The Count of Monte Cristo
six or eight years ago. This costume is a fancy one, it appears, and
the resemblance is so great that I think I still see my mother the same
as she was in 1830. The countess had this portrait painted during the
count’s absence. She doubtless intended giving him an agreeable
surprise; but, strange to say, this portrait seemed to displease my
father, and the value of the picture, which is, as you see, one of the
best works of Léopold Robert, could not overcome his dislike to it. It
is true, between ourselves, that M. de Morcerf is one of the most
assiduous peers at the Luxembourg, a general renowned for theory, but a
most mediocre amateur of art. It is different with my mother, who
paints exceedingly well, and who, unwilling to part with so valuable a
picture, gave it to me to put here, where it would be less likely to
displease M. de Morcerf, whose portrait, by Gros, I will also show you.
Excuse my talking of family matters, but as I shall have the honor of
introducing you to the count, I tell you this to prevent you making any
allusions to this picture. The picture seems to have a malign
influence, for my mother rarely comes here without looking at it, and
still more rarely does she look at it without weeping. This
disagreement is the only one that has ever taken place between the
count and countess, who are still as much united, although married more
than twenty years, as on the first day of their wedding.”
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Monte Cristo glanced rapidly at Albert, as if to seek a hidden meaning
in his words, but it was evident the young man uttered them in the
simplicity of his heart.
“Now,” said Albert, “that you have seen all my treasures, allow me to
offer them to you, unworthy as they are. Consider yourself as in your
own house, and to put yourself still more at your ease, pray accompany
me to the apartments of M. de Morcerf, he whom I wrote from Rome an
account of the services you rendered me, and to whom I announced your
promised visit, and I may say that both the count and countess
anxiously desire to thank you in person. You are somewhat _blasé_ I
know, and family scenes have not much effect on Sinbad the Sailor, who
has seen so many others. However, accept what I propose to you as an
initiation into Parisian life—a life of politeness, visiting, and
introductions.”
Monte Cristo bowed without making any answer; he accepted the offer
without enthusiasm and without regret, as one of those conventions of
society which every gentleman looks upon as a duty. Albert summoned his
servant, and ordered him to acquaint M. and Madame de Morcerf of the
arrival of the Count of Monte Cristo. Albert followed him with the
count. When they arrived at the antechamber, above the door was visible
a shield, which, by its rich ornaments and its harmony with the rest of
the furniture, indicated the importance the owner attached to this
blazon. Monte Cristo stopped and examined it attentively.
“Azure seven merlets, or, placed bender,” said he. “These are,
doubtless, your family arms? Except the knowledge of blazons, that
enables me to decipher them, I am very ignorant of heraldry—I, a count
of a fresh creation, fabricated in Tuscany by the aid of a commandery
of St. Stephen, and who would not have taken the trouble had I not been
told that when you travel much it is necessary. Besides, you must have
something on the panels of your carriage, to escape being searched by
the custom-house officers. Excuse my putting such a question to you.”
“It is not indiscreet,” returned Morcerf, with the simplicity of
conviction. “You have guessed rightly. These are our arms, that is,
those of my father, but they are, as you see, joined to another shield,
which has gules, a silver tower, which are my mother’s. By her side I
am Spanish, but the family of Morcerf is French, and, I have heard, one
of the oldest of the south of France.”
“Yes,” replied Monte Cristo “these blazons prove that. Almost all the
armed pilgrims that went to the Holy Land took for their arms either a
cross, in honor of their mission, or birds of passage, in sign of the
long voyage they were about to undertake, and which they hoped to
accomplish on the wings of faith. One of your ancestors had joined the
Crusades, and supposing it to be only that of St. Louis, that makes you
mount to the thirteenth century, which is tolerably ancient.”
“It is possible,” said Morcerf; “my father has in his study a
genealogical tree which will tell you all that, and on which I made
commentaries that would have greatly edified d’Hozier and Jaucourt. At
present I no longer think of it, and yet I must tell you that we are
beginning to occupy ourselves greatly with these things under our
popular government.”
“Well, then, your government would do well to choose from the past
something better than the things that I have noticed on your monuments,
and which have no heraldic meaning whatever. As for you, viscount,”
continued Monte Cristo to Morcerf, “you are more fortunate than the
government, for your arms are really beautiful, and speak to the
imagination. Yes, you are at once from Provence and Spain; that
explains, if the portrait you showed me be like, the dark hue I so much
admired on the visage of the noble Catalan.”
It would have required the penetration of Œdipus or the Sphinx to have
divined the irony the count concealed beneath these words, apparently
uttered with the greatest politeness. Morcerf thanked him with a smile,
and pushed open the door above which were his arms, and which, as we
have said, opened into the salon. In the most conspicuous part of the
salon was another portrait. It was that of a man, from five to
eight-and-thirty, in the uniform of a general officer, wearing the
double epaulet of heavy bullion, that indicates superior rank, the
ribbon of the Legion of Honor around his neck, which showed he was a
commander, and on the right breast, the star of a grand officer of the
order of the Saviour, and on the left that of the grand cross of
Charles III., which proved that the person represented by the picture
had served in the wars of Greece and Spain, or, what was just the same
thing as regarded decorations, had fulfilled some diplomatic mission in
the two countries.
