The Count of Monte Cristo
the countess, who inclined herself without speaking.
“Ah! good heavens, madame,” said the count, “are you ill, or is it the
heat of the room that affects you?”
“Are you ill, mother?” cried the viscount, springing towards her.
She thanked them both with a smile.
“No,” returned she, “but I feel some emotion on seeing, for the first
time, the man without whose intervention we should have been in tears
and desolation. Monsieur,” continued the countess, advancing with the
majesty of a queen, “I owe to you the life of my son, and for this I
bless you. Now, I thank you for the pleasure you give me in thus
affording me the opportunity of thanking you as I have blessed you,
from the bottom of my heart.”
The count bowed again, but lower than before; he was even paler than
Mercédès.
“Madame,” said he, “the count and yourself recompense too generously a
simple action. To save a man, to spare a father’s feelings, or a
mother’s sensibility, is not to do a good action, but a simple deed of
humanity.”
At these words, uttered with the most exquisite sweetness and
politeness, Madame de Morcerf replied:
“It is very fortunate for my son, monsieur, that he found such a
friend, and I thank God that things are thus.”
And Mercédès raised her fine eyes to heaven with so fervent an
expression of gratitude, that the count fancied he saw tears in them.
M. de Morcerf approached her.
“Madame,” said he. “I have already made my excuses to the count for
quitting him, and I pray you to do so also. The sitting commences at
two; it is now three, and I am to speak.”
“Go, then, and monsieur and I will strive our best to forget your
absence,” replied the countess, with the same tone of deep feeling.
“Monsieur,” continued she, turning to Monte Cristo, “will you do us the
honor of passing the rest of the day with us?”
“Believe me, madame, I feel most grateful for your kindness, but I got
out of my travelling carriage at your door this morning, and I am
ignorant how I am installed in Paris, which I scarcely know; this is
but a trifling inquietude, I know, but one that may be appreciated.”
“We shall have the pleasure another time,” said the countess; “you
promise that?”
Monte Cristo inclined himself without answering, but the gesture might
pass for assent.
“I will not detain you, monsieur,” continued the countess; “I would not
have our gratitude become indiscreet or importunate.”
“My dear Count,” said Albert, “I will endeavor to return your
politeness at Rome, and place my coupé at your disposal until your own
be ready.”
“A thousand thanks for your kindness, viscount,” returned the Count of
Monte Cristo “but I suppose that M. Bertuccio has suitably employed the
four hours and a half I have given him, and that I shall find a
carriage of some sort ready at the door.”
Albert was used to the count’s manner of proceeding; he knew that, like
Nero, he was in search of the impossible, and nothing astonished him,
but wishing to judge with his own eyes how far the count’s orders had
been executed, he accompanied him to the door of the house. Monte
Cristo was not deceived. As soon as he appeared in the Count of
Morcerf’s antechamber, a footman, the same who at Rome had brought the
count’s card to the two young men, and announced his visit, sprang into
the vestibule, and when he arrived at the door the illustrious
traveller found his carriage awaiting him. It was a _coupé_ of Koller’s
building, and with horses and harness for which Drake had, to the
knowledge of all the lions of Paris, refused on the previous day seven
hundred guineas.
“Monsieur,” said the count to Albert, “I do not ask you to accompany me
to my house, as I can only show you a habitation fitted up in a hurry,
and I have, as you know, a reputation to keep up as regards not being
taken by surprise. Give me, therefore, one more day before I invite
you; I shall then be certain not to fail in my hospitality.”
“If you ask me for a day, count, I know what to anticipate; it will not
be a house I shall see, but a palace. You have decidedly some genius at
your control.”
“_Ma foi_, spread that idea,” replied the Count of Monte Cristo,
putting his foot on the velvet-lined steps of his splendid carriage,
“and that will be worth something to me among the ladies.”
As he spoke, he sprang into the vehicle, the door was closed, but not
so rapidly that Monte Cristo failed to perceive the almost
imperceptible movement which stirred the curtains of the apartment in
which he had left Madame de Morcerf.
When Albert returned to his mother, he found her in the boudoir
reclining in a large velvet armchair, the whole room so obscure that
only the shining spangle, fastened here and there to the drapery, and
the angles of the gilded frames of the pictures, showed with some
degree of brightness in the gloom. Albert could not see the face of the
countess, as it was covered with a thin veil she had put on her head,
and which fell over her features in misty folds, but it seemed to him
as though her voice had altered. He could distinguish amid the perfumes
of the roses and heliotropes in the flower-stands, the sharp and
fragrant odor of volatile salts, and he noticed in one of the chased
cups on the mantle-piece the countess’s smelling-bottle, taken from its
shagreen case, and exclaimed in a tone of uneasiness, as he entered:
“My dear mother, have you been ill during my absence?”
“No, no, Albert, but you know these roses, tuberoses, and
orange-flowers throw out at first, before one is used to them, such
violent perfumes.”
“Then, my dear mother,” said Albert, putting his hand to the bell,
“they must be taken into the antechamber. You are really ill, and just
now were so pale as you came into the room——”
“Was I pale, Albert?”
“Yes; a pallor that suits you admirably, mother, but which did not the
less alarm my father and myself.”
