Chapter Chapter 99 · The Departure for Belgium

A few minutes after the scene of confusion produced in the salons of M.

Danglars by the unexpected appearance of the brigade of soldiers, and

by the disclosure which had followed, the mansion was deserted with as

much rapidity as if a case of plague or of cholera morbus had broken

out among the guests.

In a few minutes, through all the doors, down all the staircases, by

every exit, everyone hastened to retire, or rather to fly; for it was a

situation where the ordinary condolences,—which even the best friends

are so eager to offer in great catastrophes,—were seen to be utterly

futile. There remained in the banker’s house only Danglars, closeted in

his study, and making his statement to the officer of gendarmes; Madame

Danglars, terrified, in the boudoir with which we are acquainted; and

Eugénie, who with haughty air and disdainful lip had retired to her

room with her inseparable companion, Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly.

As for the numerous servants (more numerous that evening than usual,

for their number was augmented by cooks and butlers from the Café de

Paris), venting on their employers their anger at what they termed the

insult to which they had been subjected, they collected in groups in

the hall, in the kitchens, or in their rooms, thinking very little of

their duty, which was thus naturally interrupted. Of all this

household, only two persons deserve our notice; these are Mademoiselle

Eugénie Danglars and Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly.

The betrothed had retired, as we said, with haughty air, disdainful

lip, and the demeanor of an outraged queen, followed by her companion,

who was paler and more disturbed than herself. On reaching her room

Eugénie locked her door, while Louise fell on a chair.

“Ah, what a dreadful thing,” said the young musician; “who would have

suspected it? M. Andrea Cavalcanti a murderer—a galley-slave escaped—a

convict!”

An ironical smile curled the lip of Eugénie. “In truth, I was fated,”

said she. “I escaped the Morcerf only to fall into the Cavalcanti.”

“Oh, do not confound the two, Eugénie.”

“Hold your tongue! The men are all infamous, and I am happy to be able

now to do more than detest them—I despise them.”

“What shall we do?” asked Louise.

“What shall we do?”

“Yes.”

“Why, the same we had intended doing three days since—set off.”

“What?—although you are not now going to be married, you intend

still——”

“Listen, Louise. I hate this life of the fashionable world, always

ordered, measured, ruled, like our music-paper. What I have always

wished for, desired, and coveted, is the life of an artist, free and

independent, relying only on my own resources, and accountable only to

myself. Remain here? What for?—that they may try, a month hence, to

marry me again; and to whom?—M. Debray, perhaps, as it was once

proposed. No, Louise, no! This evening’s adventure will serve for my

excuse. I did not seek one, I did not ask for one. God sends me this,

and I hail it joyfully!”

“How strong and courageous you are!” said the fair, frail girl to her

brunette companion.

“Did you not yet know me? Come, Louise, let us talk of our affairs. The

post-chaise——”

“Was happily bought three days since.”

“Have you had it sent where we are to go for it?”

“Yes.”

“Our passport?”

“Here it is.”

And Eugénie, with her usual precision, opened a printed paper, and

read:

“M. Léon d’Armilly, twenty years of age; profession, artist; hair

black, eyes black; travelling with his sister.”

“Capital! How did you get this passport?”

“When I went to ask M. de Monte Cristo for letters to the directors of

the theatres at Rome and Naples, I expressed my fears of travelling as

a woman; he perfectly understood them, and undertook to procure for me

a man’s passport, and two days after I received this, to which I have

added with my own hand, ‘travelling with his sister.’”

50035m

“Well,” said Eugénie cheerfully, “we have then only to pack up our

trunks; we shall start the evening of the signing of the contract,

instead of the evening of the wedding—that is all.”

“But consider the matter seriously, Eugénie!”

“Oh, I am done with considering! I am tired of hearing only of market

reports, of the end of the month, of the rise and fall of Spanish

funds, of Haitian bonds. Instead of that, Louise—do you

understand?—air, liberty, melody of birds, plains of Lombardy, Venetian

canals, Roman palaces, the Bay of Naples. How much have we, Louise?”

The young girl to whom this question was addressed drew from an inlaid

secretaire a small portfolio with a lock, in which she counted

twenty-three bank-notes.

“Twenty-three thousand francs,” said she.

“And as much, at least, in pearls, diamonds, and jewels,” said Eugénie.

“We are rich. With forty-five thousand francs we can live like

princesses for two years, and comfortably for four; but before six

months—you with your music, and I with my voice—we shall double our

capital. Come, you shall take charge of the money, I of the jewel-box;

so that if one of us had the misfortune to lose her treasure, the other

would still have hers left. Now, the portmanteau—let us make haste—the

portmanteau!”

“Stop!” said Louise, going to listen at Madame Danglars’ door.

“What do you fear?”

“That we may be discovered.”

“The door is locked.”

“They may tell us to open it.”

“They may if they like, but we will not.”

“You are a perfect Amazon, Eugénie!” And the two young girls began to

heap into a trunk all the things they thought they should require.

“There now,” said Eugénie, “while I change my costume do you lock the

portmanteau.” Louise pressed with all the strength of her little hands

on the top of the portmanteau.

“But I cannot,” said she; “I am not strong enough; do you shut it.”

“Ah, you do well to ask,” said Eugénie, laughing; “I forgot that I was

Hercules, and you only the pale Omphale!”

And the young girl, kneeling on the top, pressed the two parts of the

portmanteau together, and Mademoiselle d’Armilly passed the bolt of the

padlock through. When this was done, Eugénie opened a drawer, of which

she kept the key, and took from it a wadded violet silk travelling

cloak.

“Here,” said she, “you see I have thought of everything; with this

cloak you will not be cold.”

“But you?”