Monte Cristo was engaged in examining this portrait with no less care
than he had bestowed upon the other, when another door opened, and he
found himself opposite to the Count of Morcerf in person.
He was a man of forty to forty-five years, but he seemed at least
fifty, and his black moustache and eyebrows contrasted strangely with
his almost white hair, which was cut short, in the military fashion. He
was dressed in plain clothes, and wore at his button-hole the ribbons
of the different orders to which he belonged.
He entered with a tolerably dignified step, and some little haste.
Monte Cristo saw him advance towards him without making a single step.
It seemed as if his feet were rooted to the ground, and his eyes on the
Count of Morcerf.
“Father,” said the young man, “I have the honor of presenting to you
the Count of Monte Cristo, the generous friend whom I had the good
fortune to meet in the critical situation of which I have told you.”
“You are most welcome, monsieur,” said the Count of Morcerf, saluting
Monte Cristo with a smile, “and monsieur has rendered our house, in
preserving its only heir, a service which insures him our eternal
gratitude.”
As he said these words, the count of Morcerf pointed to a chair, while
he seated himself in another opposite the window.
Monte Cristo, in taking the seat Morcerf offered him, placed himself in
such a manner as to remain concealed in the shadow of the large velvet
curtains, and read on the careworn and livid features of the count a
whole history of secret griefs written in each wrinkle time had planted
there.
“The countess,” said Morcerf, “was at her toilet when she was informed
of the visit she was about to receive. She will, however, be in the
salon in ten minutes.”
“It is a great honor to me,” returned Monte Cristo, “to be thus, on the
first day of my arrival in Paris, brought in contact with a man whose
merit equals his reputation, and to whom fortune has for once been
equitable, but has she not still on the plains of Mitidja, or in the
mountains of Atlas, a marshal’s staff to offer you?”
“Oh,” replied Morcerf, reddening slightly, “I have left the service,
monsieur. Made a peer at the Restoration, I served through the first
campaign under the orders of Marshal Bourmont. I could, therefore,
expect a higher rank, and who knows what might have happened had the
elder branch remained on the throne? But the Revolution of July was, it
seems, sufficiently glorious to allow itself to be ungrateful, and it
was so for all services that did not date from the imperial period. I
tendered my resignation, for when you have gained your epaulets on the
battle-field, you do not know how to manœuvre on the slippery grounds
of the salons. I have hung up my sword, and cast myself into politics.
I have devoted myself to industry; I study the useful arts. During the
twenty years I served, I often wished to do so, but I had not the
time.”
“These are the ideas that render your nation superior to any other,”
returned Monte Cristo. “A gentleman of high birth, possessor of an
ample fortune, you have consented to gain your promotion as an obscure
soldier, step by step—this is uncommon; then become general, peer of
France, commander of the Legion of Honor, you consent to again commence
a second apprenticeship, without any other hope or any other desire
than that of one day becoming useful to your fellow-creatures; this,
indeed, is praiseworthy,—nay, more, it is sublime.”
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Albert looked on and listened with astonishment; he was not used to see
Monte Cristo give vent to such bursts of enthusiasm.
“Alas,” continued the stranger, doubtless to dispel the slight cloud
that covered Morcerf’s brow, “we do not act thus in Italy; we grow
according to our race and our species, and we pursue the same lines,
and often the same uselessness, all our lives.”
“But, monsieur,” said the Count of Morcerf, “for a man of your merit,
Italy is not a country, and France opens her arms to receive you;
respond to her call. France will not, perhaps, be always ungrateful.
She treats her children ill, but she always welcomes strangers.”
“Ah, father,” said Albert with a smile, “it is evident you do not know
the Count of Monte Cristo; he despises all honors, and contents himself
with those written on his passport.”
“That is the most just remark,” replied the stranger, “I ever heard
made concerning myself.”
“You have been free to choose your career,” observed the Count of
Morcerf, with a sigh; “and you have chosen the path strewed with
flowers.”
“Precisely, monsieur,” replied Monte Cristo with one of those smiles
that a painter could never represent or a physiologist analyze.
“If I did not fear to fatigue you,” said the general, evidently charmed
with the count’s manners, “I would have taken you to the Chamber; there
is a debate very curious to those who are strangers to our modern
senators.”
“I shall be most grateful, monsieur, if you will, at some future time,
renew your offer, but I have been flattered with the hope of being
introduced to the countess, and I will therefore wait.”
“Ah, here is my mother,” cried the viscount.
Monte Cristo, turned round hastily, and saw Madame de Morcerf at the
entrance of the salon, at the door opposite to that by which her
husband had entered, pale and motionless; when Monte Cristo turned
round, she let fall her arm, which for some unknown reason had been
resting on the gilded door-post. She had been there some moments, and
had heard the last words of the visitor. The latter rose and bowed to