“All is well!” thought Monte Cristo. “I have achieved my object. The domestic peace of this family is now in my hands, and with one action I am going to win the gratitude of both the Baron and the Baroness. What a stroke of luck! But with all this,” he added, “I have not been introduced to Mademoiselle Eugénie, whose acquaintance I am very anxious to make. Never mind,” he continued with that peculiar smile of his, “I am in Paris with plenty of time before me . . . That can be left for a later date.” With this reflection, he stepped into his carriage and returned to his house.
Two hours later Mme Danglars received a charming letter from the Count of Monte Cristo, in which he wrote that he did not wish to make his entrance into Paris society by causing annoyance to a beautiful woman, and entreated her to take back her horses. The horses were sent back wearing the same harness as in the morning, but in the centre of each rosette which adorned the sides of their heads, there was a diamond. Danglars also received a letter. The Count asked his permission to satisfy a millionaire’s whim, and requested him to excuse the Eastern fashion adopted in returning the horses.
In the evening Monte Cristo went to his country-house at Auteuil accompanied by Ali.
Toward three o’clock next day, Ali, summoned by a stroke of the gong, entered the Count’s study.
“Ali, you have often spoken to me of your skill in throwing the lasso,” said the Count.
Ali drew himself up proudly and nodded assent.
“Good! You could stop a bull with your lasso?”
Ali nodded assent.
“A tiger?”
Another nod.
“A lion?”
Ali pretended to throw the lasso and imitated the choked roar of a lion.
“I understand,” said Monte Cristo. “You have hunted lions.” Ali nodded his head proudly.
“But could you stop two runaway horses?”
Ali smiled.
“Well, then, listen,” said Monte Cristo. “In a few minutes a carriage will come along drawn by two runaway horses, the same dappled greys that I had yesterday. Even at the risk of being run over, you must stop these horses before my door.”
Ali went out into the street and traced a line on the pavement before the door. Then the Nubian seated himself on the stone that formed the angle of the house and the road and began smoking his chibouque,bj while Monte Cristo returned to his study.
Toward five o’clock, however, when the Count expected the arrival of the carriage, he began to manifest distinct signs of impatience; he paced a room overlooking the road, stopped at intervals to listen, and from time to time approached the window through which he could see Ali blowing out puffs of smoke with a regularity which indicated that he was quite absorbed in his important occupation.
Suddenly a distant rumbling was heard which drew nearer with lightning rapidity; then a carriage appeared, the coachman vainly striving to restrain the wild, infuriated horses who were bounding along at a mad speed.
In the carriage a young lady and a child of seven or eight years were lying in each other’s embrace; their terror had deprived them of all power to utter a sound. A stone under the wheel or any other impediment would have sufficed to upset the creaking carriage. It kept to the middle of the road, and the cries of the terrified spectators could be heard as it flew along.
Suddenly Ali laid down his chibouque, took the lasso from his pocket and threw it, catching the forelegs of the near horse in a triple coil; he suffered himself to be dragged along three or four yards, by which time the tightening of the lasso so hampered the horse that it fell on to the pole which it snapped, thus paralysing the efforts the other horse made to pursue its mad course. The coachman took advantage of this short respite to jump down from his box, but Ali had already seized the nostrils of the other horse in his iron grip, and the animal, snorting with pain, sank down beside its companion.
All this took no more time than it takes a bullet to hit its mark. It was nevertheless sufficient for a man, followed by several servants, to rush out from the house opposite which the accident had happened. As soon as the coachman opened the door of the carriage, he lifted out the lady who was clinging to the cushion with one hand, while with the other she pressed to her bosom her fainting son. Monte Cristo carried them both into the salon and, placing them on a sofa, said:
“You have nothing more to fear, madame, you are safe!”
The lady soon came round, and pointed to her son with a look which was more eloquent than all entreaties. The child, indeed, was still unconscious.
“I understand, madame,” said the Count, examining the child, “but you need not be alarmed, the child has received no injury. It is only fear that has rendered him unconscious.”
“Are you only telling me this to still my anxiety? Look how pale he is. My son! My child! My Edward! Answer your mother! Oh, monsieur, send for a doctor! I will give my fortune to him who restores my son to me!”
Monte Cristo opened a casket and took out a flagon of Bohemian glass incrusted with gold, containing a blood-red liquid, a single drop of which he placed on the child’s lips. Though still pale, the child immediately opened his eyes. On seeing this, the mother was beside herself with joy.
“Where am I?” she cried out, “and to whom do I owe so much happiness after such a cruel trial?”
“Madame, you are under the roof of a man who esteems himself most fortunate at having been able to spare you any pain,” said Monte Cristo.
“It is all the fault of my wretched inquisitiveness!” said the lady. “All Paris talked of Madame Danglars’ magnificent horses, and I was foolish enough to want to try them.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed the Count with admirably feigned surprise. “Do these horses belong to the Baroness?”
“Yes, monsieur, do you know her?”
