by Colette Gale
Haydée scrambled off Ali’s lap, her heart pounding. Thank goodness. She was off toward the house, her gown, now crushed and wrinkled and off-kilter, tripping her on her first step before she caught up her skirts.
“I’m sorry, madam, but—”
Haydée interrupted Bertuccio’s calm placation as she hurried into the foyer, which was just beyond the sitting room that opened to the patio. “His Excellency will see her,” Haydée announced, slightly out of breath—due perhaps more to the kisses than her running. She felt Ali as he came up beside her.
“But, Mistress Haydée—”
She laid a hand on Bertuccio’s arm, and with a quick, comforting glance at the Comtesse de Morcerf, she drew the majordomo aside. “If you recall, I assisted you in attending to His Excellency when you needed me to do so,” she said quietly, and much more calmly than she felt. “You must trust me that he will see the Comtesse de Morcerf.”
“He instructed that he was not to be disturbed. He will be furious if his orders are not obeyed.”
“I will take it upon myself, Bertuccio. It was I who sent the message to the comtesse, notifying her about the count’s challenge, and I who will bring her to him. If there is any ire to be dealt with, I shall do it.” And with that, accompanied by a thudding heart and a calm certainty, she turned to Mercédès. “Come with me. I’ll take you to him.”
“Thank you, Haydée,” Mercédès replied. For a woman who must be terrified about the prospect of her son meeting the Count of Monte Cristo in a duel only hours away, she looked remarkably composed. Except for the strain around her mouth, and an unusual brightness in her dark eyes, she looked just as beautiful and gracious as she’d been at the theater.
Haydée could fully understand why His Excellency could not forget this woman.
With a quick glance at Ali, who’d moved to stand behind her, Haydée took Mercédès’ arm and led her up the stairs, fully aware of Ali’s solid footfalls on the steps behind her. If there was to be any problem with the count, Ali would be there to assist.
But Haydée did not think that His Excellency would turn the Comtesse Morcerf away.
No indeed, for this confrontation had been a long time coming.
The house at number 30 Champs-Élysées was even more opulent and exotic than Mercédès could have imagined. Despite her desperation, and the knowledge that her world was crumbling around her, she noticed the fine furnishings, the elegant decor, and the colors and textures that bespoke great wealth and impeccable taste, all with the flair of the Orient—for it seemed easier to let her mind soak up these details than to think about the future. She noticed black lacquer tables, painted with golden grass and shiny red birds. Low tables and many cushions, flat chairs and teapots. Rich, sleek mahogany and olive wood. Bamboo and silk hangings. And some more familiar French and Spanish pieces as well, to set off the Chinese and Indian styles.
Of course . . . for Sinbad had exuded that same aura of the Far East. He must have lived there for years.
Mercédès took a deep breath to ease her racing pulse as Haydée opened two wide, ceiling-high doors at the top of a flight of stairs and, with a little bow, gestured for her to enter.
The doors closed silently behind Mercédès, and she was alone in a vast chamber. Her first impression was the undercurrent of spice—a pleasant, warm scent hovering in the air. She stepped away from the door and looked around. The area was lit by moonlight outlining tall windows across the room, and a few lamps scattered about, giving a soft yellow glow, tingeing gold the upholstery on two low chairs next to a knee-high table. A desk stood nearby, its smooth surface broken by an ink bottle, pens, and a small lamp.
She saw a large bed at the opposite end of the room, its curtains pulled wide and its lake-colored silk coverings shining in the light, piled with tasseled pillows and lush cushions. Mercédès realized with a start that she must be in the count’s bedchamber.
And it was then, as her gaze skittered fully around the room for the first time, that she noticed the chairs in front of the tall windows. And the strong profile of the man seated in one of them, looking out over what would be dawn in a matter of hours.
“How did you get in here?” he asked. His voice, calm and deep, nevertheless held a tightness that clipped the words as they broke the silence.
“Does it matter? I’m here now.” Mercédès walked toward him, her heart racing, her palms dampening under her gloves. She felt him. . . . It was if a skein of threads stretched between them suddenly, taut and vibrating . . . but fine and as easily broken as a cobweb. “Why do you sit in the dark like this?”
