At the sound of their steps, a young woman of twenty to twenty-five, dressed in a morning gown, raised her head from the rose-bush which she was carefully trimming.
It was no other than Julie, who, as Thomson and French’s representative had predicted, had become Mme Emmanuel Herbault. She uttered a cry of surprise on seeing the stranger. Maximilian began to laugh. “Don’t upset yourself, Julie,” said he. “The Count has only been in Paris two or three days, and knows what a householder of the Marais has to do, and if he does not, you will show him.”
“It is most unkind of my brother to bring you thus, but he never has any regard for his poor sister’s vanity. Penelon! Penelon! . . .”
An old man who was digging a bed of Bengal roses stuck his spade into the ground and approached, cap in hand, the while striving to hide a quid of tobacco he had just put into his mouth. A few silvery strands mingled with his thick hair, while his bronzed face and bold keen eye betrayed the old sailor, tanned by tropical suns and many a tempestuous sea.
“I believe you hailed me, Mademoiselle Julie,” he said. Penelon had retained the habit of calling his master’s daughter “Mademoiselle Julie,” and could never accustom himself to addressing her as “Madame Herbault.”
“Penelon, go and inform Monsieur Emmanuel of this gentleman’s arrival.”
Then, turning to Monte Cristo, she said:
“You will permit me to leave you for a few minutes? In the meantime Maximilian will take you into the salon.”
Without waiting for a reply she disappeared behind a clump of trees, and regained the house by a side entrance.
The salon was impregnated with the scent of sweet-smelling flowers massed together in a huge Japanese vase. Julie, appropriately dressed and her hair coquettishly arranged (she had accomplished this feat in ten minutes), was waiting to receive the Count.
The birds could be heard chirping in a neighbouring aviary; the laburnum and acacia trees spread their branches so close to the window that the clusters of bloom almost formed a border to the blue velvet curtains. Everything in this little retreat breathed peaceful tranquillity, from the song of the birds to the smiles of its owners. From the moment the Count entered, he sensed the atmosphere of happiness; he stood silent and pensive, forgetting that the others were waiting for him to continue the conversation which had been interrupted during the exchange of salutations.
He suddenly became aware of this almost embarrassing silence and, tearing himself away from his dreams with a great effort, he said:
“Pray excuse my emotion, madame. It must astonish you who are accustomed to the peace and happiness I find here, but it is so unusual for me to find contentment expressed on a human face, that I cannot grow weary of looking at you and your husband.”
“We are very happy, monsieur,” replied Julie, “but we have gone through long and bitter suffering, and there are few people who have bought their happiness at such a high price.”
The Count’s face manifested great curiosity.
“It is a family history, Count,” said Maximilian. “The humble little picture would have no interest for you who are accustomed to the misfortunes of the illustrious and the joys of the rich. We have known bitter suffering.”
“And did God send you consolation in your sorrow as He does to all?” asked Monte Cristo.
“Yes, Count, we can truly say that He did,” replied Julie. “He did for us what He only does for His elect: He sent us one of His angels.”
The Count’s cheeks became scarlet, and he coughed in order to have an excuse for hiding his emotion behind his handkerchief.
“Those who are born in a gilt cradle and have never wanted for anything, do not know what happiness life contains,” said Emmanuel, “just as they do not appreciate to the full a clear sky who have never entrusted their lives to the mercy of four planks on a raging sea.”
Monte Cristo got up and, without replying, for he feared the tremulousness of his voice would betray his emotion, began to pace round the room.
“Our magnificence makes you smile!” said Maximilian, who was watching Monte Cristo.
“Not at all,” replied Monte Cristo, deathly pale and pressing one hand to his heart to still its throbbings, while with the other he pointed to a glass case under which lay a silk purse carefully placed on a black velvet cushion. “I was only wondering what could be the use of this purse containing what looks like a piece of paper at one end and a fairly valuable diamond at the other.”
“That is the most precious of our family treasures, Count.”