“I have that honour, and I feel a double joy at having been the means of saving you from the danger that threatened you, for you might have attributed the accident to me. I bought these horses from the Baron yesterday, but the Baroness appeared to regret their loss so deeply that I sent them back with the request that she would accept them from me.”
“Then you must be the Count of Monte Cristo of whom Hermine spoke so much yesterday.”
“That is so, madame.”
“And I, monsieur, am Madame Héloïse de Villefort.”
The Count bowed as though he heard a name completely unknown to him.
“How grateful Monsieur de Villefort will be,” continued Héloïse. “He owes both our lives to you; you have restored to him his wife and his son. If it had not been for your brave servant, this dear child and myself would certainly have been killed.”
“Alas, madame, I still shudder at the thought of your danger!”
“I hope you will permit me to give your servant the just reward for his devotion.”
“Madame, I beg of you not to spoil Ali either by praise or by reward,” replied the Count. “Ali is my slave; in saving your life, he served me, and it is his duty to serve me.”
“But he risked his life!” said Madame de Villefort, who was strangely impressed by the Count’s masterful tone.
“I saved his life, madame, consequently it belongs to me,” replied Monte Cristo.
Madame de Villefort made no reply. Perhaps she was thinking about this man who made such a strong impression on everybody who set eyes on him.
During this momentary silence, the Count had leisure to examine the child whom his mother was covering with kisses. He was small and slender; his skin was of that whiteness generally found with auburn-haired children, yet a mass of rebellious black hair covered his rounded forehead. It fell on to his shoulders, encircling his face and redoubling the vivacity of his eyes which were so expressive of sly malice and childish naughtiness. His mouth was large, and his lips, which had scarcely regained their colour, were thin; the features of this child of eight were those of a boy of twelve or more. His first movement was to wriggle himself free from his mother’s arms, and
to open the casket from which the Count had taken the phial of elixir. With the air of a child accustomed to satisfy his every whim and without asking anyone’s permission, he began to unstopper the phials.
“Don’t touch anything there, sonny,” said the Count sharply. “Some of those liquids are dangerous, not only to taste but even to inhale.”
Madame de Villefort turned pale and, seizing her son’s arm, drew him toward her. Her fears calmed, she immediately cast on the casket a fleeting but expressive glance, which did not escape the Count’s notice.
“Do you reside here?” Madame de Villefort inquired as she rose to take her leave.
“No, madame,” replied the Count. “This is only a little country house I have just bought. I reside at number thirty Champs Élysées. But I see that you have quite recovered and are desirous of returning home. I have just given orders for the same horses to be put to my carriage, and Ali will have the honour of driving you home, while your coachman stays here to repair the damage.”
“I dare not go with the same horses!” said Madame de Villefort.
“Oh, you will see, madame, that in Ali’s hands they will be as gentle as lambs,” was Monte Cristo’s reply.
Indeed, Ali had already tackled the horses that had only with difficulty been set on their legs again. He held in his hand a sponge soaked in aromatic vinegar with which he rubbed away the sweat and foam that covered their heads and nostrils. Almost immediately they began to breathe loudly and to tremble violently; this lasted several seconds. Then in the midst of a large crowd which the news of the accident had gathered before the house, Ali harnessed the horses to the Count’s brougham, took the reins, mounted the box, and to the utter astonishment of those spectators who had beheld these same horses bolting like a whirlwind, he was compelled to use his whip vigorously to make them move. Even then they went at such a slow trot that it took nearly two hours to reach the Faubourg Saint-Honoré where Madame de Villefort lived.
Chapter XXXIV
HAYDEE
My readers will remember that the new, or rather old, acquaintances of the Count of Monte Cristo were Maximilian, Julie, and Emmanuel. He had promised Maximilian that he would call at the house in the Rue Meslay, and the day had now come. Anticipation of the visit he was about to make, of the few happy moments he was about to spend, of the fleeting glimpse of paradise in the hell to which he had voluntarily engaged himself, brought a charming expression of serenity to Monte Cristo’s countenance, and his face was radiant with a joy rarely depicted there.
It was midday and the Count had set apart one hour to be spent with Haydee. It seemed as though he sensed that his crushed spirit needed to be prepared for gentle emotions as other spirits have to be prepared for violent ones.
The young Greek occupied a suite separated from the Count’s. It was furnished entirely in the Oriental style; the floors were covered with thick Turkey carpets, rich brocades hung suspended from the walls, and in each room there was a large and spacious divan with piles of cushions, which could be placed according to the fancy of those that used them.
The Greek girl was in the room at the far end of her suite. She was reclining on the floor on cushions of blue satin with her back against the divan; one softly rounded arm encircled her head, and between her lips she had the coral tube in which was set the flexible pipe of a narghile.bk Her dress was that of a woman of Epirus: white satin trousers embroidered with pink roses displayed two small child-like feet, which might have been taken for Parian marble had they not been playing with two little slippers with curling toes embroidered with gold and pearls, a long white-and-blue-striped vest with long sleeves ornamented with loops of silver and buttons of pearl, and on her head was a small gold cap embroidered with pearls which she wore tilted to one side; from under the cap, on the side where it was tilted up, fell a beautiful natural rose of a deep crimson hue mingling with her hair, which was of such a deep black that it appeared almost blue.
