“Only five poor little louis d’or, and I gave you one for writing that letter.”
“That letter is what I wish to know about,” rejoined Barbera.
Villefort then told how the initials “V. D. C.” were found cut into the table, and how it had occurred to both the Count and himself that the supposed Englishman was in reality a Corsican.
“The Count wished me to find out whether the Lieutenant had a middle name. When I came to you and asked you to write the letter, my idea was to have the Englishman drugged, then send for the Count, and let him settle the matter in his own way. On my way to the English frigate, it occurred to me that I was getting too deeply compromised, with no promise of reward, and, especially, nothing in advance. You see, I asked the hotel keeper who had last occupied the room, and found it was the Englishman; then I asked you to write the letter, and, besides, whoever I met at the vessel would surely remember me. I knew the Count wouldn’t give his life to save mine and I didn’t propose to give mine for nothing. So I managed the affair in another way, found out all that I wished to know, and that’s why I told you to destroy the letter.”
“Well!” cried Barbera, “I wouldn’t have done that job under twenty-five louis!”
“I got five and had to pay you one out of it, and that’s why I’m through with Count Mont d’Oro. I can stand anything in a man but meanness. I’ll make him pay dearly for that louis d’or—damn me if I don’t.”
After Villefort left the cabaret his copious draughts of wine began to take effect.
“How shall I get even with him? By St. Christopher! I have it. He will tell Pascal Batistelli and the old vendetta will be revived. There is one man in Corsica who is bound to put down the vendetta. They call him Cromillian, the moral bandit. I will go and see him. There’ll be no money in it, but revenge is sweet, and Count Mont d’Oro and his friend Pascal will find themselves deprived of their victim.”
As the anniversary of her birthday approached, Vivienne spent the greater part of her time with her old nurse, Clarine. Rendered motherless, as she had been when only a few days old, Clarine had been both nurse and mother to her, and it was only natural that she should pour into the ear of her only confidante those troubles and secrets which a young girl usually makes known to her mother alone.
One morning she sat talking to Clarine, the coming birthday party being the subject under consideration. As was his habit of late, Old Manassa was apparently asleep in his arm-chair, but still half conscious of what was going on. The conversation between Vivienne and her old nurse was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Pascal, who, paying no attention to the other occupants of the room, approached Vivienne and asked, abruptly: