Respawned as The Count of Glow-Up-Chapter 254: The Lions’ Den: II

The summons to the visitor’s room astonished Andrea almost as much as everyone else. The clever young man had stayed silent since arriving at La Force, rather than using his privilege to send for someone immediately.

"Everything proves I’m under the protection of some powerful person," he’d reasoned. "This sudden fortune, the ease with which I’ve overcome obstacles, an unexpected family and illustrious name given to me, gold showered upon me, the promise of brilliant marriages. One slip of fortune and my protector’s temporary absence have brought me down, but not forever. The hand that withdrew will reach out again just when I think I’m sinking into the abyss. Why risk a rash move that might anger my protector? He has two ways to get me out of this mess, either a mysterious escape through bribery, or buying off my judges with gold. I’ll say and do nothing until I’m convinced he’s truly abandoned me, and then..."

Andrea’s plan was clever enough. The unfortunate young man was brave in attack and rough in defense. He’d endured the public prison and all kinds of deprivation. Still, gradually, nature, or rather habit, had won out, and he was suffering from being naked, dirty, and hungry.

It was at this moment of discomfort that the inspector’s voice summoned him to the visitor’s room. Andrea’s heart leaped with joy. Too early for the examining magistrate, too late for the prison director or doctor, it must be the visitor he’d been hoping for.

Behind the grating of the room where Andrea was led, he saw, eyes widening with surprise, the dark, intelligent face of Bertuccio, who was also gazing with sad astonishment at the iron bars, bolted doors, and the shadow moving behind the opposite grating.

"Ah," Andrea said, deeply affected.

"Good morning, Benedetto," Bertuccio replied, his voice deep and hollow.

"You? You?" the young man said, glancing around fearfully.

"Don’t you recognize me, unhappy child?"

"Silence! Be quiet!" Andrea hissed, knowing how well these walls carried sound. "For heaven’s sake, don’t speak so loud!"

"You want to speak with me alone, don’t you?" Bertuccio asked.

"Oh yes."

"Good." Bertuccio reached into his pocket and signaled to a guard visible through the wicket window.

"What’s that?" Andrea asked.

"An order to take you to a private room where we can talk."

"Oh!" Andrea cried, leaping with joy. Then he thought, Still my unknown protector! I’m not forgotten. They want secrecy since we’re meeting in a private room. I understand, Bertuccio has been sent by my protector.

The guard spoke briefly with an official, then opened the iron gates and led Andrea to a room on the first floor. The room was whitewashed as was typical in prisons, but it looked brilliant to a prisoner, though only a stove, bed, chair, and table comprised its "luxurious" furnishings.

Bertuccio sat on the chair. Andrea threw himself on the bed. The guard left.

"Now," the steward said, "what do you have to tell me?"

"What about you?" Andrea countered.

"You speak first."

"No, you must have much to tell me since you came looking for me."

"Fine, have it your way. You’ve continued your life of crime, you’ve robbed, you’ve murdered."

"Well, obviously! If you brought me to a private room just to tell me this, you could’ve saved yourself the trouble. I know all that. But there are things I don’t know. Let’s talk about those, if you please. Who sent you?"

"You’re getting ahead of yourself, Benedetto."

"Yes, and straight to the point. Let’s skip the useless words. Who sent you?"

"No one."

"How did you know I was in prison?"

"I recognized you some time ago as the insolent dandy who so gracefully mounted his horse in the Champs-Élysées."

"The Champs-Élysées? Ah yes, we’re getting warmer, as they say. Come on, let’s talk about my father."

"Who am I?"

"You, sir? You’re my adoptive father. But I don’t think you’re the one who gave me a hundred thousand francs to spend in four or five months. You didn’t create an Italian gentleman to be my father. You didn’t introduce me into high society and get me invited to that dinner at Auteuil, which I feel like I’m still eating now, in the company of Paris’s most distinguished people. Including a certain prosecutor whose friendship I should’ve cultivated, since he’d be very useful to me right now. And you weren’t the one who bailed me out for one or two million when my little secret was discovered. Come on, speak, my worthy Corsican!"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I’ll help you. You mentioned the Champs-Élysées just now."

"Well?"

"Well, on the Champs-Élysées lives a very rich gentleman."

"At whose house you robbed and murdered, correct?"

"I believe I did."

"The Count of Monte Cristo?"

"You’re the one who named him. So should I rush into his arms, crying ’My father, my father!’ like some melodrama?"

"Don’t joke about this," Bertuccio said gravely, "and don’t dare utter that name again the way you just did."

"Why not?" Andrea asked, somewhat shaken by Bertuccio’s solemn manner.

"Because the person who bears that name is too highly favored by heaven to be the father of a wretch like you."

"Those are pretty words."

"And there will be serious consequences if you’re not careful."

"Threats? I’m not afraid. I’ll tell-"

"Do you think you’re dealing with someone weak like yourself?" Bertuccio said in such a calm tone, with such a steady look, that Andrea felt shaken to his core. "Do you think you’re dealing with common criminals or naive fools? Benedetto, you’ve fallen into terrible hands. Those hands are ready to open for you, use them wisely. Don’t play with the thunderbolt they’ve temporarily set aside but can pick up again instantly if you try to interfere."

"I will know who my father is," the young man said obstinately. "I’ll die if I must, but I’ll know. What do I care about scandal? What possessions, reputation, or influence do I have? You powerful people always have something to lose from scandal, despite your millions. Come on, who is my father?"

"I came to tell you."

"Ah!" Benedetto cried, his eyes sparkling with joy.

Just then the door opened, and the jailer addressed Bertuccio, "Excuse me, sir, but the examining magistrate is waiting for the prisoner."

"And so our meeting ends," Andrea said to the steward. "I wish that troublesome fellow were in hell!"

"I’ll return tomorrow," Bertuccio said.

"Good! Officers, I’m at your service. Oh, sir, please leave a few coins for me at the gate so I can buy some things I need!"

"It will be done," Bertuccio replied.

Andrea extended his hand, but Bertuccio kept his own in his pocket, merely jingling some coins.

"That’s what I meant," Andrea said, trying to smile, completely unsettled by Bertuccio’s strange calmness. "Could I be mistaken?" he muttered as he stepped into the long, barred wagon they called "the salad basket."

"Never mind, we’ll see! Tomorrow then!" he added, turning toward Bertuccio.

"Tomorrow," the steward replied.