be conducted by the
    respective fathers of the young people."

    "Sir, my father is a man of great foresight and prudence.
    Thinking that I might wish to settle in France, he left me
    at his departure, together with the papers establishing my
    identity, a letter promising, if he approved of my choice,
    150,000 livres per annum from the day I was married. So far
    as I can judge, I suppose this to be a quarter of my
    father's revenue."

    "I," said Danglars, "have always intended giving my daughter
    500,000 francs as her dowry; she is, besides, my sole
    heiress."

    "All would then be easily arranged if the baroness and her
    daughter are willing. We should command an annuity of
    175,000 livres. Supposing, also, I should persuade the
    marquis to give me my capital, which is not likely, but
    still is possible, we would place these two or three
    millions in your hands, whose talent might make it realize
    ten per cent."

    "I never give more than four per cent, and generally only
    three and a half; but to my son-in-law I would give five,
    and we would share the profit."

    "Very good, father-in-law," said Cavalcanti, yielding to his
    low-born nature, which would escape sometimes through the
    aristocratic gloss with which he sought to conceal it.
    Correcting himself immediately, he said, "Excuse me, sir;
    hope alone makes me almost mad, -- what will not reality
    do?"

    "But," said Danglars, -- who, on his part, did not perceive
    how soon the conversation, which was at first disinterested,
    was turning to a business transaction, -- "there is,
    doubtless, a part of your fortune your father could not
    refuse you?"

    "Which?" asked the young man.

    "That you inherit from your mother."

    "Truly, from my mother, Leonora Corsinari."

    "How much may it amount to?"

    "Indeed, sir," said Andrea, "I assure you I have never given
    the subject a thought, but I suppose it must have been at
    least two millions." Danglars felt as much overcome with joy
    as the miser who finds a lost treasure, or as the
    shipwrecked mariner who feels himself on solid ground
    instead of in the abyss which he expected would swallow him
    up.

    "Well, sir," said Andrea, bowing to the banker respectfully,
    "may I hope?"

    "You may not only hope," said Danglars, "but consider it a
    settled thing, if no obstacle arises on your part."

    "I am, indeed, rejoiced," said Andrea.

    "But," said Danglars thoughtfully, "how is it that your
    patron, M. de Monte Cristo, did not make his proposal for
    you?" Andrea blushed imperceptibly. "I have just left the
    count, sir," said he; "he is, doubtless, a delightful man
    but inconceivably peculiar in his ideas. He esteems me
    highly. He even told me he had not the slightest doubt that
    my father would give me the capital instead of the interest
    of my property. He has promised to use his influence to
    obtain it for me; but he also declared that he never had
    taken on himself the responsibility of making proposals for
    another, and he never would. I must, however, do him the
    justice to add that he assured me if ever he had regretted
    the repugnance he felt to such a step it was on this
    occasion, because he thought the projected union would be a
    happy and suitable one. Besides, if he will do nothing
    officially, he will answer any questions you propose to him.
    And now," continued he, with one of his most charming
    smiles, "having finished talking to the father-in-law, I
    must address myself to the banker."

    "And what may you have to say to him?" said Danglars,
    laughing in his turn.

    "That the day after to-morrow I shall have to draw upon you
    for about four thousand francs; but the count, expecting my
    bachelor's revenue could not suffice for the coming month's
    outlay, has offered me a draft for twenty thousand francs.
    It bears his signature, as you see, which is
    all-sufficient."

    "Bring me a million such as that," said Danglars, "I shall
    be well pleased," putting the draft in his pocket. "Fix your
    own hour for to-morrow, and my cashier shall call on you
    with a check for eighty thousand francs."

    "At ten o'clock then, if you please; I should like it early,
    as I am going into the country to-morrow."

    "Very well, at ten o'clock;, you are still at the Hotel des
    Princes?"

    "Yes."

    The following morning, with the banker's usual punctuality,
    the eighty thousand francs were placed in the young man's
    hands as he was on the point of starting, after having left
    two hundred francs for Caderousse. He went out chiefly to
    avoid this dangerous enemy, and returned as late as possible
    in the evening. But scarcely had be stepped out of his
    carriage when the porter met him with a parcel in his hand.
    "Sir," said he, "that man has been here."

