Around two in the afternoon, an expensive carriage pulled up to Monte Cristo's mansion. The horses were magnificent, clearly worth a fortune. The man who stepped out was trying way too hard to look younger than his fifty-something years. His hair was jet black, obviously dyed, and hung low over his forehead, while deep wrinkles creased his face. He wore an expensive blue coat with gold buttons, a white vest with a massive gold chain, and brown trousers that screamed "I have money."
Everything about him was calculated. His sharp eyes missed nothing, but they showed cunning rather than intelligence. His lips were thin and mean-looking, pressed tight over his teeth. His broad cheekbones and flat forehead gave him the appearance of someone who couldn't be trusted. The only thing more impressive than his arrogance was the enormous diamond glittering on his shirt and the red ribbon pinned to his coat, signs of his noble title and government position.
The man's servant approached the gate. "Does the Count of Monte Cristo live here?"
The gatekeeper glanced at Ali, Monte Cristo's silent servant, who shook his head slightly. "His Excellency lives here, but he's not receiving visitors today."
"Take this card to him anyway," the servant insisted. "Baron Danglars is on his way to an important government meeting, but he came out of his way just to call on the Count."
"I don't speak directly to His Excellency," the gatekeeper replied. "The head butler handles such matters."
When the servant returned to the carriage with this news, Baron Danglars muttered irritably, "What is he, royalty? They call him 'Excellency' and won't even let me speak to him directly. Whatever, he has a letter of credit with my bank, so he'll have to see me eventually when he needs money."
He threw himself back against the carriage seat and shouted loud enough for the whole street to hear, "To the government offices!"
Monte Cristo had been watching the whole thing from behind his window blinds with a high-powered spyglass, just as thoroughly as Danglars had been sizing up his house.
"That guy has a seriously bad face," the Count said with disgust as he closed his spyglass. "How does everyone not recoil from that serpent-like forehead and vulture-shaped head?" He struck a bronze gong.
Ali appeared instantly.
"Get Bertuccio," Monte Cristo commanded.
Moments later, Bertuccio, his steward, entered. "You wanted to see me, Your Excellency?"
"Did you see those horses at my door just now?"
"Yes, Excellency. They were remarkably beautiful."
Monte Cristo's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Then explain to me why, when I told you to buy the finest pair of horses in Paris, someone else has a pair just as good as mine, and they're not in my stables?"
Ali paled at the Count's angry tone, his head dropping.
"It's not your fault, Ali," Monte Cristo said gently, switching to Arabic. "You don't understand English horses."
Ali's expression relaxed with relief.
"Your Excellency," Bertuccio interjected carefully, "those horses weren't for sale when I purchased yours."
Monte Cristo shrugged dismissively. "You still have much to learn. Everything is for sale to those willing to pay the right price."
"But sir, Mr. Danglars paid 16,000 francs for them!"
"Perfect. Offer him double. Bankers never pass up a chance to double their money."
Bertuccio stared. "Are you serious, Excellency?"
The Count's expression turned ice cold at being questioned. "I have a visit to make this evening. I want those horses with completely new harnesses ready with my carriage."
Bertuccio bowed. As he reached the door, he hesitated. "What time do you need them?"
"Five o'clock."
"Forgive me for pointing this out, Excellency, but... it's already two o'clock."
"I'm aware," Monte Cristo said calmly. Then, turning to Ali, he continued, "Have all the horses brought before the young lady's windows so she can choose which ones she prefers. Ask if she'd like to have dinner with me. If so, serve it in her rooms. Now go, and send my head butler in."
As soon as Ali left, the butler entered.
"Baptistin," the Count began, "you've been in my service for one year, the trial period I give all my employees. You've performed well."
Baptistin bowed low.
"The question is whether I suit you?"
"Oh, Your Excellency!" Baptistin exclaimed.
"Let me finish," Monte Cristo interrupted. "You earn 1,500 francs annually, more than many soldiers who risk their lives for their country. You live better than clerks who work ten times harder. As my servant, you have other servants waiting on you. And you make extra profit on everything you buy for me, which probably equals your yearly salary."
