Respawned as The Count of Glow-Up-Chapter 244: Five Million: I

The morning arrived gray and overcast. Overnight, the undertakers had done their grim work, wrapping Valentine’s body in an expensive burial shroud, the kind of luxury that followed the wealthy even into death. The girl had purchased the fine fabric just two weeks earlier, never knowing what it would be used for.

Two hired men had moved old Noirtier from his granddaughter’s room back to his own chamber the previous evening. Surprisingly, he hadn’t resisted being separated from Valentine’s body, everyone had expected him to fight it.

Father Busoni kept vigil through the night, slipping away at dawn without waking anyone. Dr. d’Avrigny returned around eight in the morning, crossing paths with Villefort in the hallway. Together, they went to check on the elderly man.

They found Noirtier in his large armchair, the one he used as a bed, sleeping peacefully. His face looked almost serene, perhaps even slightly smiling. Both men froze in the doorway, stunned.

"Look at that," d’Avrigny said to Villefort. "Nature has its own way of dulling even the deepest pain. No one can say Noirtier didn’t love his granddaughter, yet here he is... sleeping."

"You’re right," Villefort replied, his voice filled with disbelief. "He’s actually sleeping. That’s incredibly strange, normally the smallest annoyance keeps him awake all night."

"The grief must have overwhelmed him completely," the doctor suggested. They both walked back to Villefort’s study, lost in thought.

"Look, I haven’t slept at all," Villefort said, gesturing to his untouched bed. "Grief doesn’t knock me out like that. I’ve been awake for two straight nights. But look at my desk, see all this? I’ve filled these papers with my work over the past two days and nights. I’ve drafted the entire case against that murderer Benedetto. Oh, work, my passion, my joy, my escape, you’re the only thing that dulls my pain!" He grabbed d’Avrigny’s hand desperately.

"Do you need me for anything right now?" the doctor asked.

"No," Villefort said. "Just come back at eleven. At noon, the... the... oh God, my poor, poor child!" The prosecutor’s professional mask cracked, and he looked up with anguished eyes.

"Will you be receiving the funeral guests?"

"No. I have a cousin handling that. I need to work, doctor. When I’m working, I can forget everything." And indeed, the moment d’Avrigny left, Villefort buried himself in his papers again.

On his way out, the doctor encountered the cousin Villefort had mentioned, a forgettable man, the kind of person born to be useful to others without ever standing out themselves. He arrived punctually, dressed in black mourning clothes with a black band around his hat, wearing an appropriately somber expression that he could adjust as needed.

At noon, the funeral carriages rolled into the courtyard. The street outside filled with curious onlookers, people who enjoyed watching the drama of the wealthy, whether it was a wedding or a funeral. They crowded around with the same eager energy for both.

Gradually, the reception room filled with guests. Some familiar faces appeared: Debray, Château-Renaud, and Beauchamp, along with prominent figures from law, literature, and the military. Villefort moved in elite Parisian circles, thanks more to his personal achievements than his inherited position. The cousin stood at the door, ushering people in. His emotionless demeanor was actually a relief to most guests, unlike a grieving father or lover, he didn’t force anyone to put on fake tears or exaggerated sadness.

Those who knew each other formed small clusters. Debray, Château-Renaud, and Beauchamp gathered together.

"Poor girl," Debray said, paying the expected tribute to the tragedy. "So young, so wealthy, so beautiful! Could you have imagined this, Château-Renaud? We saw her just three weeks ago, about to sign her marriage contract."

"Definitely not," Château-Renaud replied. "Did you know her well?"

"I spoke with her once or twice at Madame de Morcerf’s house. She seemed charming, though a bit melancholy. Where’s her stepmother, by the way?"

"Spending the day with the wife of that gentleman receiving guests."

"Who is he, anyway?"

"Who do you mean?"

"The guy at the door. Is he some kind of politician?"

"Oh, no," Beauchamp cut in. "I’m stuck watching politicians every day for my newspaper. This guy is a complete nobody to me."

"Did you write about this death in your paper?"

"It was mentioned, but not by me. Actually, I doubt Villefort will appreciate the article, it basically says if four deaths happened in quick succession anywhere except the prosecutor’s house, he would’ve investigated it way more thoroughly."

"Still," Château-Renaud said, "Dr. d’Avrigny, who treats my mother, says he’s devastated by the whole thing. Who are you looking for, Debray?"

"The Count of Monte Cristo," the young man answered.

"I saw him on the boulevard on my way here," Beauchamp said. "I think he’s leaving Paris soon, he was heading to his bank."

"His bank? That’s Danglars, right?" Château-Renaud asked.

"I believe so," Debray replied, sounding slightly uneasy. "But Monte Cristo isn’t the only one missing. I don’t see Morrel anywhere either."

