The Count of Monte Cristo.
Jul. 7th, 2004 10:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
davywavyOne of the things about not owning a Tv is that Wade Towers tends to turn into a salon of late night conversation at times; banter, jokes, and drunken rants about the Common Agricultural Policy (Thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ukmonty, cryx, astebe7, colin_boyle, and jessworld for a spiffy evening last friday).
Sister has recently been re-reading The Count of Monte Cristo, which has inevitably, through the juxtaposition of names and these evening conversations, led to the proposal of "The Monty of Monte Cristo." And from there, a further leap to "The Christi of Monte Monto."*
For those of you who don't know the plot, The Count of Monte Cristo involves a man imprisoned for crimes he did not commit in the horrendous Chateau d'If. There he meets another prisoner, the aged Abbe Faria, through whose help he escapes, finds an immense hidden treasure on the island of Monte Cristo, and uses this fortune to take his revenge. Now read on...
The Monty of Monte Cristo
Descending into the cave, Monty began to tap the walls carefully until he came to a far corner where the rock face rang hollow. Beneath his exploring fingers he felt the softness of plaster, cunningly fashioned to mimic the solid rock. A few blows from his cavalry sabre and the plaster crumbled away, revealing a pair of cedar-wood doors set into the very wall of the cave. Scarcely daring to breathe, Monty reached to touch the doors, which swung open on silent hinges at the slightest pressure, revealing a dark void beyond. Torch in hand, Monty stepped over the threshold and looked around.
His torch showed a series of chambers, each panelled from ceiling to floor in fragrant red cedar-wood. The air was cool and moist, no doubt owing to the cave’s situation below sea level, and potent with the heady scent of fresh, premium-grade tobacco leaf. On every shelf the flickering light showed box after box of the finest cigars, numbering perhaps hundreds of thousands in total. There were more cigars here than even Monty could possibly manage to smoke in his lifetime - even if he chain-smoked several at a time and didn’t sleep, he calculated rapidly - a treasure of inestimable value. The fabled caves of Monte Cristo were nothing less than an enormous walk-in humidor.
For the first time Monty realised how the island of Monte Cristo had got its name.
Filling his pockets with cigars, he returned back up to the open. Down on the beach he found Luigi, his faithful Sicilian henchman, building a fire out of driftwood.
“Ah, Luigi,” he called cheerfully, “be a good fellow and just lend me that Sicilian dagger thingy you carry, if you don’t mind – you know, the extra-sharp one you use for those Vendettas you chaps go in for.”
The Sicilian’s eyes widened.
“The Signore surely does not intend …” He drew a trembling hand across his swarthy throat.
“Of course not, you silly ass, I merely want to trim this fine cigar before I light it.”
Fitting his actions to the words, Monty settled back on a rock and drew in a mouthful of fragrant smoke.
“Tell you what, Luigi,” he said, “why don’t you take my fowling piece and see if you can’t go and bag a few brace of those succulent young quail I noticed just now, pecking about under the myrtle bushes up there. I wager they’d roast up rather well. And while you’re about it, see if you can find any quails’ eggs. We could have them as a hors d’oeuvre, seasoned with the sea salt that I see crystallised around the edge of this convenient rock-pool. There’s a selection of local cheeses in the yacht, wrapped in vine leaves, and you’ll find a couple of bottles of surprisingly acceptable Orvieto – and,” added Monty in a burst of generosity, “why don’t you open a bottle of something for yourself, while you’re about it.”
“But Signore,” stammered his henchman, “are you not anxious to leave the island at once and avenge yourself upon the men who plotted to incarcerate you in the dreadful dungeons of the Chateau d’If?”
By way of response Monty drew deeply on the Havana, before rolling the smoke around his mouth and blowing it out in the Sicilian’s face.
“They can wait,” he said.