    "What man?" said Andrea carelessly, apparently forgetting
    him whom he but too well recollected.

    "Him to whom your excellency pays that little annuity."

    "Oh," said Andrea, "my father's old servant. Well, you gave
    him the two hundred francs I had left for him?"

    "Yes, your excellency." Andrea had expressed a wish to be
    thus addressed. "But," continued the porter, "he would not
    take them." Andrea turned pale, but as it was dark his
    pallor was not perceptible. "What? he would not take them?"
    said he with slight emotion.

    "No, he wished to speak to your excellency; I told him you
    were gone out, and after some dispute he believed me and
    gave me this letter, which he had brought with him already
    sealed."

    "Give it me," said Andrea, and he read by the light of his
    carriage-lamp, -- "You know where I live; I expect you
    tomorrow morning at nine o'clock."

    Andrea examined it carefully, to ascertain if the letter had
    been opened, or if any indiscreet eyes had seen its
    contents; but it was so carefully folded, that no one could
    have read it, and the seal was perfect. "Very well," said
    he. "Poor man, he is a worthy creature." He left the porter
    to ponder on these words, not knowing which most to admire,
    the master or the servant. "Take out the horses quickly, and
    come up to me," said Andrea to his groom. In two seconds the
    young man had reached his room and burnt Caderousse's
    letter. The servant entered just as he had finished. "You
    are about my height, Pierre," said he.

    "I have that honor, your excellency."

    "You had a new livery yesterday?"

    "Yes, sir."

    "I have an engagement with a pretty little girl for this
    evening, and do not wish to be known; lend me your livery
    till to-morrow. I may sleep, perhaps, at an inn." Pierre
    obeyed. Five minutes after, Andrea left the hotel,
    completely disguised, took a cabriolet, and ordered the
    driver to take him to the Cheval Rouge, at Picpus. The next
    morning he left that inn as he had left the Hotel des
    Princes, without being noticed, walked down the Faubourg St.
    Antoine, along the boulevard to Rue Menilmontant, and
    stopping at the door of the third house on the left looked
    for some one of whom to make inquiry in the porter's
    absence. "For whom are you looking, my fine fellow?" asked
    the fruiteress on the opposite side.

    "Monsieur Pailletin, if you please, my good woman," replied
    Andrea.

    "A retired baker?" asked the fruiteress.

    "Exactly."

    "He lives at the end of the yard, on the left, on the third
    story." Andrea went as she directed him, and on the third
    floor he found a hare's paw, which, by the hasty ringing of
    the bell, it was evident he pulled with considerable
    ill-temper. A moment after Caderousse's face appeared at the
    grating in the door. "Ah, you are punctual," said he, as he
    drew back the door.

    "Confound you and your punctuality!" said Andrea, throwing
    himself into a chair in a manner which implied that he would
    rather have flung it at the head of his host.

    "Come, come, my little fellow, don't be angry. See, I have
    thought about you -- look at the good breakfast we are going
    to have; nothing but what you are fond of." Andrea, indeed,
    inhaled the scent of something cooking which was not
    unwelcome to him, hungry as he was; it was that mixture of
    fat and garlic peculiar to provincial kitchens of an
    inferior order, added to that of dried fish, and above all,
    the pungent smell of musk and cloves. These odors escaped
    from two deep dishes which were covered and placed on a
    stove, and from a copper pan placed in an old iron pot. In
    an adjoining room Andrea saw also a tolerably clean table
    prepared for two, two bottles of wine sealed, the one with
    green, the other with yellow, a supply of brandy in a
    decanter, and a measure of fruit in a cabbage-leaf, cleverly
    arranged on an earthenware plate.

    "What do you think of it, my little fellow?" said
    Caderousse. "Ay, that smells good! You know I used to be a
    famous cook; do you recollect how you used to lick your
    fingers? You were among the first who tasted any of my
    dishes, and I think you relished them tolerably." While
    speaking, Caderousse went on peeling a fresh supply of
    onions.

    "But," said Andrea, ill-temperedly, "by my faith, if it was
    only to breakfast with you, that you disturbed me, I wish
    the devil had taken you!"

