Respawned as The Count of Glow-Up-Chapter 267: The Baron’s Journey: I

A carriage rattled down the dusty road from Florence to Rome, moving fast but not suspiciously so. Inside sat a Frenchman wrapped in a travel-worn coat, though the ribbon of the Legion of Honor on his chest still gleamed bright and new. His accent gave him away immediately, he was unmistakably French, knowing only two Italian words, "Allegro!" when they climbed hills, and "Moderato!" when they descended. The postilions found this endlessly amusing.

When they reached La Storta, where travelers usually crane their necks for their first glimpse of Saint Peter’s dome, the Frenchman showed no interest. Instead, he pulled out a folded paper from his pocketbook and examined it with something close to reverence.

"Good! I still have it," he muttered to himself.

The carriage entered Rome through the Porto del Popolo gate and pulled up at the Hotel d’Espagne. The proprietor, old Pastrini, greeted him with a bow. The traveler stepped down, ordered dinner, and asked for directions to the banking house of Thomson & French. It was near Saint Peter’s, on Via dei Banchi, one of the most famous establishments in the city.

The arrival of any carriage always drew a crowd in Rome. Barefoot street kids gathered around, their hands positioned dramatically as if posing for statues. They were quickly joined by young boys who made coins diving into the Tiber from the bridge of Saint Angelo. These Roman street Arabs understood every language, especially French, and they caught every word the newcomer said.

When the traveler left the hotel with his guide, one man peeled away from the idle crowd and followed at a careful distance, moving with the skill of a professional tracker.

The Frenchman was too impatient to wait for his carriage to be ready. He told the driver to catch up with him or wait at the bank, then set off on foot with his guide. He reached Thomson & French before his carriage arrived, leaving his guide to chat with the usual loiterers outside. The man who’d been following slipped in behind him like a shadow.

"Baron Danglars," he announced himself to the clerk.

He was shown into an inner office while his shadow sat down on a bench to wait. For five minutes, the clerk kept writing, and the man sat in perfect silence. Then the clerk’s pen stopped. He looked up, made sure they were alone, and smiled.

"Ah! Here you are, Peppino!"

"Yes," Peppino replied shortly.

"You’ve figured out this fat gentleman has something valuable?"

"No great skill required. We were tipped off."

"So you know why he’s here?"

"Of course, he’s here to withdraw money. Just don’t know how much yet."

"You’ll know soon enough, my friend."

"Just don’t give me bad information like last time. Remember that Russian prince? You said thirty thousand, we only found twenty-two."

"You must have searched badly."

"Luigi Vampa himself did the searching."

"Well, let me finish my observations, or the Frenchman will complete his business before I know the amount."

Peppino nodded and pulled out a rosary, mumbling prayers while the clerk disappeared through the same door Danglars had used. Ten minutes later, he returned, face glowing with excitement.

"Well?" Peppino asked.

"Joy! The sum is enormous!"

"Five or six million?"

"So you already knew?"

"We were informed beforehand, like I said. I just wanted to confirm it’s the right man."

"It’s him, all right. Five million! Quite a prize, eh, Peppino?"

"Quiet, he’s coming back."

The clerk grabbed his pen, Peppino his beads. One pretended to write, the other to pray, as Danglars emerged looking radiant. The banker himself walked him to the door, and Peppino fell in behind.

The carriage waited outside as arranged. Danglars practically jumped into it like a man half his age. The guide closed the door and sprang up beside the coachman. Peppino climbed onto the seat behind.

"Will your excellency visit Saint Peter’s?" the guide asked.

"I didn’t come to Rome to sightsee," Danglars said loudly, then added in a whisper with a greedy smile, "I came to collect!" He patted the pocketbook now containing an important letter.

"Then where to?"

"The hotel."

Ten minutes later, the baron entered his rooms while Peppino stationed himself on a bench outside. He whispered something to one of the street kids, who immediately sprinted toward the Capitol at full speed.

Exhausted, Danglars went straight to bed, tucking his pocketbook under his pillow. Peppino killed time playing a gambling game with some porters, lost three crowns, then consoled himself with a bottle of wine.

The next morning, Danglars woke late despite going to bed early, he’d barely slept properly in nearly a week. After a hearty breakfast, he ordered post-horses for noon, caring nothing for Rome’s famous sights. But between police paperwork and the posting-master’s laziness, the horses didn’t arrive until two, and his passport didn’t come until three.

The delays drew a crowd of idlers to Pastrini’s door. As Danglars walked through them, they called him "your excellency" hoping for tips. Having only been called "baron" before, Danglars enjoyed the upgrade and distributed a dozen silver coins. The beggars would gladly have called him "your highness" for twelve more.

"Which road?" the postilion asked in Italian.

"The Ancona road," Danglars replied through Pastrini’s translation. He planned to reach Venice to collect part of his fortune, then Vienna for the rest. Vienna, he’d heard, was a city of pleasure, the perfect place to settle.

They’d barely covered three leagues when darkness fell. Danglars hadn’t meant to leave so late. He stuck his head out the window.

"How long until the next town?" he called.

"Non capisco," came the reply, don’t understand.

Danglars nodded and pulled his head back in. I’ll stop at the first posting station, he told himself.

He still felt the same satisfaction from the previous evening, which had given him such restful sleep. Stretched out in his comfortable English carriage with its excellent springs, drawn by four horses at full gallop, knowing the next relay was only seven leagues away, what could a newly-rich bankrupt possibly worry about?

He thought about his wife in Paris for ten minutes. Another ten minutes for his daughter traveling with her companion. He spent the same amount of time thinking about his creditors and how he’d spend their money. Then, out of things to contemplate, he closed his eyes and dozed off.

Occasional jolts made him open his eyes briefly, but he only saw the same landscape rushing past, broken aqueducts standing like petrified giants frozen mid-race. The night was cold and rainy, much more pleasant to stay inside than stick his head out to question a postilion who only answered "Non capisco" anyway. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

Danglars kept sleeping, confident he’d wake at the posting station.

When the carriage stopped, he expected to see a town or at least a village. Instead, through the window he saw what looked like ruins, with three or four shadowy figures moving about. He waited for the postilion to come collect payment, planning to question the new driver. But the horses were changed without anyone asking for money.