The Christi of Monte Monto
“During the first twenty years of my imprisonment,” explained the old priest humbly, “I developed a technique of echo location to analyse the sound of the ringing of the guards’ boots through the solid rock which surrounds my cell. This, combined with my knowledge of geology and the relative acoustic properties of air (adjusted for humidity and radon content) and volcanic magma, enabled me to map out a perfect three-dimensional construct of all the rooms and passages in the Chateau d’If, as well as those naturally occurring faults and fissures in the rock itself. Unable to record this information on paper, I trained myself to carry a mental model at all times, extended into phase space by means of a system of mathematics of my own devising, in order to depict the guards’ changing shifts and rota systems. Then, in the next ten years, I developed my muscles, using isometric exercises of my own devising, until I was able by hand to compress the soot from my fireplace into a rough but serviceable diamond, with which, fashioning a makeshift chisel, I was able to tunnel from my cell to the outer wall of the Chateau. Finally, using strands of hair and linen hoarded over many years, I have woven this rope, which I calculate to be of sufficient length and strength to bear the weight of a man – or woman – to freedom. Yes! I say a woman! For alas, my strength, at last, is fading, and I shall never again breathe the pure air or see the fresh light of day. But to you, my daughter, I bequeath these gifts, the knowledge of the tunnel and this rope, that you may escape in my place, and find happiness.”
Christi looked down at the old priest with a curl of her lip.
“I suppose you think you’ve done something clever,” she said scornfully.
She turned round and went back to her cell.
*As usual, no offense intented to those mercilessly lampooned.
ukmonty, cryx, astebe7, colin_boyle, and jessworld for a spiffy evening last friday).Sister has recently been re-reading The Count of Monte Cristo, which has inevitably, through the juxtaposition of names and these evening conversations, led to the proposal of "The Monty of Monte Cristo." And from there, a further leap to "The Christi of Monte Monto."*
For those of you who don't know the plot, The Count of Monte Cristo involves a man imprisoned for crimes he did not commit in the horrendous Chateau d'If. There he meets another prisoner, the aged Abbe Faria, through whose help he escapes, finds an immense hidden treasure on the island of Monte Cristo, and uses this fortune to take his revenge. Now read on...
The Monty of Monte Cristo
Descending into the cave, Monty began to tap the walls carefully until he came to a far corner where the rock face rang hollow. Beneath his exploring fingers he felt the softness of plaster, cunningly fashioned to mimic the solid rock. A few blows from his cavalry sabre and the plaster crumbled away, revealing a pair of cedar-wood doors set into the very wall of the cave. Scarcely daring to breathe, Monty reached to touch the doors, which swung open on silent hinges at the slightest pressure, revealing a dark void beyond. Torch in hand, Monty stepped over the threshold and looked around.
His torch showed a series of chambers, each panelled from ceiling to floor in fragrant red cedar-wood. The air was cool and moist, no doubt owing to the cave’s situation below sea level, and potent with the heady scent of fresh, premium-grade tobacco leaf. On every shelf the flickering light showed box after box of the finest cigars, numbering perhaps hundreds of thousands in total. There were more cigars here than even Monty could possibly manage to smoke in his lifetime - even if he chain-smoked several at a time and didn’t sleep, he calculated rapidly - a treasure of inestimable value. The fabled caves of Monte Cristo were nothing less than an enormous walk-in humidor.
For the first time Monty realised how the island of Monte Cristo had got its name.
Filling his pockets with cigars, he returned back up to the open. Down on the beach he found Luigi, his faithful Sicilian henchman, building a fire out of driftwood.
“Ah, Luigi,” he called cheerfully, “be a good fellow and just lend me that Sicilian dagger thingy you carry, if you don’t mind – you know, the extra-sharp one you use for those Vendettas you chaps go in for.”
The Sicilian’s eyes widened.
“The Signore surely does not intend …” He drew a trembling hand across his swarthy throat.
“Of course not, you silly ass, I merely want to trim this fine cigar before I light it.”
Fitting his actions to the words, Monty settled back on a rock and drew in a mouthful of fragrant smoke.
“Tell you what, Luigi,” he said, “why don’t you take my fowling piece and see if you can’t go and bag a few brace of those succulent young quail I noticed just now, pecking about under the myrtle bushes up there. I wager they’d roast up rather well. And while you’re about it, see if you can find any quails’ eggs. We could have them as a hors d’oeuvre, seasoned with the sea salt that I see crystallised around the edge of this convenient rock-pool. There’s a selection of local cheeses in the yacht, wrapped in vine leaves, and you’ll find a couple of bottles of surprisingly acceptable Orvieto – and,” added Monty in a burst of generosity, “why don’t you open a bottle of something for yourself, while you’re about it.”
“But Signore,” stammered his henchman, “are you not anxious to leave the island at once and avenge yourself upon the men who plotted to incarcerate you in the dreadful dungeons of the Chateau d’If?”