    "My boy," said Caderousse sententiously, "one can talk while
    eating. And then, you ungrateful being, you are not pleased
    to see an old friend? I am weeping with joy." He was truly
    crying, but it would have been difficult to say whether joy
    or the onions produced the greatest effect on the lachrymal
    glands of the old inn-keeper of the Pont-du-Gard. "Hold your
    tongue, hypocrite," said Andrea; "you love me!"

    "Yes, I do, or may the devil take me. I know it is a
    weakness," said Caderousse, "but it overpowers me."

    "And yet it has not prevented your sending for me to play me
    some trick."

    "Come," said Caderousse, wiping his large knife on his
    apron, "if I did not like you, do you think I should endure
    the wretched life you lead me? Think for a moment. You have
    your servant's clothes on -- you therefore keep a servant; I
    have none, and am obliged to prepare my own meals. You abuse
    my cookery because you dine at the table d'hote of the Hotel
    des Princes, or the Cafe de Paris. Well, I too could keep a
    servant; I too could have a tilbury; I too could dine where
    I like; but why do I not? Because I would not annoy my
    little Benedetto. Come, just acknowledge that I could, eh?"
    This address was accompanied by a look which was by no means
    difficult to understand. "Well," said Andrea, "admitting
    your love, why do you want me to breakfast with you?"

    "That I may have the pleasure of seeing you, my little
    fellow."

    "What is the use of seeing me after we have made all our
    arrangements?"

    "Eh, dear friend," said Caderousse, "are wills ever made
    without codicils? But you first came to breakfast, did you
    not? Well, sit down, and let us begin with these pilchards,
    and this fresh butter; which I have put on some vine-leaves
    to please you, wicked one. Ah, yes; you look at my room, my
    four straw chairs, my images, three francs each. But what do
    you expect? This is not the Hotel des Princes."

    "Come, you are growing discontented, you are no longer
    happy; you, who only wish to live like a retired baker."
    Caderousse sighed. "Well, what have you to say? you have
    seen your dream realized."

    "I can still say it is a dream; a retired baker, my poor
    Benedetto, is rich -- he has an annuity."

    "Well, you have an annuity."

    "I have?"

    "Yes, since I bring you your two hundred francs." Caderousse
    shrugged his shoulders. "It is humiliating," said he, "thus
    to receive money given grudgingly, ---an uncertain supply
    which may soon fail. You see I am obliged to economize, in
    case your prosperity should cease. Well, my friend, fortune
    is inconstant, as the chaplain of the regiment said. I know
    your prosperity is great, you rascal; you are to marry the
    daughter of Danglars."

    "What? of Danglars?"

    "Yes, to be sure; must I say Baron Danglars? I might as well
    say Count Benedetto. He was an old friend of mine and if he
    had not so bad a memory he ought to invite me to your
    wedding, seeing he came to mine. Yes, yes, to mine; gad, he
    was not so proud then, -- he was an under-clerk to the good
    M. Morrel. I have dined many times with him and the Count of
    Morcerf, so you see I have some high connections and were I
    to cultivate them a little, we might meet in the same
    drawing-rooms."

    "Come, your jealousy represents everything to you in the
    wrong light."

    "That is all very fine, Benedetto mio, but I know what I am
    saying. Perhaps I may one day put on my best coat, and
    presenting myself at the great gate, introduce myself.
    Meanwhile let us sit down and eat." Caderousse set the
    example and attacked the breakfast with good appetite,
    praising each dish he set before his visitor. The latter
    seemed to have resigned himself; he drew the corks, and
    partook largely of the fish with the garlic and fat. "Ah,
    mate," said Caderousse, "you are getting on better terms
    with your old landlord!"

    "Faith, yes," replied Andrea, whose hunger prevailed over
    every other feeling.

    "So you like it, you rogue?"

    "So much that I wonder how a man who can cook thus can
    complain of hard living."

    "Do you see," said Caderousse, "all my happiness is marred
    by one thought?"

    "What is that?"

    "That I am dependent on another, I who have always gained my
    own livelihood honestly."

    "Do not let that disturb you, I have enough for two."

    "No, truly; you may believe me if you will; at the end of
    every month I am tormented by remorse."

    "Good Caderousse!"