"Your Excellency, I-"
"I'm not criticizing you, Baptistin. But understand this, your profits end there. You won't find a better position than this anywhere. I don't mistreat my servants with words or actions. I forgive honest mistakes, but willful negligence or forgetfulness? Never. My commands are short and clear. I'd rather repeat myself three times than be misunderstood. I'm rich enough to learn anything I want to know, and trust me, I'm very curious. If I ever discover you've talked about me to anyone, favorably or unfavorably, commented on my actions, or spied on my behavior, you're fired immediately. I only warn my servants once. Remember that."
Baptistin nodded, backing toward the door.
"One more thing," the Count added. "I set aside money each year for every servant in my household. Those I'm forced to dismiss lose all of it. But for those who stay with me, the fund keeps growing and will be divided among them when I die. Your fund has been accumulating for a year now. Let it continue."
This speech, delivered while Ali stood by understanding nothing of the French words, left Baptistin awestruck. "I assure Your Excellency, I will do everything to earn your approval. I'll model myself after Mr. Ali."
"Absolutely not," the Count replied coldly. "Ali has many faults mixed with excellent qualities. He cannot be your role model. You see, you're a paid servant, but Ali is something different, a slave, a dog. If he failed me, I wouldn't fire him. I'd kill him."
Baptistin's eyes widened in shock.
"You don't believe me?" Monte Cristo repeated his words in Arabic to Ali. The servant smiled, then knelt and respectfully kissed the Count's hand.
This demonstration left Baptistin completely stunned. The Count dismissed him with a wave, and Ali followed him to his study where they talked privately for a long time.
When the clock struck five, Monte Cristo rang the gong three times, the signal for Bertuccio.
"My horses?"
"Ready at the door, harnessed as you requested. Should I accompany you?"
"No. The coachman, Ali, and Baptistin will go."
The Count descended to find his carriage drawn by the exact pair of horses he'd admired that morning, Danglars' horses.
As he passed them, he said, "They're extremely handsome. You did well to purchase them, though you should have acquired them sooner."
"Excellency, I had considerable difficulty obtaining them. They cost an enormous amount."
"Does the price make them less beautiful?" the Count asked, shrugging. "Where am I going?"
"Where would Your Excellency like to go?"
"To Baron Danglars' residence."
As Bertuccio turned to leave, the Count called him back. "I have another task for you. I want a coastal estate in the north, somewhere with a small harbor where my ship can dock. She only needs fifteen feet of depth and must be kept ready to sail at a moment's notice. Find such a place and buy it in your name. Also, arrange for fresh horses every few miles along the northern and southern roads."
"You can depend on me, Excellency."
The Count nodded with satisfaction and sprang into his carriage, which sped off toward the banker's house.
Danglars was in a committee meeting when Monte Cristo's name was announced. As soon as he heard the title "Count," he stood up and addressed his colleagues, all important government officials.
"Gentlemen, forgive me for leaving abruptly, but the most ridiculous thing has happened. Some Italian bankers sent me a person calling himself the Count of Monte Cristo with an unlimited letter of credit. This is the strangest thing I've encountered in my entire banking career, and naturally, it's roused my curiosity. I called on this so-called Count this morning, if he were a real count, he wouldn't be so rich, but would you believe it? He wasn't receiving visitors! This Monte Cristo fellow acts like he's some kind of celebrity or billionaire. I did some digging and found out he owns that mansion outright, and it's certainly well-maintained. But," he smiled nastily, "an unlimited line of credit demands serious caution from any banker. I'm very curious to see this man. I suspect it's some kind of scam, but whoever's behind it doesn't know who they're dealing with. We'll see who gets the last laugh!"
After this pompous speech that left him breathless, he bowed to the committee and headed to his reception room, a white-and-gold showpiece that had caused quite a stir among the wealthy elite. He'd specifically asked for his guest to be shown there, hoping to overwhelm him with the display of luxury.
He found the Count standing before some paintings that Danglars had been told were originals by famous masters. They weren't, they were copies, and even they seemed embarrassed to be surrounded by such gaudy gold decorations.