He shifted slightly in his chair, not to turn to look at her, but, apparently, merely to move his arm to a more comfortable position, for he seemed to keep his attention focused on the window beyond. “Is it dark? I can see everything quite well. The fear in your eyes, the proud lift of your chin. Your gown is a pale green. It reminds me of the depths of shallow sea near Singapore. It’s covered with much too much lace, and too many—what are they called? Those pieces, like little waves near the bottom.”
“Flounces.”
“Ah, flounces. I can even see the tiny pink flowers on the flounces, the dark green braid the color of olive leaves, and pale blue trim along the edge of the neckline and sleeves. It’s all quite clear to me, down to the texture of the tiny plaits in your hair. But then . . . when one has spent fourteen years in darkness, day and night, night and day . . . one’s eyesight in the dark becomes remarkably clear.”
Mercédès had come to stand before him. “Fourteen years?”
“Fourteen years in Château d’If.” The bitterness in his voice made her stomach quail. “Why are you here?”
“I’m fairly certain you know why I am here,” she replied. She knew she should be on her knees, begging him, pleading with him . . . but she just couldn’t. Not . . . yet. Not when this odd quivering sensation buzzed in the air between them, lifting the hair on her arms, making her insides lurch and her heart thump. Not when he was so cold and unfeeling. “If you were smart enough to uncover that which my husband took such care in hiding, and to unravel it just as you obviously have . . . publicly and dramatically . . . then you have no need to ask why I am here.”
“You’re here to ask me why I destroyed your husband. And to ask me not to meet your son at dawn, with pistols and my seconds behind me.”
She couldn’t make out the nuances of his expression, but he sounded bored. Careless.
Mercédès walked over to the nearest lamp, and turned it up as brightly as it would go. Now, when she turned back, she could see his face, the closed expression, the firm lips, the intensity in his eyes. She felt the tension vibrating from him. “I care nothing for Fernand. And if it was because of you that his own perfidy has become public knowledge, then I hold no grudge against you. And in fact I can see that justice should—and must—be done.” She saw surprise release briefly in his face, but she continued. “But I am here to b—ask that you spare my son. That you not meet him tomorrow.”
“But it was your son who insulted me, madam.”
“But you will kill him.” With an effort, she kept the sob from her voice, kept it steady and strong.
“Of course I will.” Now he turned and faced her, his face warm and golden in the lamplight, but etched sharply with shadows and anger. And pain. Pain, lurking there in the depths of his eyes. But no mercy.
Mercédès felt her heart lurch horribly. He truly meant to do it. “But . . . why? What has Albert ever done to you? He is young and innocent of his father’s immorality.”
“It is written in the Holy Bible that the sins of the fathers should be visited upon the sons—to three generations. And aside of that, the loss of his son will further injure your husband.”
“And me,” she whispered, suddenly empty. “And me.” She looked down at him, and their gazes locked solidly. Determination and faint mockery flared in his dark eyes; they were no longer as flat and emotionless as she’d been used to seeing. �
�You would take my son from me?”
His gaze did not waver. “I have waited many years to make this trip to Paris. I’ll not be dissuaded from this.”
Her lips would barely move, they were so cold. Her whole body suddenly felt as though she’d been thrust in an icy sea and her hands began to tremble against the sides of her gown. “Edmond, what has befallen you that you could do such a thing?” She knew her voice came out in a soft wail, a low, horror-stricken one, but she didn’t care. It was incomprehensible to her. “What has happened to you, Edmond Dantès?”
His eyes closed for a moment, severing that unsettling connection between them. “Edmond Dantès . . . it has been so long since I’ve heard that name. Spoken it.” He opened his eyes, and they blazed up at her from where he sat. “Edmond Dantès is dead. He died a decade ago.”