    "So much so, that yesterday I would not take the two hundred
    francs."

    "Yes, you wished to speak to me; but was it indeed remorse,
    tell me?"

    "True remorse; and, besides, an idea had struck me." Andrea
    shuddered; he always did so at Caderousse's ideas. "It is
    miserable -- do you see? -- always to wait till the end of
    the month. -- "Oh," said Andrea philosophically, determined
    to watch his companion narrowly, "does not life pass in
    waiting? Do I, for instance, fare better? Well, I wait
    patiently, do I not?"

    "Yes; because instead of expecting two hundred wretched
    francs, you expect five or six thousand, perhaps ten,
    perhaps even twelve, for you take care not to let any one
    know the utmost. Down there, you always had little presents
    and Christmas-boxes which you tried to hide from your poor
    friend Caderousse. Fortunately he is a cunning fellow, that
    friend Caderousse."

    "There you are beginning again to ramble, to talk again and
    again of the past! But what is the use of teasing me with
    going all over that again?"

    "Ah, you are only one and twenty, and can forget the past; I
    am fifty, and am obliged to recollect it. But let us return
    to business."

    "Yes."

    "I was going to say, if I were in your place" --

    "Well."

    "I would realize" --

    "How would you realize?"

    "I would ask for six months' in advance, under pretence of
    being able to purchase a farm, then with my six months I
    would decamp."

    "Well, well," said Andrea, "that isn't a bad idea."

    "My dear friend," said Caderousse, "eat of my bread, and
    take my advice; you will be none the worse off, physically
    or morally."

    "But," said Andrea, "why do you not act on the advice you
    gave me? Why do you not realize a six months', a year's
    advance even, and retire to Brussels? Instead of living the
    retired baker, you might live as a bankrupt, using his
    privileges; that would be very good."

    "But how the devil would you have me retire on twelve
    hundred francs?"

    "Ah, Caderousse," said Andrea, "how covetous you are! Two
    months ago you were dying with hunger."

    "The appetite grows by what it feeds on," said Caderousse,
    grinning and showing his teeth, like a monkey laughing or a
    tiger growling. "And," added he, biting off with his large
    white teeth an enormous mouthful of bread, "I have formed a
    plan." Caderousse's plans alarmed Andrea still more than his
    ideas; ideas were but the germ, the plan was reality. "Let
    me see your plan; I dare say it is a pretty one."

    "Why not? Who formed the plan by which we left the
    establishment of M ---- ! eh? was it not I? and it was no
    bad one I believe, since here we are!"

    "I do not say," replied Andrea, "that you never make a good
    one; but let us see your plan."

    "Well," pursued Caderousse, "can you without expending one
    sou, put me in the way of getting fifteen thousand francs?
    No, fifteen thousand are not enough, -- I cannot again
    become an honest man with less than thirty thousand francs."

    "No," replied Andrea, dryly, "no, I cannot."

    "I do not think you understand me," replied Caderousse,
    calmly; "I said without your laying out a sou."

    "Do you want me to commit a robbery, to spoil all my good
    fortune -- and yours with mine -- and both of us to be
    dragged down there again?"

    "It would make very little difference to me," said
    Caderousse, "if I were retaken, I am a poor creature to live
    alone, and sometimes pine for my old comrades; not like you,
    heartless creature, who would be glad never to see them
    again." Andrea did more than tremble this time, he turned
    pale.

    "Come, Caderousse, no nonsense!" said he.

    "Don't alarm yourself, my little Benedetto, but just point
    out to me some means of gaining those thirty thousand francs
    without your assistance, and I will contrive it."

    "Well, I'll see -- I'll try to contrive some way," said
    Andrea.

    "Meanwhile you will raise my monthly allowance to five
    hundred francs, my little fellow? I have a fancy, and mean
    to get a housekeeper."

    "Well, you shall have your five hundred francs," said
    Andrea; "but it is very hard for me, my poor Caderousse --
    you take advantage" --

    "Bah," said Caderousse, "when you have access to countless
    stores." One would have said Andrea anticipated his
    companion's words, so did his eye flash like lightning, but
    it was but for a moment. "True," he replied, "and my
    protector is very kind."

