Chapter 97: The Execution: I
"Gentlemen," the Count of Monte Cristo said as he walked into the room, "please forgive me for arriving before you could visit me. I didn’t want to disturb you too early at your hotel, and besides, you said you’d come to see me anyway. I’ve been waiting for you."
"Count, Franz and I can’t thank you enough," Albert replied with a warm smile. "You saved us from a real mess. We were about to come up with some ridiculous plan when your invitation arrived."
"Really?" the count said, gesturing for the two young men to sit down. "That fool Pastrini should have told me about your problem sooner. He didn’t say a word about your situation, even though he knows I’m always looking to meet new people here. I’m pretty isolated, you know. The moment I heard I could help, I jumped at the chance."
The two young men bowed politely. Franz still hadn’t figured out what to say. He couldn’t make up his mind about something important. The count wasn’t giving any sign that he wanted Franz to recognize him from before, so Franz didn’t know whether to bring up their previous encounter or wait for more proof. Sure, he was almost certain this was the same man who’d been in the theater box last night, but he couldn’t be 100% sure this was also the guy he’d seen at the Colosseum ruins. He decided to just let things play out naturally without pushing the issue.
At least he had one advantage, he knew the count’s secret, while the count had no leverage over him. Franz had nothing to hide. Still, he decided to steer the conversation toward something that might clear up his doubts.
"Count," Franz said, "you’ve offered us seats in your carriage and spots at your windows in the Rospoli Palace. Can you tell us where we could watch what’s happening at the People’s Plaza?"
"Ah," the count said casually, though his eyes focused intently on Albert’s companion. "Isn’t there supposed to be an execution at the People’s Plaza today?"
"Yes," Franz replied, relieved that the count was heading toward the topic he wanted to discuss.
"Wait, I think I told my steward yesterday to arrange something for that. Maybe I can help you with this too." He reached out and rang a bell three times. "Have you ever thought about time management and how to summon your servants more efficiently? I have. When I ring once, it’s for my personal valet. Twice means my butler. Three times, my steward. That way I don’t waste a single minute or word. And here he is now."
A man around forty-five or fifty years old entered. He looked exactly like the smuggler who’d taken Franz into that cave before, but he showed no sign of recognizing him. Clearly, he’d been given his orders.
"Mr. Bertuccio," the count said, "did you get me those windows overlooking the People’s Plaza like I asked yesterday?"
"Yes, sir," the steward answered, "but it was really late to arrange."
"Didn’t I tell you I wanted one?" the count said with a slight frown.
"Your excellency does have one, it was rented to Prince Lobanieff originally, but I had to pay a hundred-"
"That’s enough, Mr. Bertuccio. Don’t bore these gentlemen with household details. You got the window, that’s all that matters. Tell the driver to get ready, and wait on the stairs to show us the way."
The steward bowed and started to leave.
"Oh," the count added, "ask Pastrini if he received the execution notice, and if he can send us the details."
"No need," Franz said, pulling out his notebook. "I saw the notice and copied it down."
"Perfect. You can go, Mr. Bertuccio, but let us know when breakfast is ready. These gentlemen," he said, turning to his two guests, "will hopefully join me for breakfast?"
"But Count, we don’t want to impose," Albert protested.
"Not at all, you’d be doing me a favor. One of you, or maybe both, can return the hospitality when I visit Paris. Mr. Bertuccio, set the table for three."
He then took Franz’s notebook from his hand. "We announce," he read in the same tone someone might use to read a newspaper, "that today, February 23rd, Andrea Rondolo will be executed for murdering the respected Don César Torlini, a church canon, and Peppino, known as Rocca Priori, convicted of being an accomplice to the notorious bandit Luigi Vampa and his gang." He paused. "The first will be killed with a mallet, the second beheaded. Yes," the count continued, "that was the original plan, but I think something changed yesterday in how they’ll carry it out."
"Really?" Franz asked.
"Yes, I spent last evening at Cardinal Rospigliosi’s house, and someone mentioned that one of the two men might receive a pardon."
"Andrea Rondolo?" Franz asked.
"No," the count replied carelessly, glancing at the notebook as if to remember the name. "The other one, Peppino, called Rocca Priori. So you won’t get to see a man beheaded, but the mallet execution is still happening. It’s quite a sight the first time you witness it, even the second time. The guillotine, as you must know, is very simple. It never fails, never wavers, never takes thirty strikes like that soldier who botched the Count of Chalais’s execution, the one Richelieu must have specifically recommended for the job." He added with contempt, "Don’t talk to me about European executions. They’re either primitive or outdated when it comes to cruelty."
"Count," Franz replied, "you sound like you’ve studied every form of torture from around the world."
"There are few I haven’t seen," the count said coldly.
"And you enjoyed watching these terrible displays?"
"My first reaction was horror. The second was indifference. The third was curiosity."
"Curiosity, that’s a disturbing word."
"Why? In life, isn’t death our greatest obsession? Isn’t it natural to be curious about the different ways the soul separates from the body? And how different people, with their different personalities, temperaments, and cultures, handle the transition from life to death, from existence to nothing? I can tell you one thing, the more deaths you witness, the easier it becomes to face your own. In my opinion, death might be torture, but it isn’t justice."
"I don’t understand," Franz said. "Please explain, you’ve really got me curious now."
"Listen," the count said, and deep hatred flooded his face, coloring his normally pale features. "If someone had tortured and killed your father, your mother, your fiancée, someone whose loss left a permanent wound in your heart that never heals, do you think the justice society offers is enough? They simply slide a guillotine blade between the base of the skull and the neck muscles of the murderer, letting someone who caused you years of mental suffering escape with just a few moments of physical pain. Is that fair?"
"I know," Franz said, "that human justice isn’t enough to console us. It can only trade blood for blood, nothing more. But you can only demand from it what it’s capable of giving."
"Let me give you another example," the count continued. "What about when society is attacked by someone’s death and avenges it with execution? But aren’t there a thousand ways someone can make you suffer without society even noticing, let alone offering you even that insufficient revenge we just talked about? Aren’t there crimes so terrible that even the most brutal punishments, Turkish impalement, Persian torture devices, Native American burning stakes, wouldn’t be adequate, yet society doesn’t punish them at all? Tell me, don’t these crimes exist?"
"Yes," Franz answered, "and that’s why dueling is tolerated, to punish them."
"Ah, dueling!" the count exclaimed. "What a pleasant way to get your revenge! A man steals your girlfriend, seduces your wife, dishonors your daughter. He’s ruined the entire life of someone who had every right to expect happiness, one of God’s creatures entitled to their share of joy, turning their existence into misery and shame. And you think you’re avenged because you shoot a bullet through his head or drive a sword through his chest? This man who drove you mad with grief and filled your heart with despair? And remember, often it’s the guilty party who wins the duel and walks away completely absolved in society’s eyes. No, no," the count continued, "if I were seeking revenge, that’s not how I’d do it."
"So you disapprove of dueling? You wouldn’t fight one?" Albert asked, astonished by this strange theory.
"Oh yes," the count replied, "understand me, I’d fight a duel over something trivial, an insult, a slap in the face. In fact, I’d be even more willing because thanks to my physical skills and the indifference to danger I’ve developed over time, I’d almost certainly win. I’d definitely fight for those reasons. But in return for slow, deep, eternal torture, I’d give back the same if possible. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, as they say in the East, our masters in everything. Those fortunate people who’ve created lives of dreams and paradises of reality."