“I do not know him,” said Monte Cristo, carelessly, “but in all probability I shall not be long in making his acquaintance, since I have a credit opened with him through Richard and Blount of London, Arstein and Eskeles of Vienna, and Thomson and French of Rome.”
As he pronounced these last two names, Monte Cristo stole a glance at Maximilian Morrel, and if he expected to startle him, he was not disappointed. The young man started as though he had had an electric shock.
“Thomson and French?” said he. “Do you know that firm?”
“They are my bankers in Rome,” said the Count calmly. “Can I exert my influence with them on your behalf ?”
“You might, perhaps, be able to help us in inquiries which have up to the present been ineffective. Some years back, these bankers rendered a great service to our firm, and for some reason have always denied having done so.”
“I am at your orders,” replied Monte Cristo.
“But in speaking of Monsieur Danglars, we have altogether strayed from the subject of our conversation,” said Maximilian. “We were talking about a suitable house for the Count of Monte Cristo. I should like to offer him a suite in a charming little house in the Pompadour style which my sister has taken in the Rue Meslay.”
“You have a sister?” asked Monte Cristo.
“Yes, and an excellent one.”
“Married?”
“For the past nine years.”
“Happy?”
“As happy as it is permitted to a human creature to be,” replied Maximilian. “She is married to a man she loves, who remained faithful to us in our bad fortune, Emmanuel Herbault. I live with them when I am on furlough,” continued Maximilian, “and my brother-in-law Emmanuel and I will be only too pleased to place ourselves at your disposal, Count.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Morrel, thank you very much. I shall be most happy if you will introduce me to your brother-in-law and your sister, but I cannot accept your kind offer of a suite in your sister’s house as my accommodation is already provided for.”
“What? Are you going to put up at an hotel?” exclaimed Morcerf. “You will not be very comfortable.”
“I have decided to have my own house at Paris. I sent my valet on in advance, and he will have bought a house and furnished it ere this. He arrived here a week ago, and will have scoured the town with the instinct a sporting dog alone possesses. He knows all my whims, my likes, and my needs, and will have arranged everything to my liking. He knew I was to arrive at ten o’clock this morning, and was waiting for me at the Barrière de Fontainebleau from nine o’clock, and gave me this piece of paper. It is my new address. Read it for yourself.”
So saying, Monte Cristo passed Albert a piece of paper.
“Number thirty, Champs Élysées,” read Morcerf.
The young men stared at one another. They did not know whether Monte Cristo was joking; there was such an air of simplicity about every word he uttered in spite of its originality, that it was impossible to believe he was not speaking the truth. Besides, why should he lie?
“We must content ourselves with doing the Count any little service within our power,” said Beauchamp. “In my capacity of journalist, I will give him access to all the theatres of Paris.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” said the Count smiling, “I have already instructed my steward to take a box for me at every theatre. You know my steward, Monsieur de Morcerf ?”
“Is it by any chance that worthy Signor Bertuccio, who understands the hiring of windows so well?”
“The very same; you saw him the day you honoured me by breakfasting with me. He is a very good man and has been a soldier and a smuggler, and in fact has tried his hand at everything possible. I would not even say that he has not been mixed up with the police for some trifling stabbing affair.”
“Then you have your household complete,” said Château-Renaud, “you have a house in the Champs Élysées, servants and stewards. All you want now is a mistress.”
“I have something better than that. I have a slave. You take your mistresses from the Opera House, the Vaudeville, the Music Halls, but I bought mine at Constantinople. She cost me dear, but I have nothing to fear so far as she is concerned.”
“But you forget that we are ‘Franks by name and frank by nature,’ as King Charles said, and that the moment she steps on French soil your slave becomes free,” said Debray.
“Who will tell her that?” asked Monte Cristo.
“Why, the first person who sees her.”
“She speaks nothing but Romaic.”bh
“That is a different matter, but shall we not at least see her? Or have you eunuchs as well as mutes?”
“Oh, dear no,” said Monte Cristo. “I do not carry Orientalism so far as that. Everybody around me is at liberty to leave me, and on leaving me will have no further need of me or anyone else. It may be that is the reason why they do not leave me.”
They had long since passed to dessert and cigars.
“My dear Albert, it is half-past-twelve,” said Debray rising. “Your guest is charming, but you know the best of friends must part. I must return to my office. Are you coming, Morrel?”
“As soon as I have handed the Count my card. He has promised to pay us a visit at fourteen, Rue Meslay.”
“Rest assured that I shall not forget,” said the Count with a bow.
Maximilian Morrel left with the Baron of Château-Renaud, leaving Monte Cristo alone with Morcerf.
Chapter XXXI
THE PRESENTATION
When Albert was alone with Monte Cristo, he said: “Permit me to commence my office of cicerone by showing you my bachelor quarters. Accustomed as you are to the palaces of Italy, it will be interesting for you to note in what a small space a young man of Paris can live, and not feel that he is too badly off in regard to accommodation.”
Albert conducted the Count to his study, which was his favourite room.