The beauty of her face was of the perfect Grecian type, with large black eyes of the softness of velvet, straight nose, coral lips, and pearly teeth. To complete the picture she had all the charm and freshness of young womanhood, for Haydee had seen no more than nineteen or twenty summers.
When Monte Cristo entered, she raised herself on her elbow and, welcoming him with a smile, held out her hand to him.
“Why do you ask permission to see me?” she said in the sonorous language of the daughters of Sparta and Athens. “Are you my master no longer? Have I ceased to be your slave?”
Monte Cristo smiled as he replied: “Haydee, we are in France, you know, so you are free!”
“Free to do what?” asked the girl.
“Free to leave me!”
“To leave you! Why should I leave you?”
“How do I know? We shall see people . . .”
“I do not wish to see anyone.”
“Should you meet amongst the handsome young men one who pleases you, I should not be so unjust . . .”
“I have never yet seen a man more handsome than you, and I have never loved anyone but my father and you.”
“Poor child!” said Monte Cristo. “That is only because you have scarcely spoken to anyone but your father and me.”
“What need have I to converse with others? My father called me his joy, you call me your love, and both of you have called me your child.”
“Do you remember your father, Haydee?”
The girl smiled. “He is here and here,” said she, pointing to her eyes and her heart.
“And where am I?” Monte Cristo asked with a smile.
“You? Why, you are everywhere!”
Monte Cristo took her hand to kiss it, but the simple child withdrew it and offered her cheek.
“Listen to me, Haydee,” said the Count. “You know that you are free. You are your own mistress. You may still wear your national costume or discard it according to your inclination; you may stay here if and when you wish, and go out if and when you wish. There will always be a carriage in readiness for you. Ali and Myrta will accompany you everywhere and will be at your command. There is but one thing I ask of you.”
“Speak!”
“Disclose not the secret of your birth, say not a word in regard to your past; on no occasion mention the name of your illustrious father or of your poor mother.”
“I have already told you, my lord, that I will not see anyone.”
“Listen, Haydee, it may be that this seclusion, which is customary in the East, will be impossible in Paris. Continue to learn all you can of our Northern countries as you did at Rome, Florence, and Madrid; such knowledge will always stand you in good stead whether you continue to live here or return to the East.”
The slave girl raised her large tear-bedewed eyes to the Count, and said: “You mean to say whether we return to the East, do you not, my lord?”
“Yes, child, you know I shall never leave you. The tree does not forsake the flower, it is the flower that forsakes the tree.”
“My lord, I shall never leave you,” said Haydee. “I could not live without you.”
“Poor child, I shall be old in ten years, and you will still be young.”
“My father had a long white beard but that did not prevent my loving him. My father was sixty years of age, but to me he was more handsome than all the young men I saw.”
“Do you think you will be able to settle down here?”
“Shall I see you?”
“Every day.”
“Then what do you fear for me?”
“I fear you may grow weary.”
“That cannot be, my lord, for in the morning I shall be occupied with the thought that you will be coming to see me, and in the evening I shall dwell on the memories of your visit. Besides, when I am alone, I have much to occupy my mind. I summon up mighty pictures of the past, vast horizons with Pindus and Olympia in the distance. Then again, my heart is filled with three great sentiments—sadness, love, and gratitude—and with these as compani
ons it is impossible to grow weary.”
“You are a worthy daughter of Epirus, Haydee, full of grace and poetry. It is easily seen that you are descended from that family of goddesses born in your own country. Rest assured, my daughter, I will not permit your youth to be lost, for if you love me as a father, I love you as my child.”
“You are mistaken, my lord, I did not love my father as I love you. The love I bear you is quite different. My father is dead, yet I am not dead; whereas if you die I die.”
With a smile of exquisite tenderness the Count held out his hand to her; she pressed her lips to it as she always did.
The Count was now fully prepared for his interview with Morrel and his family, and took his leave of Haydee, murmuring these lines of Pindar:bl
Youth is the flower of which love is the fruit;
Happy the gatherer who picks it after watching it
slowly mature.
In accordance with his orders the carriage was ready. He stepped in and sped along at his usual high speed.
Chapter XXXV
THE MORREL FAMILY
The Count arrived at No. 14 Rue Meslay in a very few minutes. Coclès opened the door, and Baptistin, springing from the box, asked if M. and Mme Herbault and M. Maximilian Morrel were at home to the Count of Monte Cristo.
“To the Count of Monte Cristo!” cried Maximilian, throwing away his cigar and hastening toward his visitor. “I should think we are at home to him! A thousand thanks, Count, for having kept your promise.”
The young officer shook the Count’s hand so cordially that there could be no doubt as to the sincerity of his feelings.
“Come along,” said Maximilian, “I will announce you myself. My sister is in the garden plucking the dead roses; my brother is within five yards of her reading his two papers, for wherever Madame Herbault is, Monsieur Herbault will be found within a radius of four yards and vice versa.”