“Did your father speak of it?” inquired Mercédès eagerly.
“No, madame; but do you not remember that he spoke of the fact to you?”
20269m
“Yes, I do remember,” replied the countess.
A servant entered, summoned by Albert’s ring of the bell.
“Take these flowers into the anteroom or dressing-room,” said the
viscount; “they make the countess ill.”
The footman obeyed his orders. A long pause ensued, which lasted until
all the flowers were removed.
“What is this name of Monte Cristo?” inquired the countess, when the
servant had taken away the last vase of flowers, “is it a family name,
or the name of the estate, or a simple title?”
“I believe, mother, it is merely a title. The count purchased an island
in the Tuscan archipelago, and, as he told you today, has founded a
commandery. You know the same thing was done for Saint Stephen of
Florence, Saint George Constantinian of Parma, and even for the Order
of Malta. Except this, he has no pretension to nobility, and calls
himself a chance count, although the general opinion at Rome is that
the count is a man of very high distinction.”
“His manners are admirable,” said the countess, “at least, as far as I
could judge in the few minutes he remained here.”
“They are perfect mother, so perfect, that they surpass by far all I
have known in the leading aristocracy of the three proudest nobilities
of Europe—the English, the Spanish, and the German.”
The countess paused a moment; then, after a slight hesitation, she
resumed.
“You have seen, my dear Albert—I ask the question as a mother—you have
seen M. de Monte Cristo in his house, you are quicksighted, have much
knowledge of the world, more tact than is usual at your age, do you
think the count is really what he appears to be?”
“What does he appear to be?”
“Why, you have just said,—a man of high distinction.”
“I told you, my dear mother, he was esteemed such.”
“But what is your own opinion, Albert?”
“I must tell you that I have not come to any decided opinion respecting
him, but I think him a Maltese.”
“I do not ask you of his origin but what he is.”
“Ah! what he is; that is quite another thing. I have seen so many
remarkable things in him, that if you would have me really say what I
think, I shall reply that I really do look upon him as one of Byron’s
heroes, whom misery has marked with a fatal brand; some Manfred, some
Lara, some Werner, one of those wrecks, as it were, of some ancient
family, who, disinherited of their patrimony, have achieved one by the
force of their adventurous genius, which has placed them above the laws
of society.”
“You say——”
“I say that Monte Cristo is an island in the midst of the
Mediterranean, without inhabitants or garrison, the resort of smugglers
of all nations, and pirates of every flag. Who knows whether or not
these industrious worthies do not pay to their feudal lord some dues
for his protection?”
“That is possible,” said the countess, reflecting.
“Never mind,” continued the young man, “smuggler or not, you must
agree, mother dear, as you have seen him, that the Count of Monte
Cristo is a remarkable man, who will have the greatest success in the
salons of Paris. Why, this very morning, in my rooms, he made his
_entrée_ amongst us by striking every man of us with amazement, not
even excepting Château-Renaud.”
“And what do you suppose is the count’s age?” inquired Mercédès,
evidently attaching great importance to this question.
“Thirty-five or thirty-six, mother.”
“So young,—it is impossible,” said Mercédès, replying at the same time
to what Albert said as well as to her own private reflection.
“It is the truth, however. Three or four times he has said to me, and
certainly without the slightest premeditation, ‘at such a period I was
five years old, at another ten years old, at another twelve,’ and I,
induced by curiosity, which kept me alive to these details, have
compared the dates, and never found him inaccurate. The age of this
singular man, who is of no age, is then, I am certain, thirty-five.
Besides, mother, remark how vivid his eye, how raven-black his hair,
and his brow, though so pale, is free from wrinkles,—he is not only
vigorous, but also young.”
The countess bent her head, as if beneath a heavy wave of bitter
thoughts.
“And has this man displayed a friendship for you, Albert?” she asked
with a nervous shudder.
“I am inclined to think so.”
“And—do—you—like—him?”
“Why, he pleases me in spite of Franz d’Épinay, who tries to convince
me that he is a being returned from the other world.”
The countess shuddered.
“Albert,” she said, in a voice which was altered by emotion, “I have
always put you on your guard against new acquaintances. Now you are a
man, and are able to give me advice; yet I repeat to you, Albert, be
prudent.”
“Why, my dear mother, it is necessary, in order to make your advice
turn to account, that I should know beforehand what I have to distrust.
The count never plays, he only drinks pure water tinged with a little
sherry, and is so rich that he cannot, without intending to laugh at
me, try to borrow money. What, then, have I to fear from him?”
“You are right,” said the countess, “and my fears are weakness,
especially when directed against a man who has saved your life. How did
your father receive him, Albert? It is necessary that we should be more
than complaisant to the count. M. de Morcerf is sometimes occupied, his
business makes him reflective, and he might, without intending it——”
“Nothing could be in better taste than my father’s demeanor, madame,”
said Albert; “nay, more, he seemed greatly flattered at two or three
compliments which the count very skilfully and agreeably paid him with
as much ease as if he had known him these thirty years. Each of these
little tickling arrows must have pleased my father,” added Albert with
a laugh. “And thus they parted the best possible friends, and M. de