    "That dear protector," said Caderousse; "and how much does
    he give you monthly?"

    "Five thousand francs."

    "As many thousands as you give me hundreds! Truly, it is
    only bastards who are thus fortunate. Five thousand francs
    per month! What the devil can you do with all that?"

    "Oh, it is no trouble to spend that; and I am like you, I
    want capital."

    "Capital? -- yes -- I understand -- every one would like
    capital."

    "Well, and I shall get it."

    "Who will give it to you -- your prince?"

    "Yes, my prince. But unfortunately I must wait."

    "You must wait for what?" asked Caderousse.

    "For his death "

    "The death of your prince?"

    "Yes."

    "How so?"

    "Because he has made his will in my favor."

    "Indeed?"

    "On my honor."

    "For how much?"

    "For five hundred thousand."

    "Only that? It's little enough "

    "But so it is."

    "No it cannot be!"

    "Are you my friend, Caderousse?"

    "Yes, in life or death."

    "Well, I will tell you a secret."

    "What is it?"

    "But remember" --

    "Ah, pardieu, mute as a carp."

    "Well, I think" -- Andrea stopped and looked around.

    "You think? Do not fear; pardieu, we are alone."

    "I think I have discovered my father."

    "Your true father?"

    "Yes."

    "Not old Cavalcanti?"

    "No, for he has gone again; the true one, as you say."

    "And that father is" --

    "Well, Caderousse, it is Monte Cristo."

    "Bah!"

    "Yes, you understand, that explains all. He cannot
    acknowledge me openly, it appears, but he does it through M.
    Cavalcanti, and gives him fifty thousand francs for it."

    "Fifty thousand francs for being your father? I would have
    done it for half that, for twenty thousand, for fifteen
    thousand; why did you not think of me, ungrateful man?"

    "Did I know anything about it, when it was all done when I
    was down there?"

    "Ah, truly? And you say that by his will" --

    "He leaves me five hundred thousand livres."

    "Are you sure of it?"

    "He showed it me; but that is not all -- there is a codicil,
    as I said just now."

    "Probably."

    "And in that codicil he acknowledges me."

    "Oh, the good father, the brave father, the very honest
    father!" said Caderousse, twirling a plate in the air
    between his two hands.

    "Now say if I conceal anything from you?"

    "No, and your confidence makes you honorable in my opinion;
    and your princely father, is he rich, very rich?"

    "Yes, he is that; he does not himself know the amount of his
    fortune."

    "Is it possible?"

    "It is evident enough to me, who am always at his house. The
    other day a banker's clerk brought him fifty thousand francs
    in a portfolio about the size of your plate; yesterday his
    banker brought him a hundred thousand francs in gold."
    Caderousse was filled with wonder; the young man's words
    sounded to him like metal, and he thought he could hear the
    rushing of cascades of louis. "And you go into that house?"
    cried he briskly.

    "When I like."

    Caderousse was thoughtful for a moment. It was easy to
    perceive he was revolving some unfortunate idea in his mind.
    Then suddenly, -- "How I should like to see all that," cried
    he; "how beautiful it must be!"

    "It is, in fact, magnificent," said Andrea.

    "And does he not live in the Champs-Elysees?"

    "Yes, No. 30."

    "Ah," said Caderousse, "No. 30."

    "Yes, a fine house standing alone, between a court-yard and
    a garden, -- you must know it."

    "Possibly; but it is not the exterior I care for, it is the
    interior. What beautiful furniture there must be in it!"

    "Have you ever seen the Tuileries?"

    "No."

    "Well, it surpasses that."

    "It must be worth one's while to stoop, Andrea, when that
    good M. Monte Cristo lets fall his purse."

    "It is not worth while to wait for that," said Andrea;
    "money is as plentiful in that house as fruit in an
    orchard."

    "But you should take me there one day with you."

    "How can I? On what plea?"

    "You are right; but you have made my mouth water. I must
    absolutely see it; I shall find a way."

    "No nonsense, Caderousse!"

    "I will offer myself as floor-polisher."

    "The rooms are all carpeted."

    "Well, then, I must be contented to imagine it."

    "That is the best plan, believe me."

    "Try, at least, to give me an idea of what it is."

