The Son of Monte-Cristo Volume I Part 53

"Stand back, comrades!" exclaimed the Provencal, "I will teach him something better. Just wait, John Bull, you will soon know me; I'll get the best of you, and then we will divide the spoils."

"Yes, yes!" the others cried, "let us divide!"

"Keep quiet," said the Englishman, coolly. "You want a regular fight with knives, do you? Pah, I have no objection; but you will allow me, instead of using a knife, to make use of this weapon!" and thereupon he drew from his pocket a small, brightly polished poniard about three or four inches long, which looked more like a lady's plaything than anything else.

The shabby lot laughed at him loudly; and, comparing the Catalonian knives they handled with the sailor's poniard, it appeared like a sewing-needle.

"Perhaps you think I am a tailor?" said the Provencal, scornfully; "and have you not also a measure in your pocket?"

"Large words, large knives, and that is all," said the sailor, contemptuously. "Listen. I make you an offer: if you can touch me, the money is yours; and, mark well, not only half, but the whole of it!"

"Agreed. Comrades, step aside!"

With a push of his foot the Provencal cleared one of the tables; the rest did the same in putting tables and chairs aside for an open s.p.a.ce.

The host alone remained pa.s.sive; he had seen enough of these occurrences, and was in nowise astonished. Even the female portion of the guests seemed to take an interest in the combat; everywhere you could see glittering eyes awaiting the spectacle to come, and now and then the call went forth: "The impertinent fool!" "Well, the Provencal will teach him better!" "Just look, the poniard is set with diamonds!"

"Where could he have stolen it?" "Perhaps from his sweetheart. Ha! ha!

ha!"

One of the guests, however, did not share in the general noise. He was a man who sat at a side table, his head resting in both his hands, so that his face could not exactly be recognized. Raven black long hair, slightly tinged with gray, fell down on his broad shoulders; the man wore sailor's clothes, but they looked tattered and worn out. Before him stood a large, half-emptied bottle of liquor. He sat motionless, and, in spite of the noise around him, remained at the table without stirring.

The glance of the English sailor was at different times directed toward him, and it even seemed as if he wanted to speak to him, but n.o.body noticed it.

Now the Provencal approached the Englishman. It was quite a sight to see him standing with spread-out legs, half-naked, hairy arms, muscular chest, the knife lifted up in his right hand, and a vulgar smile on his thick lips, and many a one would have considered twice before he ventured on such a task. His age was, no doubt, about forty, and his glaring eyes glanced continually from the Englishman to the gold, and then again at his comrades, as if intending to say:

"Just be a little patient, I'll procure the prize for us."

The Englishman too had arisen. His slender figure appeared almost meagre when compared with his opponent, and yet his dark eyes looked around steadily and quietly. Either he plays with the danger threatening him, or he is not able to see it; one stroke of the Provencal was sufficient to batter down the Englishman, and what use is the neat little weapon in comparison with the terrible large knife?

"Are you ready?" shouted aloud the Provencal.

"Yes, bandit," sounded loudly in reply.

The sailor leaned with his back to the wall; a retrograde movement was impossible, and yet--yet the Provencal began to press him closely. The knife glittered--a jump--and the Provencal shrieked with pain and sank to the ground. The poniard of the Englishman had penetrated deeply into the hand which held the knife; a dark stream of blood flowed from the wound, when the sailor drew out the point of the blade, and the Provencal screamed in his agony:

"Wait, miserable juggler, you will suffer for it."

Breathing heavily he stepped back a few paces, and again swinging his knife, he threw it quickly at the face of the sailor. The sailor had lifted his left hand, and in a second struck the weapon as it fell; the knife whirled around, and the next moment the Englishman caught it in his hand. Triumphantly he swung round the knife in his left, and the poniard in his right hand; the Provencal uttered a heavy curse, and withdrawing the knife from a comrade standing behind him, he prepared to again attack his opponent.

