successful upon that question. He stood badly with the Liberal papers,
but his noble opposition to the wishes of the court is now getting him
into favor with the journalists. They talk of making him an ambassador."
"And what are his claims to the peerage?"
"He has composed two or three comic operas, written four or five
articles in the Siecle, and voted five or six years on the ministerial
side."
"Bravo, Viscount," said Monte Cristo, smiling; "you are a delightful
cicerone. And now you will do me a favor, will you not?"
"What is it?"
"Do not introduce me to any of these gentlemen; and should they wish it,
you will warn me." Just then the count felt his arm pressed. He turned
round; it was Danglars.
"Ah, is it you, baron?" said he.
"Why do you call me baron?" said Danglars; "you know that I care nothing
for my title. I am not like you, viscount; you like your title, do you
not?"
"Certainly," replied Albert, "seeing that without my title I should
be nothing; while you, sacrificing the baron, would still remain the
millionaire."
"Which seems to me the finest title under the royalty of July," replied
Danglars.
"Unfortunately," said Monte Cristo, "one's title to a millionaire does
not last for life, like that of baron, peer of France, or Academician;
for example, the millionaires Franck & Poulmann, of Frankfort, who have
just become bankrupts."
"Indeed?" said Danglars, becoming pale.
"Yes; I received the news this evening by a courier. I had about a
million in their hands, but, warned in time, I withdrew it a month ago."
"Ah, mon Dieu," exclaimed Danglars, "they have drawn on me for 200,000
francs!"
"Well, you can throw out the draft; their signature is worth five per
cent."
"Yes, but it is too late," said Danglars, "I have honored their bills."
"Then," said Monte Cristo, "here are 200,000 francs gone after"--
"Hush, do not mention these things," said Danglars; then, approaching
Monte Cristo, he added, "especially before young M. Cavalcanti;" after
which he smiled, and turned towards the young man in question. Albert
had left the count to speak to his mother, Danglars to converse with
young Cavalcanti; Monte Cristo was for an instant alone. Meanwhile the
heat became excessive. The footmen were hastening through the rooms with
waiters loaded with ices. Monte Cristo wiped the perspiration from his
forehead, but drew back when the waiter was presented to him; he took no
refreshment. Madame de Morcerf did not lose sight of Monte Cristo; she
saw that he took nothing, and even noticed his gesture of refusal.
"Albert," she asked, "did you notice that?"
"What, mother?"
"That the count has never been willing to partake of food under the roof
of M. de Morcerf."
"Yes; but then he breakfasted with me--indeed, he made his first
appearance in the world on that occasion."
"But your house is not M. de Morcerf's," murmured Mercedes; "and since
he has been here I have watched him."
"Well?"
"Well, he has taken nothing yet."
"The count is very temperate." Mercedes smiled sadly. "Approach him,"
said she, "and when the next waiter passes, insist upon his taking
something."
"But why, mother?"
"Just to please me, Albert," said Mercedes. Albert kissed his mother's
hand, and drew near the count. Another salver passed, loaded like the
preceding ones; she saw Albert attempt to persuade the count, but he
obstinately refused. Albert rejoined his mother; she was very pale.
"Well," said she, "you see he refuses?"
"Yes; but why need this annoy you?"
"You know, Albert, women are singular creatures. I should like to have
seen the count take something in my house, if only an ice. Perhaps he
cannot reconcile himself to the French style of living, and might prefer
something else."
"Oh, no; I have seen him eat of everything in Italy; no doubt he does
not feel inclined this evening."
"And besides," said the countess, "accustomed as he is to burning
climates, possibly he does not feel the heat as we do."
"I do not think that, for he has complained of feeling almost
suffocated, and asked why the Venetian blinds were not opened as well as
the windows."
"In a word," said Mercedes, "it was a way of assuring me that his
abstinence was intended." And she left the room. A minute afterwards
the blinds were thrown open, and through the jessamine and clematis that
overhung the window one could see the garden ornamented with lanterns,
and the supper laid under the tent. Dancers, players, talkers, all
uttered an exclamation of joy--every one inhaled with delight the
breeze that floated in. At the same time Mercedes reappeared, paler than
before, but with that imperturbable expression of countenance which
she sometimes wore. She went straight to the group of which her husband
formed the centre. "Do not detain those gentlemen here, count," she
said; "they would prefer, I should think, to breathe in the garden
rather than suffocate here, since they are not playing."
"Ah," said a gallant old general, who, in 1809, had sung "Partant pour
la Syrie,"--"we will not go alone to the garden."
"Then," said Mercedes, "I will lead the way." Turning towards Monte
Cristo, she added, "count, will you oblige me with your arm?" The
count almost staggered at these simple words; then he fixed his eyes on
Mercedes. It was only a momentary glance, but it seemed to the countess
to have lasted for a century, so much was expressed in that one look. He
offered his arm to the countess; she took it, or rather just touched it
with her little hand, and they together descended the steps, lined with
rhododendrons and camellias. Behind them, by another outlet, a group of
about twenty persons rushed into the garden with loud exclamations of
delight.