Monte Cristo was a worthy appreciator of all things Albert had collected here: old cabinets, Japanese porcelain, Oriental stuffs, Venetian glass, weapons of all countries of the world; everything was familiar to him, and he recognized at a glance their date and country of origin. Morcerf had expected to be the guide, whereas it was he who, under the Count’s guidance, followed a course of archaeology, mineralogy, and natural history. He led his guest into the salon, which was filled with works of modern artists; there were landscapes by Dupré, Arabian horsemen by Delacroix, water colours by Boulanger, paintings by Diaz, drawings by Decamps—in a word, all that modern art can give in exchange and as recompense for the art lost and gone with ages long since past.
Albert expected to have something new to show the traveller this time at least, but, to his surprise, without looking for the signatures, many of which were only initials, the Count at once named the author of every picture in such a manner that it was easy to see that each man was not only known to him, but that each style had been appreciated and studied.
From the salon they passed into the bed-chamber. It was a model of good taste and simple elegance. One portrait only, signed Leopold Robert, loomed forth from an unpolished gilt frame.
It was this portrait that first of all attracted the Count’s attention, for he took three rapid steps across the room and suddenly stopped in front of it. It was the portrait of a young woman of about five- or six-and-twenty, with a dark complexion, eyes which glowed beneath languishing eyelids. She wore the picturesque costume of a Catalan fisherwoman, a red and black bodice, and had golden pins stuck in her hair. She was looking at the sea, and her beautiful profile was outlined against the two-fold azure of sky and ocean.
“This is a beautiful woman you have here, Viscount,” said Monte Cristo in a perfectly calm voice, “and her dress, doubtless a ball dress, suits her charmingly.”
“That,” said Albert, “is my mother’s portrait. She had it painted six or eight years ago, during the Count’s absence. Doubtless she thought to give him a pleasant surprise upon his retur
n, but, strange to say, he did not like the portrait, and could never get over his antipathy to it. Between ourselves, I must tell you that Monsieur de Morcerf is one of the most hard-working peers at the Luxembourg, and as a general is renowned for theory, but is an indifferent connoisseur of works of art. It is not so with my mother who paints remarkably well, and who, esteeming such a work too good to part with altogether, gave it to me to hang up in my room where it would be less exposed to Monsieur de Morcerf’s displeasure. Forgive my talking so much on family matters, but as I shall have the honour of introducing you to the Count, I tell you this lest you should praise this portrait before him. The portrait seems to have a malign influence, for my mother rarely comes to the room without looking at it, and still more rarely does she look at it without weeping. The appearance of this portrait in the house is, however, the only contention between my mother and father who are still as united to-day, after more than twenty years of married life, as they were on their wedding day. And now that you have seen all my treasures, will you accompany me to Monsieur de Morcerf, to whom I wrote from Rome giving an account of the service you rendered me and announcing your visit? I may say that both the Count and the Countess are anxious to tender you their thanks. Look upon this visit as an initiation into Paris life, a life of formalities, visits, and introductions.”
Monte Cristo bowed without replying. He accepted the proposal without enthusiasm and without regret as one of those society conventions which every gentleman looks upon as a duty. Albert called his valet and ordered him to announce to M. and Mme de Morcerf the arrival of the Count of Monte Cristo. On entering the salon they found themselves face to face with Monsieur de Morcerf himself.
He was a man of forty to forty-five years of age, but he appeared 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 civilian clothes and wore in his buttonhole the ribbons indicating the different orders to which he belonged.
“Father,” said the young man, “I have the honour to introduce to you the Count of Monte Cristo, the generous friend I had the good fortune to meet in the difficult circumstances with which you are acquainted.”
“You are welcome amongst us,” said the Count of Morcerf with a smile. “In preserving the life of our only heir, you have rendered our house a service which solicits our eternal gratitude.”
So saying, the Count of Morcerf gave Monte Cristo an armchair, while he seated himself opposite the window.
In taking the chair indicated to him, Monte Cristo arranged himself in such a manner as to be hidden in the shadow of the large velvet curtains whence he could read on the careworn features of the Count a whole history of secret griefs in each one of the wrinkles time had imprinted there.
“The Countess was at her toilet when your visit was announced,” said Morcerf, “she will join us here in ten minutes or so.”
“It is a great honour for me,” said Monte Cristo, “that on the very day of my arrival at Paris I should be brought into contact with a man whose merits equal his reputation, and on whom Dame Fortune, acting with equity for once, has never ceased to smile. But has she not on the Mitidja Plains or the Atlas Mountainsbi still the baton of a marshal to offer you?”
“I have left the service, monsieur,” said Morcerf, turning somewhat red. “Created a peer at the Restoration, I served during the first campaign under Maréchal de Bourmont; I was therefore entitled to a higher rank, and who knows what would have happened had the elder branch remained on the throne! But the July revolution was apparently glorious enough to permit of ingratitude; and it was, indeed, inappre ciative of any service that did not date from the imperial period. I, therefore, tendered my resignation. I have hung up my sword and have flung myself into politics. I devote myself to industry and study the useful arts. I was anxious to do so during the twenty years I was in the army, but had not the time.”