The Englishman allowed him to approach; but as soon as he was ready to jump at him, he threw away poniard and knife, took hold of the Provencal by his wrists, and as easily as if he were but a child, pitched him right in the midst of bottles and gla.s.ses, placed upon a table some distance off.

The Provencal howled with rage; and the breaking of the bottles and gla.s.ses scattered gla.s.s all over the place, causing many b.l.o.o.d.y hands and heads. The giant bled from a wound on his forehead, and, turning to his comrades, he called aloud:

"Kill him, ye _canaille_! Can you look on quietly when he is killing me?"

Irresolute, the crowd stared at the sailor, and he, taking advantage of the momentary quietness, jumped over tables and benches into a corner, where the solitary guest sat, and placed his hand upon his shoulder:

"Up!" he called with penetrating voice, "up in the name of Manuelita!"

As if touched by an electric shock, the man jumped up, and, throwing one single glance at the sailor, he gave a yell and leaped right in the midst of the vagabonds, and with herculean power he knocked down all who were near him, crying with rage:

"Away with you, bandits! Whoever touches a hair on this man's head dies!"

As soon as the men heard the voice, they remained standing as if petrified, and even the most courageous turned pale.

"Jacopo!" went from mouth to mouth. "What the devil brought him here?

Let us hasten to depart. See only how his eyes are rolling; he is once more in a pa.s.sion!"

The other must have been aware of his ruling power over these miserable vagabonds, for he pulled the door open and peremptorily ordered them to leave the room, saying threateningly:

"March off, or I'll get you all on the galleys again, which you ought never to have left!"

"We are going; pardon us!" cringingly replied the men; and like beaten dogs they all left quite hastily.

The Provencal lingered a while at the door.

"How about the money?" he inquired, in dog-like submission.

"Throw it to the bandits outside the door, Jacopo," said the sailor, despisingly.

Jacopo took the money in both hands and scattered it in a large circle on the street.

Howling, shrieking, and with a tremendous noise, the bandits fought for the booty. Jacopo locked the door, closed the latch, and kneeling before the sailor, whispered: "Master, what is it you demand of me?"

CHAPTER XLIII

MANUELITA

Who was Jacopo?

About nineteen years before, in February, 1829, Edmond Dantes--a prisoner for life in the Castle d'If--owing to his energy, escaped from his jailers, sewed up in a sack which had contained the corpse of his friend, the Abbe Faria. He was dragged by the jailers to the churchyard of the Castle d'If, and there buried. The churchyard of the Castle d'If, however, was the ocean! The waves were more merciful than man; they gave the deserted one a friendly reception, and washed him close to a s.h.i.+p, a genuine tartane, where in despair he called out for help. He waved the red sailor's cap which a sympathizing gust of wind had thrown down from a rock, and the men on board of the tartane saw it. "Courage!" they called to him. With a weak, despairing grasp he took hold of the rope which had been thrown toward him, and then became insensible.

When he came to he lay on the deck, and sympathizing sailors bent over him. They administered rum, they rubbed his benumbed body, and he who had first seen the unfortunate man put his own woollen jacket around the man's s.h.i.+vering shoulders. This sympathizing sailor was called Jacopo; he was a powerful young fellow, with laughing blue eyes. When Edmond Dantes had recourse to stratagem, and, in order to remain alone at Monte-Cristo, leaped from the rock, it was Jacopo who picked him up, and only against his will left him again.

"Who knows whether you will not one time become a captain? Has not your countryman Bonaparte become emperor?"

Hereupon Jacopo almost went into hysterics; how could he become captain?

no, so high he never climbed even in his boldest dreams; he felt satisfied if he only continued to have a place on the deck of a s.h.i.+p; then the ocean was his home, his family, his all!

Edmond Dantes has the name Jacopo fixed in his memory. He will, no doubt, have an after opportunity to reward the brave fellow.

Years had pa.s.sed when the Count of Monte-Cris...o...b..gan to recollect the brave Corsican. He searched for him and said:

"Do you remember a sailor whose life you once saved, and who prophesied that you would become a captain?"

Jacopo blushed; no, he has not yet forgotten this prophecy.