Signor Fagiano stood in the beautiful parlor, and a malicious smile played about his lips.

The banker entered now. The scene in the painter's garden would not vanish from his mind. Fagiano had approached him then and triumphantly whispered:

"Monsieur de Larsagny, I know your past."

Larsagny had uttered a cry of terror.

"If I am to remain silent," Fagiano had added, "I must have money."

"But who are you?"

Whereupon the answer had come:

"Take care that you do not find out my name too soon."

With inward fear the banker approached the Italian to-day.

"Signor Fagiano, what brings you here to-day? This is the second time that you have crossed my path, and I hope it will be the last. I do not know you, you do not know me, and I cannot understand to what I am indebted for the honor of your visit. I am very patient, but everything has its limits, and only the position I occupy prevents me from throwing you out."

"Call your servants, Monsieur de Larsagny. I have no fear of publicity," said Fagiano, boldly.

The banker grasped the bell-rope, but let his hand fall again, and Fagiano, who noticed this, mockingly observed:

"Why do you hesitate? Would you prefer to finish our interview without witnesses?"

"Impudent puppy!" hissed Larsagny.

"Do not get excited! Let us come to the point."

"I have been waiting for that a long time," growled Larsagny; "tell me, first of all, who are you?"

Fagiano drew nearer to the banker, and, grinning, said:

"You really do not recognize me?"

"No."

The Italian laughed loudly.

"Then give me two hundred thousand francs," said Fagiano, "and I will disappear forever."

"I would be a fool to give an unknown person a single sou."

"You really do not know my name, then?"

"No."

"H'm; but I know yours."

"That isn't a great thing. My name is known on the street and at Court."

"Yes, the name of Larsagny; as Monsieur Danglars you are also known, though in a different way."

Larsagny trembled and was about to fall.

"You lie!" he hissed.

"What would you say if I told your sovereign that the man he put at the head of the syndicate is only one of that crowd of unhanged thieves who roam about in the world?"

"Wretch, you will say nothing of the kind," cried Danglars (for it was really he); and putting his hand in his breast-pocket he drew forth a revolver and held it at the Italian's breast.

"Softly, softly," said Fagiano, as he took the weapon away from the banker and put it in his pocket. "A little while ago I asked for two hundred thousand francs; now I must increase my demand to half a million."

"You are a fool," said Danglars, pale with rage. "You will never get a sou from me."

"Have no fear about that; as soon as I threaten to expose you, you will submit; I have some piquant details in petto."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, I will announce your name at the same time as mine."

"What has that got to do with me?"

"More than you think. Don't you really know me?"

"No."

"So much the worse. But tell me, baron, is Carmen really your daughter?"

"But—who—gives—you—the right—" said Danglars, stammering.

"Next you will deny that you ever had a wife?"

"Leave my wife's name alone."

"Good. Then let us talk of your daughter who is much older and does not bear the name of Carmen."

Danglars hid his face in his hands.

"Baron, you are the friend of the emperor and are very rich, and no one suspects that Baron Larsagny is the former forger and swindler Danglars. One word from me and you sink deep in the mud. It depends on you whether I am to be your friend or your enemy."

"Ah, now I know who you are," said the banker, springing up. "You are Andrea Cavalcanti."

"Right," laughed Fagiano.

"Now I remember. You put a title to your name, played the heir of a great fortune, and entered into near relations with my family. An impudence which the avenging arm of the law punished."

"Yes, I am Benedetto the murderer—Benedetto the criminal. But do you know who my father was?"

"Yes, I heard about the scandalous trial; I was not in France at the time, but—Go on, you," urged Danglars.

"And do you also know the name of my mother, baron?"

"No."

"Well, then, my mother was—the Baroness Danglars."

"The miserable creature—the wretch!" cried Danglars, hoarsely. "But no—you lie, it cannot be so."

"She was my mother," said Benedetto, accenting the word was.

"She was? Is she dead?" asked Danglars, softly.

"Yes, I killed her."

"Horrible," groaned Danglars, wringing his hands.

"If you want proofs," continued Benedetto, coldly, "here they are."

He took Anselmo's writing out of his pocket and handed it to the banker.

"Read," he said, indifferently.

"What do you want from me?" murmured Danglars, hoarsely.

"First, money, and then let us talk further."

"You shall have what you want," replied Danglars.

"Good; now comes the second point."

"Do not torture me any longer," said Danglars.

"Have you forgotten who it was that humiliated you, trod you in the dust?" said Benedetto, laying his hand on the banker's shoulder. "That man is your bad genius as well as mine. It was the Count of Monte-Cristo who taught me the pleasures of life only to throw me back to the Bagnio again. Since I have been free I dream of revenge against him. I know the spot where he is mortal. Can I count on your support?"

"Yes; but I fear our attempts will be fruitless."

"Fruitless? I swear to you that we shall be successful."

"But he is a supernatural man. You might as well attack God."

"And yet he has an Achilles heel! Once more, will you help me?"

"Yes; but I do not understand you."

"The whole of the Count of Monte-Cristo's affection is centred in his son, and through this son we must strike him. He shall suffer all the tortures of hell, and in his son, whom he idolizes, we shall punish him."

"Now I understand you," said Danglars.

"In the first place, you must give me money, and then wait until I call you."

"And you guarantee that the grief will kill him?"

"Yes, I guarantee it."

"Then I am yours."