Monte-Cristo's Daughter
breach between Eugenie and the Count of Monte-Cristo, and the young
couple, together with the real Mlle. d' Armilly, had been added to the
happy family in the mansion of the Rue du Helder.
The Viscount Giovanni Massetti had appeared in Paris. Immediately after
his reckless visit to Zuleika in the convent garden and his wild
interview with her there, he had gone to the Count of Monte-Cristo,
avowed his love for Haydee's child and solicited her hand in marriage.
He had been told to wait a year, a period he had passed he scarcely knew
how, but it had been an eternity to him, an eternity fraught with
restless anxiety, with alternations between ardent hope and the depths
of despair. The expiration of his probation found him in the mansion of
the Rue du Helder, renewing his earnest suit with the Count, who had
granted him permission to win his daughter if he could. The young
Italian had at once sought Zuleika, who had welcomed him as her lover
and betrothed. Then a clash had suddenly arisen; Esperance had expressed
his abhorrence of his sister's suitor, had given mysterious hints that
had recalled the half-forgotten Roman scandal, and a separation between
Giovanni and Zuleika had ensued, the former refusing to speak out and
clear himself, pleading his terrible oath of silence. In the course of
his vague, unsatisfactory disclosures, Esperance had unguardedly
mentioned the name of Luigi Vampa, and the Count of Monte-Cristo had
written to the brigand chief, requesting such information as he
possessed in regard to the impenetrable mystery. Vampa's reply had been
a fearful arraignment of the youthful Viscount, but Zuleika could not
believe her lover the depraved and guilty wretch the brigand chief
represented him to be, asserting that there was something yet
unexplained, something that would effectually exculpate him could it be
reached. The Count of Monte-Cristo had at first inclined to the belief
that Massetti was merely the victim of circumstances, of some remarkable
coincidence, but Vampa's letter scattered this belief to the winds and
he demanded that the Viscount should conclusively prove his innocence.
Zuleika had meanwhile banished her lover from her presence, but her
heart yearned for him and defended him in spite of everything. She
therefore sent him Vampa's letter, assuring him of her belief in his
innocence and commanding him to prove it to her and to the world.
Thereupon Giovanni had instantly quitted Paris. His sudden disappearance
seemed like a flight; it caused scandal's thousand tongues to wag
remorselessly; but, although he left no word for her, Zuleika knew her
command had sent him to Italy to clear his name and record in her eyes;
she was firmly convinced that she would see him again, that he would
return to Paris rehabilitated.
Such was the general condition of affairs, as affecting the
Monte-Cristo family, at the time the thread of this narrative is
resumed.
It was the month of July. The heat in Paris was intense, absolutely
stifling; a white glow seemed to fall from the breezeless, yellow
atmosphere, scorching the very pavements; for weeks there had been no
rain, not the slightest sign of a cloud in the pitiless heavens. The
streets were almost deserted; even that favored thoroughfare of fashion,
the Rue de la Paix, boasted of but few promenaders; the only spot in
request was the Bois de Boulogne, with its magnificent trees and
deliciously shaded avenues; the Champs-Elysees, throughout its entire
extent, from the Place de la Concorde to the Arc de l' Etoile, was like
a sun-swept desert, and its picturesque marchands de coco, with their
shining mugs, snow-white aprons and tinkling bells, found only a limited
demand for their liquorice water and lemon juice, while even the
Theatres de Guignol failed to arrest the rare passers.
In the vast garden of the Monte-Cristo mansion, notwithstanding its
power elsewhere, the sun seemed to have been successfully defied; there
the trees, shrubs and plants were not parched, but preserved all their
freshness and beauty, suggesting the coolness of early spring rather
than the sweltering heat of midsummer, while the parterres were
brilliant with gorgeous bloom and penetrating perfumes loaded the air.
Near a little gate opening upon the Rue du Helder, early one morning,
Zuleika and Mlle. d' Armilly were sitting on a rustic bench beneath an
ample honeysuckle-covered arbor. They had come to the garden from the
breakfast-room to rest and chat after their meal. The former
music-teacher was telling her companion of her stage experience and of
the many adventures she had met with during her operatic career. In the
midst of a most interesting recital, she suddenly paused, fixing her
eyes upon the little gate, with a cry of surprise and terror. Zuleika
followed the direction of her glance and gave a start as she saw,
leaning against the bars of the gate, a sinister-looking man, clad in
dusty, tattered garments, who was peering at her companion and herself
with eyes that glittered like those of some venomous serpent. When he
noticed that he was observed, the man pulled a greasy, weather-stained
cap from his head, disclosing a profusion of matted, whitened locks,
and, stretching a grimy hand, with hooked fingers that resembled the
claws of an enormous bird, through the bars, said, in the hoarse tones
peculiar to the outcasts of the streets:
"Charity, for the love of God!"
The man seemed more like a thief than a beggar. Nevertheless, Mlle. d'
Armilly, who was the first to recover her self-possession, drew a few
sous from her pocket and advanced to place them in his palm. As she came
closer to him, the mendicant acted very strangely. Instead of taking the
money, he suddenly withdrew his hand, staring at Mlle. d' Armilly with
an expression of mingled terror and amazement upon his evil countenance.
