The Count of Monte Cristo
“He was an eccentric being, and did not believe in the existence of
gratitude.”
“Oh, Heaven,” exclaimed Julie, clasping her hands, “in what did he
believe, then?”
30047m
“He did not credit it at the period which I knew him,” said Monte
Cristo, touched to the heart by the accents of Julie’s voice; “but,
perhaps, since then he has had proofs that gratitude does exist.”
“And do you know this gentleman, monsieur?” inquired Emmanuel.
“Oh, if you do know him,” cried Julie, “can you tell us where he
is—where we can find him? Maximilian—Emmanuel—if we do but discover
him, he must believe in the gratitude of the heart!”
Monte Cristo felt tears start into his eyes, and he again walked
hastily up and down the room.
“In the name of Heaven,” said Maximilian, “if you know anything of him,
tell us what it is.”
“Alas,” cried Monte Cristo, striving to repress his emotion, “if Lord
Wilmore was your unknown benefactor, I fear you will never see him
again. I parted from him two years ago at Palermo, and he was then on
the point of setting out for the most remote regions; so that I fear he
will never return.”
“Oh, monsieur, this is cruel of you,” said Julie, much affected; and
the young lady’s eyes swam with tears.
“Madame,” replied Monte Cristo gravely, and gazing earnestly on the two
liquid pearls that trickled down Julie’s cheeks, “had Lord Wilmore seen
what I now see, he would become attached to life, for the tears you
shed would reconcile him to mankind;” and he held out his hand to
Julie, who gave him hers, carried away by the look and accent of the
count.
“But,” continued she, “Lord Wilmore had a family or friends, he must
have known someone, can we not——”
“Oh, it is useless to inquire,” returned the count; “perhaps, after
all, he was not the man you seek for. He was my friend: he had no
secrets from me, and if this had been so he would have confided in me.”
“And he told you nothing?”
“Not a word.”
“Nothing that would lead you to suppose?”
“Nothing.”
“And yet you spoke of him at once.”
“Ah, in such a case one supposes——”
“Sister, sister,” said Maximilian, coming to the count’s aid, “monsieur
is quite right. Recollect what our excellent father so often told us,
‘It was no Englishman that thus saved us.’”
Monte Cristo started. “What did your father tell you, M. Morrel?” said
he eagerly.
“My father thought that this action had been miraculously performed—he
believed that a benefactor had arisen from the grave to save us. Oh, it
was a touching superstition, monsieur, and although I did not myself
believe it, I would not for the world have destroyed my father’s faith.
How often did he muse over it and pronounce the name of a dear friend—a
friend lost to him forever; and on his death-bed, when the near
approach of eternity seemed to have illumined his mind with
supernatural light, this thought, which had until then been but a
doubt, became a conviction, and his last words were, ‘Maximilian, it
was Edmond Dantès!’”
At these words the count’s paleness, which had for some time been
increasing, became alarming; he could not speak; he looked at his watch
like a man who has forgotten the hour, said a few hurried words to
Madame Herbault, and pressing the hands of Emmanuel and
Maximilian,—“Madame,” said he, “I trust you will allow me to visit you
occasionally; I value your friendship, and feel grateful to you for
your welcome, for this is the first time for many years that I have
thus yielded to my feelings;” and he hastily quitted the apartment.
“This Count of Monte Cristo is a strange man,” said Emmanuel.
“Yes,” answered Maximilian, “but I feel sure he has an excellent heart,
and that he likes us.”
“His voice went to my heart,” observed Julie; “and two or three times I
fancied that I had heard it before.”
Chapter 51. Pyramus and Thisbe
About two-thirds of the way along the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and in the
rear of one of the most imposing mansions in this rich neighborhood,
where the various houses vie with each other for elegance of design and
magnificence of construction, extended a large garden, where the
wide-spreading chestnut-trees raised their heads high above the walls
in a solid rampart, and with the coming of every spring scattered a
shower of delicate pink and white blossoms into the large stone vases
that stood upon the two square pilasters of a curiously wrought iron
gate, that dated from the time of Louis XIII.
This noble entrance, however, in spite of its striking appearance and
the graceful effect of the geraniums planted in the two vases, as they
waved their variegated leaves in the wind and charmed the eye with
their scarlet bloom, had fallen into utter disuse. The proprietors of
the mansion had many years before thought it best to confine themselves
to the possession of the house itself, with its thickly planted
courtyard, opening into the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and to the garden
shut in by this gate, which formerly communicated with a fine
kitchen-garden of about an acre. For the demon of speculation drew a
line, or in other words projected a street, at the farther side of the
kitchen-garden. The street was laid out, a name was chosen and posted
up on an iron plate, but before construction was begun, it occurred to
the possessor of the property that a handsome sum might be obtained for
the ground then devoted to fruits and vegetables, by building along the
line of the proposed street, and so making it a branch of communication
with the Faubourg Saint-Honoré itself, one of the most important
thoroughfares in the city of Paris.