“The diamond is, indeed, quite a good one.”
“My brother was not alluding to the value of the stone, though it has been estimated at a hundred thousand francs; what he meant was that the articles contained in that purse are the relics of the angel I mentioned just now.”
“Forgive me, madame, I did not mean to be indiscreet. I could not understand the meaning of the purse, and will ask for no explanation.”
“Indiscreet, did you say? On the contrary we are grateful to you for giving us an opportunity to open our hearts on the subject. If we wished to make a secret of the noble action which that purse reminds us of, we should not expose it thus to view. We would rather make it known to everyone, so that our benefactor may be compelled to betray his presence by his emotion.”
“Really!” said Monte Cristo in a stifled voice.
“This has touched the hand of a man who saved my father from death, all of us from ruin, and our name from dishonour,” said Maximilian, raising the glass case and devoutly kissing the silk purse. “It has touched the hand of one whose merit it is that, though we were doomed to misery and mourning, others now express their wonder at our happiness. This letter,” continued Maximilian, taking the piece of paper from the purse and handing it to the Count, “this letter was written by him on a day when my father had taken a desperate resolution, and the diamond was given by our unknown benefactor to my sister as her dowry.”
Monte Cristo opened the letter and read it with an indescribably happy expression. As our readers will know, it was the note addressed to Julie and signed “Sindbad the Sailor.”
“I have not given up hope of one day kissing that hand as I kiss the purse it has touched,” said Julie. “Four years ago, Penelon, the gallant tar you saw in the garden with a spade, was at Trieste; on the quay he saw an Englishman on the point of boarding a yacht; he recognized him as the man who came to see my father on the fifth of June, eighteen-twenty-nine, and who wrote this note on the fifth of September. He assures me it was he, but he dared not speak to him.”
“An Englishman?” asked Monte Cristo, deep in thought and feeling most uneasy every time Julie looked at him. “An Englishman, did you say?”
“Yes,” replied Morrel, “an Englishman who introduced himself to us as the representative of Messrs Thomson and French of Rome. That is why you saw me start the other day when you mentioned that they were your bankers. As we have said, all this happened in eighteen-twenty-nine. For pity’s sake, Count, tell us, do you know this Englishman?”
“What was his name?” asked Monte Cristo.
“He left no name but the one he signed at the bottom of the letter, ‘Sindbad the Sailor,’” said Julie, looking at the Count very closely.
“Which is evidently only a pseudonym,” said Monte Cristo. Then, remarking that Julie was eyeing him more closely than ever and was trying to detect some resemblance in his voice, he continued: “Was this man not about my height, perhaps a little taller and somewhat thinner; his neck imprisoned in a high cravat; his coat closely buttoned up; and hadn’t he the habit of constantly taking out his pencil?”
“You know him then?” exclaimed Julie, her eyes sparkling with joy.
“No, I am only guessing,” said Monte Cristo. “I knew a Lord Wilmore who was continually doing things of this kind.”
“Sister, sister, remember what father so often told us,” interposed Morrel. “He always said it was not an Englishman who had done u
s this good turn.”
Monte Cristo started. “What did your father tell you?” he asked.
“My father regarded the deed as a miracle. He believed that a benefactor had come from his tomb to help us. It was a touching superstition, Count, and, though I could not credit it myself, I would not destroy his faith in it. How often in his dreams did he not mutter the name of a dear friend who was lost to him for ever! On his deathbed, when his mind had been given that lucidity that the near approach of death brings with it, this thought which had till then only been a superstition, became a conviction. The last words he spoke were: ‘Maximilian, it was Edmond Dantès!’”
At these words, the Count, who had been gradually changing colour, became alarmingly pale. The blood rushed from his head, and he could not speak for a few seconds. He took out his watch as though he had forgotten the time, picked up his hat, took a hurried and embarrassed leave of Mme Herbault and, pressing the hands of Emmanuel and Maximilian, said: “Permit me to renew my visit from time to time, madame. I have spent a happy hour with you and am very grateful for the kind way in which you have received me. This is the first time for many years that I have given way to my feelings.” With that he strode rapidly out of the room.