"Morrel? Does he even know the family?" Château-Renaud asked. "I thought he’d only been introduced to Madame de Villefort."

"Still, he should be here," Debray insisted. "This funeral is going to be the talk of tonight. But quiet, here comes the minister of justice. He’ll feel obligated to make some speech to the cousin." The three young men moved closer to listen.

Beauchamp had been telling the truth. On his way to the funeral, he’d spotted Monte Cristo heading toward Danglars’ mansion.

The banker watched the Count’s carriage enter his courtyard and walked out to meet him, forcing a sad but friendly smile.

"Well," Danglars said, extending his hand to Monte Cristo, "I suppose you’ve come to sympathize with me? Misfortune has really taken over my house lately. When I saw you, I was just wondering if I’d somehow cursed the Morcerf family, you know, like that saying, ’Whoever wishes evil on others will experience it themselves.’ But honestly, I didn’t wish them any harm! Morcerf was maybe a bit arrogant for someone who, like me, started from nothing. But we all have our flaws, right? You know, Count, people our age, well, not that you’re old, you’re still young, but people my age have had terrible luck this year. Look at that self-righteous prosecutor who just lost his daughter and basically his whole family in such a bizarre way. Morcerf, disgraced and dead. And me, covered in humiliation because of that villain Benedetto. Plus-"

"Plus what?" the Count asked.

"Oh, you don’t know?"

"What new disaster?"

"My daughter-"

"Mademoiselle Danglars?"

"Eugénie has left us!"

"Good God, what are you saying?"

"It’s true, my dear Count. You must be so lucky, having neither wife nor children!"

"You think so?"

"Absolutely."

"And Mademoiselle Danglars-"

"She couldn’t bear the insult from that scoundrel, so she asked permission to travel."

"And she’s gone?"

"Left the other night."

"With Madame Danglars?"

"No, with a relative. But we’ve truly lost our dear Eugénie, I doubt her pride will ever let her return to France."

"Still, Baron," Monte Cristo said, "family troubles, or any affliction that would crush a man whose child is his only treasure, are bearable for a millionaire. Philosophers always say, and practical people agree, that money softens many hardships. If you believe in this cure-all remedy, you should be easily consoled, you, the king of finance, the center of immeasurable wealth."

Danglars studied him sideways, trying to figure out if he was being serious.

"Yes," he finally said, "if a fortune brings consolation, I should be consoled. I’m rich."

"So rich, dear sir, that your fortune is like the pyramids, even if you wanted to tear them down, you couldn’t. And even if you could, you wouldn’t dare!"

Danglars smiled at the Count’s good-natured joke.

"That reminds me," he said, "when you arrived, I was about to sign five small bonds. I’ve already signed two. Do you mind if I finish the others?"

"Please, go ahead."

For a moment, the only sound was the scratching of the banker’s pen, while Monte Cristo examined the gilded decorations on the ceiling.

"Are these Spanish, Haitian, or Neapolitan bonds?" Monte Cristo asked casually.

"No," Danglars said, smiling. "They’re bonds on the Bank of France, payable to the bearer. Look, Count," he added, "you could be called the emperor while I claim the title of king of finance, do you have many pieces of paper this size, each worth a million?"

The Count took the papers Danglars proudly held out and read aloud:

"To the Governor of the Bank: Please pay to my order, from the funds deposited by me, the sum of one million, and charge the same to my account. Baron Danglars."

"One, two, three, four, five," Monte Cristo counted. "Five million! You’re richer than King Croesus!"

"This is how I do business," Danglars said smugly.

"It’s truly remarkable," the Count said. "Especially if, as I assume, it’s payable immediately."

"It is indeed," Danglars confirmed.

"What wonderful credit you have! Really, only in France do these things happen. Five million on five little scraps of paper! You have to see it to believe it."

"You doubt it?"

"No!"

"You say that with a certain tone... Wait, I’ll prove it to you. Take my clerk to the bank, and you’ll watch him return with an order from the Treasury for the same amount."

"No," Monte Cristo said, folding the five notes. "Absolutely not. This is so interesting, I want to try it myself. You owe me six million in credit. I’ve already withdrawn nine hundred thousand francs, so you still owe me five million one hundred thousand francs. I’ll take these five scraps of paper with your signature, and here’s a receipt clearing our full six million debt. I prepared it in advance because I really need money today."

Monte Cristo slipped the bonds into his pocket with one hand while holding out the receipt to Danglars with the other.

If lightning had struck at the banker’s feet, he couldn’t have been more terrified.

"What-" he stammered. "You mean to keep that money? Excuse me, but I owe this money to the charity fund! It’s a deposit I promised to pay this morning!"