“No,” she said, sinking to her knees next to him. She reached up and grasped his wrist where it rested on the arm of his chair, closing her fingers tightly around it. “Don’t lie to me, Edmond. I know it’s you. I know you’re still in there—behind that mask, that tight, fake, closed, dark mask of politeness, of inscrutable politeness. I know you’re there. I knew it the moment I saw you . . . and you know it is I, Mercédès. The woman who has always loved you.”
“Loved me?” He jerked his hand away, snapping it so hard that she lost her balance and lurched toward the chair. “How long did you wait before you spread your legs for Morcerf? How long?”
Anger sliced through her. Anger and horror and disgust. And deep grief. He could have no idea what she’d gone through. She pulled awkwardly to her feet, tripping on her gown as she replied, “You know how long I waited until I married Fernand, Edmond. You know because I told you . . . Sinbad.”
“Sinbad?” There was a faint note of admiration in his voice. “How long have you known?”
“Long enough to wonder why, if you had come back to Marseille in disguise ten years ago, you didn’t tell me it was you. You didn’t tell me, Edmond. . . . You didn’t come back to me when you could have.” Now, suddenly, she was sobbing, shaking, and she reached out blindly, her fingers closing over the heavy brocade curtains to steady herself as she looked down at him. “You let me think you were dead. For twenty-four years.”
“You were married to Fernand,” he replied harshly. “What was I to do? You waited a mere eighteen months for the man you said you’d love forever.”
“I waited as long as I could . . . but then I had no choice,” she said softly, still gripping the heavy velvet, leaning her cheek against it. She couldn’t tell him why; it was better that he believed she’d grown tired of waiting than to know the truth about her, and the choices she’d made, the bargains she’d wrought. “I had no word from you, nothing. Villefort would tell your father, Monsieur Morrel, me, nothing of you. It was as if you’d disappeared, Edmond. Vanished. Your father died a year later of a broken heart, certain you were dead. I would have done anything to find you, Edmond. Anything. I believed . . .” Her breath hitched, catching her words. She gathered herself together and continued. “I believed if you were alive, you would contact me—”
“I was in Château d’If. There was no contact. There was nothing, Mercédès—nothing but dark and rats and worm-filled bread and brackish water. There was no light, no voices, nothing but stone walls and one threadbare blanket. No hope, no words, no life. Nothing. Nothing but the memory of the woman who swore she’d love me forever. That was the only thing that kept me sane for those first four years.”
Her lips trembled so hard she could barely speak. Her stomach roiled and pitched, and she felt as though she would never be right again. Oh God. What horrors he must have lived through. “But why, Edmond? How did you get there? And how . . . how did you ever get out?”
“It was your husband, in part, who sent me there. He and Danglars and Villefort.”
Villefort. Her stomach pitched anew. “What—how?”
“I didn’t know for certain while I was there, but once I escaped, I was able to confirm the suspicions that I’d formed with the help of a fellow prisoner, Abbé Faria.” A tinge of sorrow laced his voice; then he continued in the flat tone he’d been using.
“Fernand and Danglars conspired against me—Fernand because, of course, he wanted you, though I cannot understand why, now that I know he prefers men—and Danglars because he thought he should have the captaincy of the Pharaon. Greed and jealousy, Mercédès. Greed and jealousy sent an innocent man to the deepest, darkest of prisons for fourteen years.
“The captain of the Pharaon, who died while we were on that last voyage, gave me a letter to deliver to a man in Paris by the name of Monsieur Noirtier. You may know him as the grandfather of Valentine Villefort, and the father of Monsieur Villefort. As you know, I was not able to read, and I had no way of knowing that the letter was information for the Bonaparte sympathizers who were helping Napoleon in his escape from Elba. But somehow Danglars and Fernand discovered that this letter was in my possession, and they wrote an anonymous note reporting it to the crown prosecutor—who was, of course, Villefort.
“Villefort called for me—that was when the officers came to take me from our betrothal party—and questioned me about the letter, which I immediately gave him and told him I had no idea what it said. He would have released me. In fact, he had already done so, and I was walking out the door when he opened it and read his father’s name. Because the letter incriminated his father as a Bonaparte sympathizer, Villefort knew that this knowledge could never come to light, for it would ruin his own position as a crown prosecutor and career as loyalist to the king—and since I was the only other person who could possibly know the information in the letter, he sent me away in secret to the prison.