“What a peculiar man this Count of Monte Cristo is,” said Emmanuel.
“He certainly is,” replied Maximilian, “but I believe he is very noble-hearted, and I am sure he likes us.”
“As for me,” said Julie, “his voice went to my heart, and two or three times it occurred to me that I had heard it before.”
Chapter XXXVI
TOXICOLOGY
The Count of Monte Cristo had arrived at Mme de Villefort’s door, and the mere mention of his name had set the whole house in confusion.
Mme de Villefort was in the salon when the Count was announced, and immediately sent for her son to come and renew his thanks to the Count. Edward had heard of nothing but this great personage for the last two days, and hastened to obey the summons, not through obedience to his mother, nor yet because he wanted to thank the Count, but from sheer curiosity and in the hope that he might fire off one of his saucy jokes which always elicited from his mother the remark: “The bad boy! but I must really overlook it, he is so clever!”
After the first formalities were exchanged, the Count inquired after M. de Villefort.
“My husband is dining with the Chancellor,” replied Mme de Villefort. “He has only just left, and I am sure he will greatly regret that he has been deprived of the pleasure of seeing you. Where is your sister Valentine?” said Mme de Villefort, turning to Edward. “Send someone for her, so that I may introduce her to the Count.”
“You have also a daughter, madame?” asked the Count. “She must be quite a young child.”
“It is Monsieur de Villefort’s daughter by his first marriage, and a pretty, well-grown girl she is, too.”
“But melancholy,” interrupted Edward, who, wishing to have a plume for his hat, was pulling feathers out of the tail of a parrot that screeched with pain.
Mme de Villefort merely said: “Be quiet, Edward! This young madcap is quite right, nevertheless, and is only repeating what he has, unfortunately, often heard me say. In spite of all we do to distract her, Mademoiselle Villefort is of a melancholy and taciturn disposition, which often mars her beauty. Why is she not coming, Edward? Go and see what is keeping her so long.”
“They are looking for her where she is not to be found.”
“Where are they looking for her?”
“In Grandpa Noirtier’s room.”
“Where is she, then? If you know, tell me.”
“She is under the large chestnut-tree,” continued the mischievous boy as, notwithstanding his mother’s expostulations, he presented live flies to the parrot, who appeared to relish them.
Mme de Villefort stretched out her hand to ring for the maid to tell her where Valentine was to be found, when the girl herself entered. She certainly looked sad, and on closer inspection the traces of tears were to be seen in her eyes. She was a tall, slim girl of nineteen, with bright chestnut hair and deep blue eyes; her whole deportment was languid but stamped with the elegance which had characterized her mother. Her white and slender hands, her pearly neck and blushing cheek, gave her at first sight the aspect of one of those beautiful En glishwomen who have been rather poetically compared to swans admiring themselves.
On seeing beside her mother the stranger of whom she had already heard so much, she curtsied with such grace that the Count was more struck with her than ever. He stood up at once.
“My stepdaughter, Mademoiselle de Villefort,” said Mme de Villefort.
“And the Count of Monte Cristo, King of China, Emperor of Cochin China,” said the young imp, casting a sly look at his sister.
“Have I not had the honour of seeing both you and mademoiselle somewhere?” asked the Count, looking first at Madame de Villefort and then at Valentine. “It occurred to me just now that I had, and when I saw mademoiselle enter, her face seemed to throw some light on the confused remembrance, if you will excuse the remark.”
“It is hardly likely, Count. Mademoiselle de Villefort does not like society, and we rarely go out.”
“It is not in society that I have met you, mademoiselle, and the charming little rogue. I shall remember in a moment, stay . . .”
The Count put his hand to his forehead as though to concentrate his thoughts.