“Oh, I am never cold, you know! Besides, with these men’s clothes——”

“Will you dress here?”

“Certainly.”

“Shall you have time?”

“Do not be uneasy, you little coward! All our servants are busy,

discussing the grand affair. Besides, what is there astonishing, when

you think of the grief I ought to be in, that I shut myself up?—tell

me!”

“No, truly—you comfort me.”

“Come and help me.”

From the same drawer she took a man’s complete costume, from the boots

to the coat, and a provision of linen, where there was nothing

superfluous, but every requisite. Then, with a promptitude which

indicated that this was not the first time she had amused herself by

adopting the garb of the opposite sex, Eugénie drew on the boots and

pantaloons, tied her cravat, buttoned her waistcoat up to the throat,

and put on a coat which admirably fitted her beautiful figure.

“Oh, that is very good—indeed, it is very good!” said Louise, looking

at her with admiration; “but that beautiful black hair, those

magnificent braids, which made all the ladies sigh with envy,—will they

go under a man’s hat like the one I see down there?”

“You shall see,” said Eugénie. And with her left hand seizing the thick

mass, which her long fingers could scarcely grasp, she took in her

right hand a pair of long scissors, and soon the steel met through the

rich and splendid hair, which fell in a cluster at her feet as she

leaned back to keep it from her coat. Then she grasped the front hair,

which she also cut off, without expressing the least regret; on the

contrary, her eyes sparkled with greater pleasure than usual under her

ebony eyebrows.

50039m

“Oh, the magnificent hair!” said Louise, with regret.

“And am I not a hundred times better thus?” cried Eugénie, smoothing

the scattered curls of her hair, which had now quite a masculine

appearance; “and do you not think me handsomer so?”

“Oh, you are beautiful—always beautiful!” cried Louise. “Now, where are

you going?”

“To Brussels, if you like; it is the nearest frontier. We can go to

Brussels, Liège, Aix-la-Chapelle; then up the Rhine to Strasbourg. We

will cross Switzerland, and go down into Italy by the Saint-Gothard.

Will that do?”

“Yes.”

“What are you looking at?”

“I am looking at you; indeed you are adorable like that! One would say

you were carrying me off.”

“And they would be right, _pardieu!_”

“Oh, I think you swore, Eugénie.”

And the two young girls, whom everyone might have thought plunged in

grief, the one on her own account, the other from interest in her

friend, burst out laughing, as they cleared away every visible trace of

the disorder which had naturally accompanied the preparations for their

escape. Then, having blown out the lights, the two fugitives, looking

and listening eagerly, with outstretched necks, opened the door of a

dressing-room which led by a side staircase down to the yard,—Eugénie

going first, and holding with one arm the portmanteau, which by the

opposite handle Mademoiselle d’Armilly scarcely raised with both hands.

The yard was empty; the clock was striking twelve. The porter was not

yet gone to bed. Eugénie approached softly, and saw the old man

sleeping soundly in an armchair in his lodge. She returned to Louise,

took up the portmanteau, which she had placed for a moment on the

ground, and they reached the archway under the shadow of the wall.

Eugénie concealed Louise in an angle of the gateway, so that if the

porter chanced to awake he might see but one person. Then placing

herself in the full light of the lamp which lit the yard:

“Gate!” cried she, with her finest contralto voice, and rapping at the

window.

The porter got up as Eugénie expected, and even advanced some steps to

recognize the person who was going out, but seeing a young man striking

his boot impatiently with his riding-whip, he opened it immediately.

Louise slid through the half-open gate like a snake, and bounded

lightly forward. Eugénie, apparently calm, although in all probability

her heart beat somewhat faster than usual, went out in her turn.

A porter was passing and they gave him the portmanteau; then the two

young girls, having told him to take it to No. 36, Rue de la Victoire,

walked behind this man, whose presence comforted Louise. As for

Eugénie, she was as strong as a Judith or a Delilah. They arrived at

the appointed spot. Eugénie ordered the porter to put down the

portmanteau, gave him some pieces of money, and having rapped at the

shutter sent him away. The shutter where Eugénie had rapped was that of

a little laundress, who had been previously warned, and was not yet

gone to bed. She opened the door.

“Mademoiselle,” said Eugénie, “let the porter get the post-chaise from

the coach-house, and fetch some post-horses from the hotel. Here are

five francs for his trouble.”

“Indeed,” said Louise, “I admire you, and I could almost say respect

you.” The laundress looked on in astonishment, but as she had been

promised twenty louis, she made no remark.

In a quarter of an hour the porter returned with a post-boy and horses,

which were harnessed, and put in the post-chaise in a minute, while the

porter fastened the portmanteau on with the assistance of a cord and

strap.

“Here is the passport,” said the postilion, “which way are we going,

young gentleman?”

“To Fontainebleau,” replied Eugénie with an almost masculine voice.

“What do you say?” said Louise.

“I am giving them the slip,” said Eugénie; “this woman to whom we have

given twenty louis may betray us for forty; we will soon alter our

direction.”

And the young girl jumped into the britzka, which was admirably

arranged for sleeping in, without scarcely touching the step.

“You are always right,” said the music teacher, seating herself by the

side of her friend.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the postilion, having been put in the

right road, passed with a crack of his whip through the gateway of the

Barrière Saint-Martin.

“Ah,” said Louise, breathing freely, “here we are out of Paris.”

“Yes, my dear, the abduction is an accomplished fact,” replied Eugénie.

“Yes, and without violence,” said Louise.

“I shall bring that forward as an extenuating circumstance,” replied

Eugénie.

These words were lost in the noise which the carriage made in rolling

over the pavement of La Villette. M. Danglars no longer had a daughter.