“You do not wish to hear it, perhaps?”
“On the contrary, I request it.”
“Do not take any witnesses with you when you go to Beauchamp—visit him alone.”
“That would be contrary to all custom.”
“Your case is not an ordinary one.”
“And what is your reason for advising me to go alone?”
“Because then the affair will rest between you and Beauchamp.”
“Explain yourself.”
“I will do so. If Beauchamp be disposed to retract, you ought at least to give him the opportunity of doing it of his own free will,—the satisfaction to you will be the same. If, on the contrary, he refuses to do so, it will then be quite time enough to admit two strangers into your secret.”
“They will not be strangers, they will be friends.”
“Ah, but the friends of today are the enemies of tomorrow; Beauchamp, for instance.”
“So you recommend——”
“I recommend you to be prudent.”
“Then you advise me to go alone to Beauchamp?”
“I do, and I will tell you why. When you wish to obtain some concession from a man’s self-love, you must avoid even the appearance of wishing to wound it.”
“I believe you are right.”
“I am glad of it.”
“Then I will go alone.”
“Go; but you would do better still by not going at all.”
“That is impossible.”
“Do so, then; it will be a wiser plan than the first which you proposed.”
“But if, in spite of all my precautions, I am at last obliged to fight, will you not be my second?”
“My dear viscount,” said Monte Cristo gravely, “you must have seen before today that at all times and in all places I have been at your disposal, but the service which you have just demanded of me is one which it is out of my power to render you.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps you may know at some future period, and in the mean time I request you to excuse my declining to put you in possession of my reasons.”
“Well, I will have Franz and Château-Renaud; they will be the very men for it.”
“Do so, then.”
“But if I do fight, you will surely not object to giving me a lesson or two in shooting and fencing?”
“That, too, is impossible.”
“What a singular being you are!—you will not interfere in anything.”
“You are right—that is the principle on which I wish to act.”
“We will say no more about it, then. Good-bye, count.”
Morcerf took his hat, and left the room. He found his carriage at the door, and doing his utmost to restrain his anger he went at once to find Beauchamp, who was in his office. It was a gloomy, dusty-looking apartment, such as journalists’ offices have always been from time immemorial. The servant announced M. Albert de Morcerf. Beauchamp repeated the name to himself, as though he could scarcely believe that he had heard aright, and then gave orders for him to be admitted. Albert entered.
Beauchamp uttered an exclamation of surprise on seeing his friend leap over and trample under foot all the newspapers which were strewed about the room.
“This way, this way, my dear Albert!” said he, holding out his hand to the young man. “Are you out of your senses, or do you come peaceably to take breakfast with me? Try and find a seat—there is one by that geranium, which is the only thing in the room to remind me that there are other leaves in the world besides leaves of paper.”
“Beauchamp,” said Albert, “it is of your journal that I come to speak.”
“Indeed? What do you wish to say about it?”
“I desire that a statement contained in it should be rectified.”
“To what do you refer? But pray sit down.”
“Thank you,” said Albert, with a cold and formal bow.