“No . . . it was abroad. It was . . . I do not quite know where, but it seems to me that this recollection is connected with a beautiful sunny sky and some religious feast . . . mademoiselle had some flowers in her hand, and the boy was chasing a peacock, while you, madame, were under a vine arbour . . . Help me out, madame, does nothing I have told you bring back anything to your mind?”
“No, nothing,” replied Mme de Villefort, “and it seems to me, Count, that if I had met you anywhere, I should not have forgotten you.”
“Perhaps the Count saw us in Italy,” said Valentine timidly.
“That, indeed, is possible,” said Monte Cristo. “Have you travelled in Italy, mademoiselle?”
“My stepmother and I went there two years ago. The doctor feared for my chest and prescribed Naples air for me. We stayed at Bologna, Perugia, and Rome.”
“You are right, mademoiselle,” exclaimed Monte Cristo as though this simple indication had sufficed to freshen his memory. “It was at Perugia on the Feast of Corpus Christi in a garden of the Hôtel de la Poste that we chanced to meet, you, madame, mademoiselle, the boy, and myself. Yes, I remember having had the pleasure of seeing you there.”
“I remember Perugia perfectly, also the Hôtel de la Poste and the feast you mention,” said Mme de Villefort, “but though I have taxed my memory, I am ashamed to say, I do not recollect having seen you.”
“Strangely enough, I do not recollect it either,” remarked Valentine, raising her beautiful eyes to the Count.
“I remember,” said Edward.
“I will assist you, madame,” resumed the Count. “It was a baking hot day; you were waiting for your carriage, which had been delayed in consequence of the feast-day celebrations, mademoiselle went down the garden while your son was chasing the bird; you stayed in the arbour. Do you not remember sitting on a stone bench there, talking for a long time with someone?”
“It is true,” said the lady, turning a deep red. “I recollect now. I was conversing with a gentleman in a long woollen mantle . . . I believe he was a doctor.”
“Exactly so. I was that man. I had been staying at that hotel for the past fortnight and had cured my valet of a fever and my host of the jaundice, so that I was looked upon as a great doctor. We talked for a long time on different topics. I do not recollect all the details of our conversation, but I do remember that, sharing the general erroneous opinion about me, you consulted me about your daughter’s health.”
At this moment the clock struck six.
“It is six o’clock,” said Mme de Villefort, ob
viously agitated. “Will you go and see whether your grandfather is ready for his dinner, Valentine?”
Valentine rose and, bowing to the Count, left the room without saying a word.
“Was it on my account that you sent Mademoiselle Valentine away?” asked the Count when Valentine had gone.
“Not at all,” was the quick reply. “It is the hour when we give Monsieur de Noirtier the miserable repast which supports his wretched existence. You are aware, monsieur, of the deplorable condition of Monsieur de Villefort’s father?”
“Yes, madame. He is paralysed, I think?”
“He is, alas! The poor man has lost all power of movement; his mind alone is active in this poor human machine, and even that is weak and flickering like a lamp waiting to be extinguished. Excuse me for worrying you with our domestic troubles. I interrupted you when you were telling me that you were a skilful doctor.”
“I did not say that, madam,” replied the Count with a smile. “Quite the contrary. I have studied chemistry because, having decided to live chiefly in the East, I wished to follow the example of King Mithridates.”bm
“Mithridates, rex Ponticus,” said the young scamp, cutting up some illustrations in a magnificent album; “that was the one who breakfasted every morning off a cup of poison with cream.”
“Edward, you naughty child!” Mme de Villefort cried out, snatching the mutilated book from her son’s hands. “You are unbearable and only make yourself a nuisance. Leave us and go along to your sister in your grandfather’s room.”
“The album!” said Edward.
“What do you mean?”
“I want the album!”
“Why have you cut up the drawings?”
“Because it amused me!”
“Leave us! Go!”
“I shan’t go until you have given me the album!” said the child, settling himself down in a big armchair, true to his habit of never yielding.
“Here it is! Now leave us in peace!” said Mme de Villefort.
She gave Edward the book, and he went out.