Chapter 71. Bread and Salt.
Madame de Morcerf entered an archway of trees with her companion. It led
through 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 doors
and the blinds." As he ceased speaking, the count felt the hand of
Mercedes tremble. "But you," he said, "with that light dress, and
without anything to cover you but that gauze scarf, perhaps you feel
cold?"
"Do you know where I am leading you?" said the countess, without
replying 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 the
grove."
The count looked at Mercedes as if to interrogate her, but she continued
to walk on in silence, and he refrained from speaking. They reached
the building, ornamented with magnificent fruits, which ripen at the
beginning of July in the artificial temperature which takes the place of
the sun, so frequently absent in our climate. The countess left the arm
of Monte Cristo, and gathered a bunch of Muscatel grapes. "See, count,"
she said, with a smile so sad in its expression that one could almost
detect the tears on her eyelids--"see, our French grapes are not to be
compared, I know, with yours of Sicily and Cyprus, but you will make
allowance for our northern sun." The count bowed, but stepped back.
"Do you refuse?" said Mercedes, in a tremulous voice. "Pray excuse me,
madame," replied Monte Cristo, "but I never eat Muscatel grapes."
Mercedes let them fall, and sighed. A magnificent peach was hanging
against an adjoining wall, ripened by the same artificial heat. Mercedes
drew 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 to stifle a sob; "really, you pain me."
A long silence followed; the peach, like the grapes, fell to the
ground. "Count," added Mercedes with a supplicating glance, "there is a
beautiful Arabian custom, which makes eternal friends of those who have
together eaten bread and salt under the same roof."
"I know it, madame," replied the count; "but we are in France, and not
in Arabia, and in France eternal friendships are as rare as the custom
of dividing bread and salt with one another."
"But," said the countess, breathlessly, with her eyes fixed on Monte
Cristo, whose arm she convulsively pressed with both hands, "we are
friends, are we not?"
The count became pale as death, the blood rushed to his heart, and then
again rising, dyed his cheeks with crimson; his eyes swam like those of
a man suddenly dazzled. "Certainly, we are friends," he replied; "why
should we not be?" The answer was so little like the one Mercedes
desired, that she turned away to give vent to a sigh, which sounded more
like a groan. "Thank you," she said. And they walked on again. They went
the whole length of the garden without uttering a word. "Sir," suddenly
exclaimed the countess, after their walk had continued ten 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 told you so?"
"No one told me you were, but you have frequently been seen at the opera
with a young and lovely woman."
"She is a slave whom I bought at Constantinople, madame, the daughter of
a prince. I have adopted her as my daughter, having no one else to love
in 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 any one to attach you to life?"
"It is not my fault, madame. At Malta, I loved a young girl, was on the
point of marrying her, when war came and carried me away. I thought she
loved me well enough to wait for me, and even to remain faithful to my
memory. When I returned she was married. This is the history of most men
who have passed twenty years of age. Perhaps my heart was weaker than
the hearts of most men, and I suffered more than they would have done in
my place; that is all." The countess stopped for a moment, as if gasping
for breath. "Yes," she said, "and you have still preserved this love in
your heart--one can only love once--and did you ever see her again?"
"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 herself
before Monte Cristo, still holding in her hand a portion of the perfumed
grapes. "Take some," she said. "Madame, I never eat Muscatel grapes,"
replied Monte Cristo, as if the subject had not been mentioned before.
The countess dashed the grapes into the nearest thicket, with a gesture
of despair. "Inflexible man!" she murmured. Monte Cristo remained as
unmoved as if the reproach had not been addressed to him. Albert at
this moment ran in. "Oh, mother," he exclaimed, "such a misfortune has
happened!"
"What? What has happened?" asked the countess, as though awakening from
a sleep to the realities of life; "did you say a misfortune? Indeed, I
should expect misfortunes."
"M. de Villefort is here."
"Well?"
"He comes to fetch his wife and daughter."
"Why so?"
"Because Madame de Saint-Meran is just arrived in Paris, bringing the
news of M. de Saint-Meran's death, which took place on the first stage
after he left Marseilles. Madame de Villefort, who was in very good
spirits, would neither believe nor think of the misfortune, but
Mademoiselle Valentine, at the first words, guessed the whole truth,
notwithstanding all the precautions of her father; the blow struck her
like a thunderbolt, and she fell senseless."
"And how was M. de Saint-Meran related to Mademoiselle de Villefort?"
said the count.
"He was her grandfather on the mother's side. He was coming here to
hasten her marriage with Franz."
"Ah, indeed?"
"So Franz must wait. Why was not M. de Saint-Meran also grandfather to
Mademoiselle 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 that
he has spoken amiss." And she took two or three steps forward.
Monte Cristo watched her with an air so thoughtful, and so full of
affectionate admiration, that she turned back and grasped his hand; at
the same time she seized that of her 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 all
