misfortunes of the wealthy and industrious; but such as we are, we have
experienced bitter sorrows."
"And God has poured balm into your wounds, as he does into those of all
who are in affliction?" said Monte Cristo inquiringly.
"Yes, count," returned Julie, "we may indeed say he has, for he has done
for us what he grants only to his chosen; he sent us one of his angels."
The count's cheeks became scarlet, and he coughed, in order to have an
excuse for putting his handkerchief to his mouth. "Those born to wealth,
and who have the means of gratifying every wish," said Emmanuel, "know
not what is the real happiness of life, just as those who have been
tossed on the stormy waters of the ocean on a few frail planks can alone
realize the blessings of fair weather."
Monte Cristo rose, and without making any answer (for the tremulousness
of his voice would have betrayed his emotion) walked up and down the
apartment with a slow step.
"Our magnificence makes you smile, count," said Maximilian, who had
followed him with his eyes. "No, no," returned Monte Cristo, pale as
death, pressing one hand on his heart to still its throbbings, while
with the other he pointed to a crystal cover, beneath which a silken
purse lay on a black velvet cushion. "I was wondering what could be
the significance of this purse, with the paper at one end and the large
diamond at the other."
"Count," replied Maximilian, with an air of gravity, "those are our most
precious family treasures."
"The stone seems very brilliant," answered the count.
"Oh, my brother does not allude to its value, although it has been
estimated at 100,000 francs; he means, that the articles contained in
this purse are the relics of the angel I spoke of just now."
"This I do not comprehend; and yet I may not ask for an explanation,
madame," replied Monte Cristo bowing. "Pardon me, I had no intention of
committing an indiscretion."
"Indiscretion,--oh, you make us happy by giving us an excuse for
expatiating on this subject. If we wanted to conceal the noble action
this purse commemorates, we should not expose it thus to view. Oh, would
we could relate it everywhere, and to every one, so that the emotion of
our unknown benefactor might reveal his presence."
"Ah, really," said Monte Cristo in a half-stifled voice.
"Monsieur," returned Maximilian, raising the glass cover, and
respectfully kissing the silken purse, "this has touched the hand of a
man who saved my father from suicide, us from ruin, and our name from
shame and disgrace,--a man by whose matchless benevolence we poor
children, doomed to want and wretchedness, can at present hear every
one envying our happy lot. This letter" (as he spoke, Maximilian drew
a letter from the purse and gave it to the count)--"this letter was
written by him the day that my father had taken a desperate resolution,
and this diamond was given by the generous unknown to my sister as
her dowry." Monte Cristo opened the letter, and read it with an
indescribable feeling of delight. It was the letter written (as our
readers know) to Julie, and signed "Sinbad the Sailor." "Unknown you
say, is the man who rendered you this service--unknown to you?"
"Yes; we have never had the happiness of pressing his hand," continued
Maximilian. "We have supplicated heaven in vain to grant us this
favor, but the whole affair has had a mysterious meaning that we
cannot comprehend--we have been guided by an invisible hand,--a hand as
powerful as that of an enchanter."
"Oh," cried Julie, "I have not lost all hope of some day kissing that
hand, as I now kiss the purse which he has touched. Four years ago,
Penelon was at Trieste--Penelon, count, is the old sailor you saw in the
garden, and who, from quartermaster, has become gardener--Penelon, when
he was at Trieste, saw on the quay an Englishman, who was on the point
of embarking on board a yacht, and he recognized him as the person
who called on my father the fifth of June, 1829, and who wrote me this
letter on the fifth of September. He felt convinced of his identity, but
he did not venture to address him."
"An Englishman," said Monte Cristo, who grew uneasy at the attention
with which Julie looked at him. "An Englishman you say?"
"Yes," replied Maximilian, "an Englishman, who represented himself as
the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson & French, at Rome. It was
this that made me start when you said the other day, at M. de Morcerf's,
that Messrs. Thomson & French were your bankers. That happened, as
I told you, in 1829. For God's sake, tell me, did you know this
Englishman?"
"But you tell me, also, that the house of Thomson & French have
constantly denied having rendered you this service?"
"Yes."
"Then is it not probable that this Englishman may be some one who,
grateful for a kindness your father had shown him, and which he himself
had forgotten, has taken this method of requiting the obligation?"
"Everything is possible in this affair, even a miracle."
"What was his name?" asked Monte Cristo.
"He gave no other name," answered Julie, looking earnestly at the count,
"than that at the end of his letter--'Sinbad the Sailor.'"
"Which is evidently not his real name, but a fictitious one."
Then, noticing that Julie was struck with the sound of his voice,--
"Tell me," continued he, "was he not about my height, perhaps a little
taller, with his chin imprisoned, as it were, in a high cravat; his coat
closely buttoned up, and constantly taking out his pencil?"
"Oh, do you then know him?" cried Julie, whose eyes sparkled with joy.
"No," returned Monte Cristo "I only guessed. I knew a Lord Wilmore, who
was constantly doing actions of this kind."
"Without revealing himself?"
"He was an eccentric being, and did not believe in the existence of
gratitude."
"Oh, heaven," exclaimed Julie, clasping her hands, "in what did he
believe, then?"
"He did not credit it at the period which I knew him," said Monte
Cristo, touched to the heart by the accents of Julie's voice; "but,
perhaps, since then he has had proofs that gratitude does exist."
"And do you know this gentleman, monsieur?" inquired Emmanuel.
"Oh, if you do know him," cried Julie, "can you tell us where he
is--where we can find him? Maximilian--Emmanuel--if we do but discover
him, he must believe in the gratitude of the heart!" Monte Cristo felt
tears start into his eyes, and he again walked hastily up and down the
room.
"In the name of heaven," said Maximilian, "if you know anything of him,
tell us what it is."