By way of response Monty drew deeply on the Havana, before rolling the smoke around his mouth and blowing it out in the Sicilian’s face.
“They can wait,” he said.
The Christi of Monte Monto
“During the first twenty years of my imprisonment,” explained the old priest humbly, “I developed a technique of echo location to analyse the sound of the ringing of the guards’ boots through the solid rock which surrounds my cell. This, combined with my knowledge of geology and the relative acoustic properties of air (adjusted for humidity and radon content) and volcanic magma, enabled me to map out a perfect three-dimensional construct of all the rooms and passages in the Chateau d’If, as well as those naturally occurring faults and fissures in the rock itself. Unable to record this information on paper, I trained myself to carry a mental model at all times, extended into phase space by means of a system of mathematics of my own devising, in order to depict the guards’ changing shifts and rota systems. Then, in the next ten years, I developed my muscles, using isometric exercises of my own devising, until I was able by hand to compress the soot from my fireplace into a rough but serviceable diamond, with which, fashioning a makeshift chisel, I was able to tunnel from my cell to the outer wall of the Chateau. Finally, using strands of hair and linen hoarded over many years, I have woven this rope, which I calculate to be of sufficient length and strength to bear the weight of a man – or woman – to freedom. Yes! I say a woman! For alas, my strength, at last, is fading, and I shall never again breathe the pure air or see the fresh light of day. But to you, my daughter, I bequeath these gifts, the knowledge of the tunnel and this rope, that you may escape in my place, and find happiness.”
Christi looked down at the old priest with a curl of her lip.
“I suppose you think you’ve done something clever,” she said scornfully.
She turned round and went back to her cell.
*As usual, no offense intented to those mercilessly lampooned.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-07-07 02:26 am (UTC)By way of some useless information, i have been to the very castle said to have inspired the story - not far from Montreux. The dungeon was quite impressive.
The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 02:39 am (UTC)As to the title of this response, Have you ever seen an ill Kipper?
Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 02:42 am (UTC)And no, I haven't seen any ill kippers. But I've seen a hell of a lot of dead ones.
no subject
Date: 2004-07-07 02:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-07 02:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-07 02:56 am (UTC)/me runs off like a gazelle with ginger up its arse and tells a policeman.
Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 03:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-07 03:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-07 03:47 am (UTC)Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 03:52 am (UTC)You were doing well with the Pimms yesterday, but I 'm not sure you should push it.
Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 04:32 am (UTC)Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 04:42 am (UTC)The "logic" holds!
Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 04:51 am (UTC)Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 04:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-07 04:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-07 05:22 am (UTC)Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 06:29 am (UTC)Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 06:33 am (UTC)Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 07:29 am (UTC)I would like to appologies in advance for David Wade. As we all know he has been under a lot of strain setting up Wade International (although whats so International about Stevenage?)and it seems that this low level straining and stress (unlike the high stress and strain of serving her majesties Public in London as a member of the elite mas tranport organisation that is the envy of the civilised world. And thats the difference between Private and Public Sectors. We winge less and dont offer violence)has reduced him to talking in the third person.
So in the tradition of Western Civilisation we should all point at him a lugh until he snaps out of it.
David: I also note that you still have not denied having American Tendencies. You may have picked them up staying at hotels in Manchester, Lancashire.
Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 07:31 am (UTC)Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 07:52 am (UTC)Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 07:54 am (UTC)the elite mas tranport organisation that is the envy of the civilised world
I never knew you had such regard for cabbies.
And thats the difference between Private and Public Sectors. We winge less and dont offer violence
*Scoff* *Guffaw* *Hoot* *Mock*
Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 07:58 am (UTC)And cabbies are part of TfL. We are one big happy family.
Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 07:59 am (UTC)Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 07:59 am (UTC)Artistic Flair
Date: 2004-07-07 08:01 am (UTC)Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 08:01 am (UTC)But it is grim up north, as they say, so you can always use the bad light levels as an exscuse.
Oh, Hang on, That makes me sound like your stalker. I retract that in its entirity.
Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 01:20 pm (UTC)Happy family? Gah, I remember our heartfelt rants when I was working on the PPP project and struggling to understand the justification for Andersen Consulting.
Get out of PR while you still can, man, it's making you hallucinate.
Re: The kippers of Health
Date: 2004-07-07 01:22 pm (UTC)thank you, Vicky.