“I never had a trial. I never saw anyone where I could plead my case . . . and for a long time, I thought it was a mistake that would be corrected. But it never was.”
By now, Mercédès had released her grip on the curtains. She’d slid to the floor, and was in a pile of skirts and crinolines, staring up at him, at the man she’d loved, with horror and disbelief. Her cheeks and bodice were soaked wet from tears, and she felt them plop in a steady stream onto her hands, seeping through her gloves. “My God, my God, Edmond . . .”
He seemed not to hear her, for he continued steadily, as if nothing would stop him from telling the story. “The only reason I was able to escape was because of my fellow prisoner, Abbé Faria. I thank God for the day I met him, for it was he who kept me from descending into madness, and who stopped me from committing suicide when he accidentally tunneled into my cell. He thought it was the way out, and he was horribly, thankfully wrong.” Here again was a different note in his voice, a bit of wry humor; and then it was gone.
“We visited each other in our cells secretly for ten years, during which he gave me a complete education and told me about a secret treasure buried on the Isle of Monte Cristo. When the abbé died, I was able to replace his body with my own in his burial shroud, so when the jailers came to take his corpse away, I went instead. I thought they meant to bury the shroud, but instead, they wrapped chains around my legs and threw me off of a cliff, never knowing they had done so to a living man. I managed to escape from the chains, somehow, miraculously, and that was when I knew God wanted me to live.
“And that my purpose was to avenge the wrongs done to me . . . and to repay those who had done right by me.”
“That was why you gave the purse of money, and the diamond, to save the Morrels’ shipping company,” Mercédès said quietly. “As Sinbad, and as Lord Wilmore.”
He gave a brief nod. “Yes. And so . . . now . . . here we are.”
“You came to Paris to destroy the men who sent you to prison. And . . . and me.”
Monte Cristo—for even now, she wasn’t certain she could ever think of him as Edmond again—gave her a steady look. “Danglars’ house of cards, which was built by the same money loaned, and reloaned, and reloaned, is about to fall down about him. In two more days, he�
��ll be finished, completely destroyed. All because of his own greed and dishonesty.
“Villefort’s daughter is a suspected poisoner, and in perhaps another day, a young man will step forward—you may have heard of him, for he was engaged to be married to Eugénie Danglars. He was thought to be a prince, but, alas, he is nothing but a common criminal. And he will step forward, likely tomorrow, to announce that he is the illegitimate son of Villefort and the Baroness Danglars, birthed in secret and buried alive, left to die, some twenty-two years ago. It is only a matter of days before Villefort is finished.”
Mercédès could not control a gasp of horror. Left to die? Buried alive?
“And your husband . . . he has lost his job and his position, and his wealth will soon follow. And his hotheaded son will soon be taught a lesson—”
“Edmond!” She lurched toward him, grasping at his arm from her crumpled position on the floor. “You would truly do that? Send an innocent man to his death? My son? Please, Edmond, please. I beg you. . . . I’m . . . begging . . . you.” The tears were falling fast and hard, and she heard the same desperation in her voice that she’d had when she’d begged Villefort all those years ago. Begged and pleaded for some news, something about Edmond. Anything.
She felt the flexing of the count’s muscles beneath her fingers, the slight shift, the barest tremble. Then, suddenly, all of the tension drained out of him. He looked down at her, his face dark and tight. But contemplative and suddenly—suddenly— quite arch and smug. “I won’t shoot at him. But you must give me something in return.”
“Whatever you want. Name it, Edmond. Whatever your revenge against me needs to be, I willingly give it in exchange for the life of my son.”
“Eighteen months you waited for me . . . and so I desire eighteen months of you. . . .” His voice was smooth and sleek, like a coiled snake. “As my slave—my willing, subservient, groveling slave. Eighteen months of doing my every command, following my every whim.” He looked at her, his eyes burning into hers, and she felt a deep shiver inside. Damp sprang anew to her palms, and her mouth dried and her throat tightened.