"Alas," cried Monte Cristo, striving to repress his emotion, "if Lord
Wilmore was your unknown benefactor, I fear you will never see him
again. I parted from him two years ago at Palermo, and he was then on
the point of setting out for the most remote regions; so that I fear he
will never return."
"Oh, monsieur, this is cruel of you," said Julie, much affected; and the
young lady's eyes swam with tears.
"Madame," replied Monte Cristo gravely, and gazing earnestly on the two
liquid pearls that trickled down Julie's cheeks, "had Lord Wilmore seen
what I now see, he would become attached to life, for the tears you shed
would reconcile him to mankind;" and he held out his hand to Julie, who
gave him hers, carried away by the look and accent of the count. "But,"
continued she, "Lord Wilmore had a family or friends, he must have known
some one, can we not--"
"Oh, it is useless to inquire," returned the count; "perhaps, after all,
he was not the man you seek for. He was my friend: he had no secrets
from me, and if this had been so he would have confided in me."
"And he told you nothing?"
"Not a word."
"Nothing that would lead you to suppose?"
"Nothing."
"And yet you spoke of him at once."
"Ah, in such a case one supposes"--
"Sister, sister," said Maximilian, coming to the count's aid, "monsieur
is quite right. Recollect what our excellent father so often told us,
'It was no Englishman that thus saved us.'" Monte Cristo started. "What
did your father tell you, M. Morrel?" said he eagerly.
"My father thought that this action had been miraculously performed--he
believed that a benefactor had arisen from the grave to save us. Oh,
it was a touching superstition, monsieur, and although I did not myself
believe it, I would not for the world have destroyed my father's faith.
How often did he muse over it and pronounce the name of a dear friend--a
friend lost to him forever; and on his death-bed, when the near approach
of eternity seemed to have illumined his mind with supernatural
light, this thought, which had until then been but a doubt, became
a conviction, and his last words were, 'Maximilian, it was Edmond
Dantes!'" At these words the count's paleness, which had for some time
been increasing, became alarming; he could not speak; he looked at his
watch like a man who has forgotten the hour, said a few hurried words
to Madame Herbault, and pressing the hands of Emmanuel and
Maximilian,--"Madame," said he, "I trust you will allow me to visit you
occasionally; I value your friendship, and feel grateful to you for
your welcome, for this is the first time for many years that I have thus
yielded to my feelings;" and he hastily quitted the apartment.
"This Count of Monte Cristo is a strange man," said Emmanuel.
"Yes," answered Maximilian, "but I feel sure he has an excellent heart,
and that he likes us."
"His voice went to my heart," observed Julie; "and two or three times I
fancied that I had heard it before."
Chapter 51. Pyramus and Thisbe.
About two-thirds of the way along the Faubourg Saint-Honore, and in the
rear of one of the most imposing mansions in this rich neighborhood,
where the various houses vie with each other for elegance of design
and magnificence of construction, extended a large garden, where the
wide-spreading chestnut-trees raised their heads high above the walls in
a solid rampart, and with the coming of every spring scattered a shower
of delicate pink and white blossoms into the large stone vases that
stood upon the two square pilasters of a curiously wrought iron gate,
that dated from the time of Louis XII. This noble entrance, however,
in spite of its striking appearance and the graceful effect of the
geraniums planted in the two vases, as they waved their variegated
leaves in the wind and charmed the eye with their scarlet bloom, had
fallen into utter disuse. The proprietors of the mansion had many years
before thought it best to confine themselves to the possession of the
house itself, with its thickly planted court-yard, opening into the
Faubourg Saint-Honore, and to the garden shut in by this gate, which
formerly communicated with a fine kitchen-garden of about an acre. For
the demon of speculation drew a line, or in other words projected a
street, at the farther side of the kitchen-garden. The street was
laid out, a name was chosen and posted up on an iron plate, but before
construction was begun, it occurred to the possessor of the property
that a handsome sum might be obtained for the ground then devoted
to fruits and vegetables, by building along the line of the proposed
street, and so making it a branch of communication with the Faubourg
Saint-Honore itself, one of the most important thoroughfares in the city
of Paris.
In matters of speculation, however, though "man proposes," "money
disposes." From some such difficulty the newly named street died almost
in birth, and the purchaser of the kitchen-garden, having paid a high
price for it, and being quite unable to find any one willing to take his
bargain off his hands without a considerable loss, yet still clinging
to the belief that at some future day he should obtain a sum for it that
would repay him, not only for his past outlay, but also the interest
upon the capital locked up in his new acquisition, contented himself
with letting the ground temporarily to some market-gardeners, at a
yearly rental of 500 francs. And so, as we have said, the iron gate
leading into the kitchen-garden had been closed up and left to the rust,
which bade fair before long to eat off its hinges, while to prevent the
ignoble glances of the diggers and delvers of the ground from presuming
to sully the aristocratic enclosure belonging to the mansion, the gate
had been boarded up to a height of six feet. True, the planks were not
so closely adjusted but that a hasty peep might be obtained through
their interstices; but the strict decorum and rigid propriety of the
inhabitants of the house left no grounds for apprehending that advantage
would be taken of that circumstance.
Horticulture seemed, however, to have been abandoned in the deserted
kitchen-garden; and where cabbages, carrots, radishes, pease, and melons
had once flourished, a scanty crop of lucerne alone bore evidence of its
being deemed worthy of cultivation. A small, low door gave egress from
the walled space we have been describing into the projected street, the
ground having been abandoned as unproductive by its various renters, and
had now fallen so completely in general estimation as to return not
even the one-half per cent it had originally paid. Towards the house
the chestnut-trees we have before mentioned rose high above the wall,
without in any way affecting the growth of other luxuriant shrubs and