In matters of speculation, however, though “man proposes,” yet “money
disposes.” From some such difficulty the newly named street died almost
in birth, and the purchaser of the kitchen-garden, having paid a high
price for it, and being quite unable to find anyone willing to take his
bargain off his hands without a considerable loss, yet still clinging
to the belief that at some future day he should obtain a sum for it
that would repay him, not only for his past outlay, but also the
interest upon the capital locked up in his new acquisition, contented
himself with letting the ground temporarily to some market-gardeners,
at a yearly rental of 500 francs.
And so, as we have said, the iron gate leading into the kitchen-garden
had been closed up and left to the rust, which bade fair before long to
eat off its hinges, while to prevent the ignoble glances of the diggers
and delvers of the ground from presuming to sully the aristocratic
enclosure belonging to the mansion, the gate had been boarded up to a
height of six feet. True, the planks were not so closely adjusted but
that a hasty peep might be obtained through their interstices; but the
strict decorum and rigid propriety of the inhabitants of the house left
no grounds for apprehending that advantage would be taken of that
circumstance.
Horticulture seemed, however, to have been abandoned in the deserted
kitchen-garden; and where cabbages, carrots, radishes, peas, and melons
had once flourished, a scanty crop of lucern alone bore evidence of its
being deemed worthy of cultivation. A small, low door gave egress from
the walled space we have been describing into the projected street, the
ground having been abandoned as unproductive by its various renters,
and had now fallen so completely in general estimation as to return not
even the one-half per cent it had originally paid. Towards the house
the chestnut-trees we have before mentioned rose high above the wall,
without in any way affecting the growth of other luxuriant shrubs and
flowers that eagerly dressed forward to fill up the vacant spaces, as
though asserting their right to enjoy the boon of light and air. At one
corner, where the foliage became so thick as almost to shut out day, a
large stone bench and sundry rustic seats indicated that this sheltered
spot was either in general favor or particular use by some inhabitant
of the house, which was faintly discernible through the dense mass of
verdure that partially concealed it, though situated but a hundred
paces off.
Whoever had selected this retired portion of the grounds as the
boundary of a walk, or as a place for meditation, was abundantly
justified in the choice by the absence of all glare, the cool,
refreshing shade, the screen it afforded from the scorching rays of the
sun, that found no entrance there even during the burning days of
hottest summer, the incessant and melodious warbling of birds, and the
entire removal from either the noise of the street or the bustle of the
mansion. On the evening of one of the warmest days spring had yet
bestowed on the inhabitants of Paris, might be seen negligently thrown
upon the stone bench, a book, a parasol, and a work-basket, from which
hung a partly embroidered cambric handkerchief, while at a little
distance from these articles was a young woman, standing close to the
iron gate, endeavoring to discern something on the other side by means
of the openings in the planks,—the earnestness of her attitude and the
fixed gaze with which she seemed to seek the object of her wishes,
proving how much her feelings were interested in the matter.
At that instant the little side-gate leading from the waste ground to
the street was noiselessly opened, and a tall, powerful young man
appeared. He was dressed in a common gray blouse and velvet cap, but
his carefully arranged hair, beard and moustache, all of the richest
and glossiest black, ill accorded with his plebeian attire. After
casting a rapid glance around him, in order to assure himself that he
was unobserved, he entered by the small gate, and, carefully closing
and securing it after him, proceeded with a hurried step towards the
barrier.
At the sight of him she expected, though probably not in such a
costume, the young woman started in terror, and was about to make a
hasty retreat. But the eye of love had already seen, even through the
narrow chinks of the wooden palisades, the movement of the white robe,
and observed the fluttering of the blue sash. Pressing his lips close
to the planks, he exclaimed:
“Don’t be alarmed, Valentine—it is I!”
Again the timid girl found courage to return to the gate, saying, as
she did so:
“And why do you come so late today? It is almost dinner-time, and I had
to use no little diplomacy to get rid of my watchful stepmother, my
too-devoted maid, and my troublesome brother, who is always teasing me
about coming to work at my embroidery, which I am in a fair way never
to get done. So pray excuse yourself as well as you can for having made
me wait, and, after that, tell me why I see you in a dress so singular
that at first I did not recognize you.”
“Dearest Valentine,” said the young man, “the difference between our
respective stations makes me fear to offend you by speaking of my love,
but yet I cannot find myself in your presence without longing to pour
forth my soul, and tell you how fondly I adore you. If it be but to
carry away with me the recollection of such sweet moments, I could even
thank you for chiding me, for it leaves me a gleam of hope, that if you
did not expect me (and that indeed would be worse than vanity to
suppose), at least I was in your thoughts. You asked me the cause of my
being late, and why I come disguised. I will candidly explain the
reason of both, and I trust to your goodness to pardon me. I have
chosen a trade.”
“A trade? Oh, Maximilian, how can you jest at a time when we have such
deep cause for uneasiness?”
“Heaven keep me from jesting with that which is far dearer to me than
life itself! But listen to me, Valentine, and I will tell you all about
it. I became weary of ranging fields and scaling walls, and seriously