Chapter 82 - Page 2

from a minor danger
in order to expose him to a greater. He was on the point of
sending the letter to the commissary of police,
notwithstanding the advice of his anonymous friend, or
perhaps because of that advice, when suddenly the idea
occurred to him that it might be some personal enemy, whom
he alone should recognize and over whom, if such were the
case, he alone would gain any advantage, as Fiesco* had done
over the Moor who would have killed him. We know the Count's
vigorous and daring mind, denying anything to be impossible,
with that energy which marks the great man. From his past
life, from his resolution to shrink from nothing, the count
had acquired an inconceivable relish for the contests in
which he had engaged, sometimes against nature, that is to
say, against God, and sometimes against the world, that is,
against the devil.

* The Genoese conspirator.

"They do not want my papers," said Monte Cristo, "they want
to kill me; they are no robbers, but assassins. I will not
allow the prefect of police to interfere with my private
affairs. I am rich enough, forsooth, to distribute his
authority on this occasion." The count recalled Baptistin,
who had left the room after delivering the letter. "Return
to Paris," said he; "assemble the servants who remain there.
I want all my household at Auteuil."

"But will no one remain in the house, my lord?" asked
Baptistin.

"Yes, the porter."

"My lord will remember that the lodge is at a distance from
the house."

"Well?"

"The house might be stripped without his hearing the least
noise."

"By whom?"

"By thieves."

"You are a fool, M. Baptistin. Thieves might strip the house
-- it would annoy me less than to be disobeyed." Baptistin
bowed.

"You understand me?" said the count. "Bring your comrades
here, one and all; but let everything remain as usual, only
close the shutters of the ground floor."

"And those of the second floor?"

"You know they are never closed. Go!"

The count signified his intention of dining alone, and that
no one but Ali should attend him. Having dined with his
usual tranquillity and moderation, the count, making a
signal to Ali to follow him, went out by the side-gate and
on reaching the Bois de Boulogne turned, apparently without
design towards Paris and at twilight; found himself opposite
his house in the Champs-Elysees. All was dark; one solitary,
feeble light was burning in the porter's lodge, about forty
paces distant from the house, as Baptistin had said. Monte
Cristo leaned against a tree, and with that scrutinizing
glance which was so rarely deceived, looked up and down the
avenue, examined the