Chapter 71. Bread and Salt
Madame de Morcerf entered an archway of trees with her companion. It ledthrough a grove of lindens to a conservatory.
“It was too warm in the room, was it not, count?” she asked.
“Yes, madame; and it was an excellent idea of yours to open the doorsand the blinds.” As he ceased speaking, the count felt the hand ofMercédès tremble. “But you,” he said, “with that light dress, andwithout anything to cover you but that gauze scarf, perhaps you feelcold?”
“Do you know where I am leading you?” said the countess, withoutreplying to the question.
“No, madame,” replied Monte Cristo; “but you see I make no resistance.”
“We are going to the greenhouse that you see at the other end of thegrove.”
The count looked at Mercédès as if to interrogate her, but she continuedto walk on in silence, and he refrained from speaking. They reached thebuilding, ornamented with magnificent fruits, which ripen at thebeginning of July in the artificial temperature which takes the place ofthe sun, so frequently absent in our climate. The countess left the armof Monte Cristo, and gathered a bunch of Muscatel grapes.
“See, count,” she said, with a smile so sad in its expression that onecould almost detect the tears on her eyelids—“see, our French grapes arenot to be compared, I know, with yours of Sicily and Cyprus, but youwill make allowance for our northern sun.” The count bowed, but steppedback.
“Do you refuse?” said Mercédès, in a tremulous voice.
“Pray excuse me, madame,” replied Monte Cristo, “but I never eatMuscatel grapes.”
Mercédès let them fall, and sighed. A magnificent peach was hangingagainst an adjoining wall, ripened by the same artificial heat. Mercédèsdrew near, and plucked the fruit.
“Take this peach, then,” she said. The count again refused. “What,again?” she exclaimed, in so plaintive an accent that it seemed tostifle a sob; “really, you pain me.”
A long silence followed; the peach, like the grapes, fell to the ground.
“Count,” added Mercédès with a supplicating glance, “there is abeautiful Arabian custom, which makes eternal friends of those who havetogether eaten bread and salt under the same roof.”
“I know it, madame,” replied the count; “but we are in France, and notin Arabia, and in France eternal friendships are as rare as the customof dividing bread and salt with one another.”
“But,” said the countess, breathlessly, with her eyes fixed on MonteCristo, whose arm she convulsively pressed with both hands, “we arefriends, are we not?”
The count became pale as death, the blood rushed to his heart, and thenagain rising, dyed his cheeks with crimson; his eyes swam like those ofa man suddenly dazzled.
“Certainly, we are friends,” he replied; “why should we not be?”
The answer was so little like the one Mercédès desired, that she turnedaway to give vent to a sigh, which sounded more like a groan. “Thankyou,” she said. And they walked on again. They went the whole length ofthe garden without uttering a word.
“Sir,” suddenly exclaimed the countess, after their walk had continuedten minutes in silence, “is it true that you have seen so much,travelled so far, and suffered so deeply?”
“I have suffered deeply, madame,” answered Monte Cristo.
“But now you are happy?”
“Doubtless,” replied the count, “since no one hears me complain.”
“And your present happiness, has it softened your heart?”
“My present happiness equals my past misery,” said the count.
“Are you not married?” asked the countess.
“I, married?” exclaimed Monte Cristo, shuddering; “who could have toldyou so?”
“No one told me you were, but you have frequently been seen at the Operawith a young and lovely woman.”
“She is a slave whom I bought at Constantinople, madame, the daughter ofa prince. I have adopted her as my daughter, having no one else to lovein the world.”
“You live alone, then?”
“I do.”
“You have no sister—no son—no father?”
“I have no one.”
“How can you exist thus without anyone to attach you to life?”
“It is not my fault, madame. At Malta, I loved a young girl, was on thepoint of marrying her, when war came and carried me away. I thought sheloved me well enough to wait for me, and even to remain faithful to mymemory. When I returned she was married. This is the history of most menwho have passed twenty years of age. Perhaps my heart was weaker thanthe hearts of most men, and I suffered more than they would have done inmy place; that is all.”
The countess stopped for a moment, as if gasping for breath. “Yes,” shesaid, “and you have still preserved this love in your heart—one can onlylove once—and did you ever see her again?”
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“Never.”
“Never?”
“I never returned to the country where she lived.”
“To Malta?”
“Yes; Malta.”
“She is, then, now at Malta?”
“I think so.”
“And have you forgiven her for all she has made you suffer?”
“Her,—yes.”
“But only her; do you then still hate those who separated you?”
“I hate them? Not at all; why should I?” The countess placed herselfbefore Monte Cristo, still holding in her hand a portion of the perfumedgrapes.
“Take some,” she said.
“Madame, I never eat Muscatel grapes,” replied Monte Cristo, as if thesubject had not been mentioned before. The countess dashed the grapesinto the nearest thicket, with a gesture of despair.
“Inflexible man!” she murmured. Monte Cristo remained as unmoved as ifthe reproach had not been addressed to him.
Albert at this moment ran in. “Oh, mother,” he exclaimed, “such amisfortune has happened!”
“What? What has happened?” asked the countess, as though awakening froma sleep to the realities of life; “did you say a misfortune? Indeed, Ishould expect misfortunes.”
“M. de Villefort is here.”
“Well?”
“He comes to fetch his wife and daughter.”
“Why so?”
“Because Madame de Saint-Méran is just arrived in Paris, bringing thenews of M. de Saint-Méran’s death, which took place on the first stageafter he left Marseilles. Madame de Villefort, who was in very goodspirits, would neither believe nor think of the misfortune, butMademoiselle Valentine, at the first words, guessed the whole truth,notwithstanding all the precautions of her father; the blow struck herlike a thunderbolt, and she fell senseless.”
“And how was M. de Saint-Méran related to Mademoiselle de Villefort?”said the count.
“He was her grandfather on the mother’s side. He was coming here tohasten her marriage with Franz.”
“Ah, indeed!”
“So Franz must wait. Why was not M. de Saint-Méran also grandfather toMademoiselle Danglars?”
“Albert, Albert,” said Madame de Morcerf, in a tone of mild reproof,“what are you saying? Ah, count, he esteems you so highly, tell him thathe has spoken amiss.”
And she took two or three steps forward. Monte Cristo watched her withan air so thoughtful, and so full of affectionate admiration, that sheturned back and grasped his hand; at the same time she seized that ofher son, and joined them together.
“We are friends; are we not?” she asked.
“Oh, madame, I do not presume to call myself your friend, but at alltimes I am your most respectful servant.” The countess left with anindescribable pang in her heart, and before she had taken ten steps thecount saw her raise her handkerchief to her eyes.
“Do not my mother and you agree?” asked Albert, astonished.
“On the contrary,” replied the count, “did you not hear her declare thatwe were friends?”
They re-entered the draw
ing-room, which Valentine and Madame deVillefort had just quitted. It is perhaps needless to add that Morreldeparted almost at the same time.