Then he quickly turned from the gate, thrust on his cap and started off
at a rapid pace. Mlle. d' Armilly also was singularly affected; she
dropped the sous, became ashy pale and would have fallen to the ground
had not Zuleika sprung to her side and caught her in her arms.
"What is the matter, Louise?" cried the girl, astonished at the beggar's
behavior and still more so at the effect he had produced upon her
companion.
"I have seen a ghost!" replied Mlle. d' Armilly, in a startling whisper.
"A ghost?"
"Yes! Oh! let us quit the garden at once!"
"The ghost of whom?"
"I dare not say! Come, come, I cannot remain here another second! How
fortunate that young Madame de Morcerf was not with us! She would have
been driven mad!"
"Albert's wife? You talk wildly, Louise. What interest could she feel in
that wretched outcast?"
"What interest? Do not ask me. I cannot, I must not tell you! Oh! it is
terrible!"
"Will you tell Albert's wife of what you have seen?"
"No! a thousand times no! She must not even suspect that man's return
from the grave! I entreat you to say nothing to her or any one else!"
"I shall be silent upon the subject; but that beggar was not a ghost; he
was a most substantial reality. Something frightened him away,
something, doubtless, that he saw in the street, perhaps a sergent de
ville. Your recognition of him was fancied."
"It was not fancied. But we must not stay here; I would not see that
face, those eyes again for worlds!"
Zuleika took her friend's arm and walked with her towards the mansion,
endeavoring as they went along to reassure her, to reason her out of her
fright. Her efforts, however, proved altogether futile. Mlle. d' Armilly
was utterly unnerved and at once retired to her room.
Notwithstanding her willingness to believe that Mlle. d' Armilly had
been deceived with regard to the identity of the beggar and, in her
confusion, had confounded him with some one else, Zuleika could not
altogether shake off a feeling of vague apprehension, of ill-defined
terror when she thought over the singular conduct and wild agitation of
the former music-teacher in the quiet and solitude of her own chamber.
Why had Mlle. d' Armilly been so stricken at the sight of the mendicant?
Why had she so earnestly entreated her to say nothing of what had
occurred to any one, and, especially, to avoid all mention of the matter
to Albert de Morcerf's wife? Mlle. d' Armilly had seen too much of the
world to be frightened by a mere trifle. Was it possible that the ragged
outcast had been in some way identified with young Madame de Morcerf's
operatic career, that he had been her lover? The latter supposition
would furnish a plausible cause for the former music-teacher's terror,
as the reappearance of a lover might lead to disclosures well-calculated
to seriously disturb the happiness and tranquillity of the newly-made
husband and wife. Zuleika had heard that Eugenie had been much courted
during the period she was on the stage, that she had numbered her ardent
admirers by scores, but this man seemed too old, too forlorn, to have
recently been in a position to scatter wealth at the feet of a prima
donna. Besides, Mlle. d' Armilly had spoken of him as a ghost and had
appeared to refer him to a period more remote. Zuleika had also heard of
Mlle. Danglars' broken marriage-contract away back in the past. Could
this beggar be the scoundrel who had masqueraded under the assumed title
of Prince Cavalcanti and had so nearly become her husband? Perhaps; but
even if he were that unscrupulous wretch, what harm could his
reappearance do at this late day, now that the old story had been
thoroughly sifted and almost forgotten? Albert was well aware of all the
details of the Cavalcanti episode, and it was hardly likely that
anything further could be exposed that would disturb either him or his
wife. No, the grimy, white-haired, sinister-looking stranger could not
be the quondam Prince; he was some one else, some one more to be feared.
But who was he, if not the miserable son of Villefort? Zuleika was more
perplexed and disturbed than she was willing to admit, even to herself.
If she could only speak with the Count of Monte-Cristo, tell him all,
some explanation of the mystery might, doubtless, be obtained, an
explanation that would, at least, calm her vague fears; but that was
impossible; her promise to Mlle. d' Armilly to be silent sealed her lips
as effectually with her father as with young Madame de Morcerf. Whatever
might be her fears, she would have to bear them alone, or, at the best,
share them with Mlle. d' Armilly, who, evidently, would give her no
further satisfaction.
Meanwhile the man who had caused all this trouble after having almost
run quite a distance along the Rue du Helder, utterly oblivious of the
attention he drew to himself from the rare passers, turned into the Rue
Taitbout, thence reached the Rue de Provence and finally found himself
in the Cite d' Antin. There he made his way into a small drinking-shop
or caboulot, patronized by some of the worst prowlers about that section
of Paris. The room he entered was unoccupied save by a slatternly young
woman, who sat behind the counter reading a greasy copy of the Gazette
des Tribunaux. The man went to the counter and, throwing down the price,
demanded a glass of brandy, which he swallowed at a gulp. Then he
addressed the slatternly young woman, who, with her paper still in one
hand, was half-smiling, half-scowling at him.
"Is Waldmann here?" he asked, with the air of a man who feels himself
thoroughly at home.
"Yes," answered the young woman, resuming her seat and her reading; "he
is in the back room, playing piquet with Peppino, Beppo and Siebecker."
"Good!" said the man. "I am in luck. I scarcely expected to find them
all in at this hour."
With this he opened a glazed door, and, stepping into the back room,
closed it behind him. The players, who were seated at a table, with mugs