“Such are the ideas that render your nation superior to all others,” replied Monte Cristo. “A gentleman of high birth, in possession of a large fortune, you were content to gain your promotion as an obscure soldier. Then after becoming a general, a peer of France, a commander of the Legion of Honour, you are willing to go through another apprenticeship with no other prospects, no other reward than that one day you will serve your fellow-creatures. Really, Count, this is most praiseworthy; it is even more than that, it is sublime.”
“If I were not afraid of wearying you, Count,” continued the General, obviously charmed with Monte Cristo’s manners, “I would have taken you to the Chamber with me; to-day’s debate will be very interesting to such as do not know our modern senators.”
“I should be most grateful to you, Count, if you would renew this invitation another time. I have been flattered with the hope of an introduction to the Countess to-day, and I will wait for her.”
“Ah, here is my mother!” exclaimed Albert.
And in truth, as Monte Cristo turned round, he saw Mme de Morcerf, pale and motionless, on the threshold of the door. As Monte Cristo turned toward her, she let fall her arm which, for some reason, she had been resting against the gilt door-post. She had been standing there for some seconds, and had overheard the last words of the conversation.
Monte Cristo rose and bowed low to the Countess, who curtsied ceremoniously without saying a word.
“Whatever ails you, madam?” said the Count. “Perhaps the heat of this room is too much for you?”
“Are you ill, Mother?” exclaimed the Viscount, rushing toward Mercédès.
She thanked them both with a smile. “No,” said she. “It has upset me a little to see for the first time him without whose intervention we should now be in tears and mourning. Monsieur, it is to you that I owe my son’s life,” she continued, advancing with queenly majesty, “and I bless you for this kindness. I am also grateful to you for giving me the opportunity of thanking you as I have blessed you, that is from the bottom of my heart.”
“Madame, the Count and yourself reward me too generously for a very simple action. To save a man and thereby to spare a father’s agony and a mother’s feelings is not to do a noble deed, it is but an act of humanity.”
These words were uttered with the most exquisite softness and politeness.
“It is very fortunate for my son, Count, that he has found such a friend,” replied Madame de Morcerf, “and I thank God that it is so.” And Mercédès raised her beautiful eyes to Heaven with an expression of such infinite gratitude that the Count fancied he saw two tears trembling in them.
M. de Morcerf went up to her. “Madame, I have already made my excuses to the Count,” said he. “The session opened at two o’clock; it is now three, and I have to speak.”
“Go along, then, I will try to make up to the Count for your absence,” said the Countess in the same tone of deep feeling. “Will you do us the honour, Count, of spending the rest of the day with us?” she continued, turning to Monte Cristo.
“Believe me, Countess, no one could appreciate your kind offer more than I do, but I stepped out of my travelling-carriage at your door this morning and know not yet where or how my residence is provided for. I know it is but a slight cause for uneasiness, yet it is quite appreciable.”
“Then we shall have this pleasure another time. Promise us that at least.”
Monte Cristo bowed without replying, but his gesture might well have been taken for assent.
“Then I will not detain you longer,” said the Countess. “I would not have my gratitude become indiscreet or importunate.”
Monte Cristo bowed once more and took his leave. A carriage was waiting for him at the door.
The illustrious traveller sprang into it, the door was closed behind him, and the horses went off at a gallop, yet not so quickly that the Count did not notice an almost imperceptible movement which fluttered the curtain in the salon where he had just left Madame de Morcerf.
When Albert returned to his mother he found
her reclining in a deep velvet armchair in her boudoir.
“What is this name Monte Cristo?” asked the Countess when the servant had gone out. “Is it a family name, the name of an estate, or simply a title?”
“I think it is nothing more than a title. The Count has bought an island in the Tuscan Archipelago. Otherwise he lays no claim to nobility and calls himself a ‘Count of Chance,’ though the general opinion in Rome is that he is a very great lord.”
“He has excellent manners,” said the Countess, “at least so far as I could judge during the few moments he was here.”
The Countess was pensive for a moment, then after a short pause, she said: “I am addressing a question to you, Albert, as your mother. You have seen Monsieur de Monte Cristo at home. You are perspicacious, know the ways of the world, and are more tactful than most men of your age. Do you think the Count is really what he appears to be?”
“And what is that?”
“You said it yourself a minute ago, a great lord.”
“I told you, Mother, that he was considered as such.”
“But what do you think of him yourself, Albert?”
“I must own, I do not quite know what to make of him; I believe he is a Maltese.”
“I am not questioning you about his origin but about himself.”
“Ah! that is a totally different matter. I have seen so many strange traits in him that if you wish me to say what I think, I must say that I consider him as a man whom misfortune has branded; a derelict, as it were, of some old family, who, disinherited of his patrimony, has found one by dint of his own venturesome genius which places him above the rules of society. Monte Cristo is an island in the middle of the Mediterranean, without inhabitants or garrison, the resort of smugglers of every nationality and of pirates from every country. Who knows whether these worthy industrialists do not pay their lord for his protection?”
“Possibly,” said the Countess, deep in thought.
“What does it matter,” replied the young man, “whether he be a smuggler or not? Now that you have seen him, Mother, you must agree that the Count of Monte Cristo is a remarkable man who will create quite a sensation in Paris.”