    "How can I?"

    "Nothing is easier. Is it large?"

    "Middling."

    "How is it arranged?"

    "Faith, I should require pen, ink, and paper to make a
    plan."

    "They are all here," said Caderousse, briskly. He fetched
    from an old secretary a sheet of white paper and pen and
    ink. "Here," said Caderousse, "draw me all that on the
    paper, my boy." Andrea took the pen with an imperceptible
    smile and began. "The house, as I said, is between the court
    and the garden; in this way, do you see?" Andrea drew the
    garden, the court and the house.

    "High walls?"

    "Not more than eight or ten feet."

    "That is not prudent," said Caderousse.

    "In the court are orange-trees in pots, turf, and clumps of
    flowers."

    "And no steel-traps?"

    "No."

    "The stables?"

    "Are on either side of the gate, which you see there." And
    Andrea continued his plan.

    "Let us see the ground floor," said Caderousse.

    "On the ground-floor, dining-room, two drawing-rooms,
    billiard-room, staircase in the hall, and a little back
    staircase."

    "Windows?"

    "Magnificent windows, so beautiful, so large, that I believe
    a man of your size should pass through each frame."

    "Why the devil have they any stairs with such windows?"

    "Luxury has everything."

    "But shutters?"

    "Yes, but they are never used. That Count of Monte Cristo is
    an original, who loves to look at the sky even at night."

    "And where do the servants sleep?"

    "Oh, they have a house to themselves. Picture to yourself a
    pretty coach-house at the right-hand side where the ladders
    are kept. Well, over that coach-house are the servants'
    rooms, with bells corresponding with the different
    apartments."

    "Ah, diable -- bells did you say?"

    "What do you mean?"

    "Oh. nothing! I only say they cost a load of money to hang,
    and what is the use of them, I should like to know?"

    "There used to be a dog let loose in the yard at night, but
    it has been taken to the house at Auteuil, to that you went
    to, you know."

    "Yes."

    "I was saying to him only yesterday, 'You are imprudent,
    Monsieur Count; for when you go to Auteuil and take your
    servants the house is left unprotected.' Well,' said he,
    'what next?' 'Well, next, some day you will be robbed.'"

    "What did he answer?"

    "He quietly said, 'What do I care if I am?'"

    "Andrea, he has some secretary with a spring."

    "How do you know?"

    "Yes, which catches the thief in a trap and plays a tune. I
    was told there were such at the last exhibition."

    "He has simply a mahogany secretary, in which the key is
    always kept."

    "And he is not robbed?"

    "No; his servants are all devoted to him."

    "There ought to be some money in that secretary?"

    "There may be. No one knows what there is."

    "And where is it?"

    "On the first floor."

    "Sketch me the plan of that floor, as you have done of the
    ground floor, my boy."

    "That is very simple." Andrea took the pen. "On the first
    story, do you see, there is the anteroom and the
    drawing-room; to the right of the drawing-room, a library
    and a study; to the left, a bedroom and a dressing-room. The
    famous secretary is in the dressing-room."

    "Is there a window in the dressing-room?"

    "Two, -- one here and one there." Andrea sketched two
    windows in the room, which formed an angle on the plan, and
    appeared as a small square added to the rectangle of the
    bedroom. Caderousse became thoughtful. "Does he often go to
    Auteuil?" added he.

    "Two or three times a week. To-morrow, for instance, he is
    going to spend the day and night there."

    "Are you sure of it?"

    "He has invited me to dine there."

    "There's a life for you," said Caderousse; "a town house and
    a country house."

    "That is what it is to be rich."

    "And shall you dine there?"

    "Probably."

    "When you dine there, do you sleep there?"

    "If I like; I am at home there." Caderousse looked at the
    young man, as if to get at the truth from the bottom of his
    heart. But Andrea drew a cigar-case from his pocket, took a
    havana, quietly lit it, and began smoking. "When do you want
    your twelve hundred francs?" said he to Caderousse.

    "Now, if you have them." Andrea took five and twenty louis
    from his pocket.

    "Yellow boys?" said Caderousse; "no, I thank you."

    "Oh, you despise them."

    "On the contrary, I esteem them, but will not have them."

    "You can change them, idiot; gold is worth five sous."

    "Exactly; and he who changes them will follow friend
    Caderousse, lay hands on him, and demand what farmers pay
    him their rent in gold. No nonsense, my good fellow; silver
    simply, round coins with the head of some monarch or other
    on them. Anybody may possess a five-franc piece."

    "But do you suppose I carry five hundred francs about with
    me? I should want a porter."

    "Well, leave them with your porter; he is to be trusted. I
    will call for them."

    "To-day?"

    "No, to-morrow; I shall not have time to day."

    "Well, to-morrow I will leave them when I go to Auteuil."

    "May I depend on it?"

    "Certainly."

    "Because I shall secure my housekeeper on the strength of
    it."

    "Now see here, will that be all? Eh? And will you not
    torment me any more?"

    "Never." Caderousse had become so gloomy that Andrea feared
    he should be obliged to notice the change. He redoubled his
    gayety and carelessness. "How sprightly you are," said
    Caderousse; "One would say you were already in possession of
    your property."

    "No, unfortunately; but when I do obtain it" --

    "Well?"

    "I shall remember old friends, I can tell you that."

    "Yes, since you have such a good memory."

    "What do you want? It looks as if you were trying to fleece
    me?"

    "I? What an idea! I, who am going to give you another piece
    of good advice."

    "What is it?"

    "To leave behind you the diamond you have on your finger. We
    shall both get into trouble. You will ruin both yourself and
    me by your folly."

    "How so?" said Andrea.

    "How? You put on a livery, you disguise yourself as a
    servant, and yet keep a diamond on your finger worth four or
    five thousand francs."

    "You guess well."

    "I know something of diamonds; I have had some."

    "You do well to boast of it," said Andrea, who, without
    becoming angry, as Caderousse feared, at this new extortion,
    quietly resigned the ring. Caderousse looked so closely at
    it that Andrea well knew that he was examining to see if all
    the edges were perfect.

    "It is a false diamond," said Caderousse.

    "You are joking now," replied Andrea.

    "Do not be angry, we can try it." Caderousse went to the
    window, touched the glass with it, and found it would cut.

    "Confiteor," said Caderousse, putting the diamond on his
    little finger; "I was mistaken; but those thieves of
    jewellers imitate so well that it is no longer worth while
    to rob a jeweller's shop -- it is another branch of industry
    paralyzed."

    "Have you finished?" said Andrea, -- "do you want anything
    more? -- will you have my waistcoat or my hat? Make free,
    now you have begun."

    "No; you are, after all, a good companion; I will not detain
    you, and will try to cure myself of my ambition."

    "But take care the same thing does not happen to you in
    selling the diamond you feared with the gold."

    "I shall not sell it -- do not fear."

    "Not at least till the day after to-morrow," thought the
    young man.

    "Happy rogue," said Caderousse; "you are going to find your
    servants, your horses, your carriage, and your betrothed!"

    "Yes," said Andrea.

    "Well, I hope you will make a handsome wedding-present the
    day you marry Mademoiselle Danglars."

    "I have already told you it is a fancy you have taken in
    your head."

    "What fortune has she?"

    "But I tell you" --

    "A million?" Andrea shrugged his shoulders.

    "Let it be a million," said Caderousse; "you can never have
    so much as I wish you."

    "Thank you," said the young man.

    "Oh, I wish it you with all my heart!" added Caderousse with
    his hoarse laugh. "Stop, let me show you the way."

    "It is not worth while."

    "Yes, it is."

    "Why?"

    "Because there is a little secret, a precaution I thought it
    desirable to take, one of Huret & Fitchet's locks, revised
    and improved by Gaspard Caderousse; I will manufacture you a
    similar one when you are a capitalist."

    "Thank you," said Andrea; "I will let you know a week
    beforehand." They parted. Caderousse remained on the landing
    until he had not only seen Andrea go down the three stories,
    but also cross the court. Then he returned hastily, shut his
    door carefully, and began to study, like a clever architect,
    the plan Andrea had left him.

    "Dear Benedetto," said he, "I think he will not be sorry to
    inherit his fortune, and he who hastens the day when he can
    touch his five hundred thousand will not be his worst
    friend."
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