Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  They resolved to profit by the count’s courtesy, and ordered the horses to be harnessed, while they substituted evening dress for that which they had on, and which was somewhat the worse for the numerous combats they had sustained. This precaution taken, they went to the theatre, and installed themselves in the count’s box. During the first act, the Countess G — — entered. Her first look was at the box where she had seen the count the previous evening, so that she perceived Franz and Albert in the place of the very person concerning whom she had expressed so strange an opinion to Franz. Her opera-glass was so fixedly directed towards them, that Franz saw it would be cruel not to satisfy her curiosity; and, availing himself of one of the privileges of the spectators of the Italian theatres, who use their boxes to hold receptions, the two friends went to pay their respects to the countess. Scarcely had they entered, when she motioned to Franz to assume the seat of honor. Albert, in his turn, sat behind.

  “Well,” said she, hardly giving Franz time to sit down, “it seems you have nothing better to do than to make the acquaintance of this new Lord Ruthven, and you are already the best friends in the world.”

  “Without being so far advanced as that, my dear countess,” returned Franz, “I cannot deny that we have abused his good nature all day.”

  “All day?”

  “Yes; this morning we breakfasted with him; we rode in his carriage all day, and now we have taken possession of his box.”

  “You know him, then?”

  “Yes, and no.”

  “How so?”

  “It is a long story.”

  “Tell it to me.”

  “It would frighten you too much.”

  “So much the more reason.”

  “At least wait until the story has a conclusion.”

  “Very well; I prefer complete histories; but tell me how you made his acquaintance? Did anyone introduce you to him?”

  “No; it was he who introduced himself to us.”

  “When?”

  “Last night, after we left you.”

  “Through what medium?”

  “The very prosaic one of our landlord.”

  “He is staying, then, at the Hotel de Londres with you?”

  “Not only in the same hotel, but on the same floor.”

  “What is his name — for, of course, you know?”

  “The Count of Monte Cristo.”

  “That is not a family name?”

  “No, it is the name of the island he has purchased.”

  “And he is a count?”

  “A Tuscan count.”

  “Well, we must put up with that,” said the countess, who was herself from one of the oldest Venetian families. “What sort of a man is he?”

  “Ask the Vicomte de Morcerf.”

  “You hear, M. de Morcerf, I am referred to you,” said the countess.

  “We should be very hard to please, madam,” returned Albert, “did we not think him delightful. A friend of ten years’ standing could not have done more for us, or with a more perfect courtesy.”

  “Come,” observed the countess, smiling, “I see my vampire is only some millionaire, who has taken the appearance of Lara in order to avoid being confounded with M. de Rothschild; and you have seen her?”

  “Her?”

  “The beautiful Greek of yesterday.”

  “No; we heard, I think, the sound of her guzla, but she remained perfectly invisible.”

  “When you say invisible,” interrupted Albert, “it is only to keep up the mystery; for whom do you take the blue domino at the window with the white curtains?”

  “Where was this window with white hangings?” asked the countess.

  “At the Rospoli Palace.”

  “The count had three windows at the Rospoli Palace?”

  “Yes. Did you pass through the Corso?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, did you notice two windows hung with yellow damask, and one with white damask with a red cross? Those were the count’s windows.”

  “Why, he must be a nabob. Do you know what those three windows were worth?”

  “Two or three hundred Roman crowns?”

  “Two or three thousand.”

  “The deuce.”

  “Does his island produce him such a revenue?”

  “It does not bring him a baiocco.”

  “Then why did he purchase it?”

  “For a whim.”

  “He is an original, then?”

  “In reality,” observed Albert, “he seemed to me somewhat eccentric; were he at Paris, and a frequenter of the theatres, I should say he was a poor devil literally mad. This morning he made two or three exits worthy of Didier or Anthony.” At this moment a fresh visitor entered, and, according to custom, Franz gave up his seat to him. This circumstance had, moreover, the effect of changing the conversation; an hour afterwards the two friends returned to their hotel. Signor Pastrini had already set about procuring their disguises for the morrow; and he assured them that they would be perfectly satisfied. The next morning, at nine o’clock, he entered Franz’s room, followed by a tailor, who had eight or ten Roman peasant costumes on his arm; they selected two exactly alike, and charged the tailor to sew on each of their hats about twenty yards of ribbon, and to procure them two of the long silk sashes of different colors with which the lower orders decorate themselves on fete-days. Albert was impatient to see how he looked in his new dress — a jacket and breeches of blue velvet, silk stockings with clocks, shoes with buckles, and a silk waistcoat. This picturesque attire set him off to great advantage; and when he had bound the scarf around his waist, and when his hat, placed coquettishly on one side, let fall on his shoulder a stream of ribbons, Franz was forced to confess that costume has much to do with the physical superiority we accord to certain nations. The Turks used to be so picturesque with their long and flowing robes, but are they not now hideous with their blue frocks buttoned up to the chin, and their red caps, which make them look like a bottle of wine with a red seal? Franz complimented Albert, who looked at himself in the glass with an unequivocal smile of satisfaction. They were thus engaged when the Count of Monte Cristo entered.

  “Gentlemen,” said he, “although a companion is agreeable, perfect freedom is sometimes still more agreeable. I come to say that today, and for the remainder of the Carnival, I leave the carriage entirely at your disposal. The host will tell you I have three or four more, so that you will not inconvenience me in any way. Make use of it, I pray you, for your pleasure or your business.”

  The young men wished to decline, but they could find no good reason for refusing an offer which was so agreeable to them. The Count of Monte Cristo remained a quarter of an hour with them, conversing on all subjects with the greatest ease. He was, as we have already said, perfectly well acquainted with the literature of all countries. A glance at the walls of his salon proved to Franz and Albert that he was a connoisseur of pictures. A few words he let fall showed them that he was no stranger to the sciences, and he seemed much occupied with chemistry. The two friends did not venture to return the count the breakfast he had given them; it would have been too absurd to offer him in exchange for his excellent table the very inferior one of Signor Pastrini. They told him so frankly, and he received their excuses with the air of a man who appreciated their delicacy. Albert was charmed with the count’s manners, and he was only prevented from recognizing him for a perfect gentleman by reason of his varied knowledge. The permission to do what he liked with the carriage pleased him above all, for the fair peasants had appeared in a most elegant carriage the preceding evening, and Albert was not sorry to be upon an equal footing with them. At half-past one they descended, the coachman and footman had put on their livery over their disguises, which gave them a more ridiculous appearance than ever, and which gained them the applause of Franz and Albert. Albert had fastened the faded bunch of violets to his buttonhole. At the first sound of the bell they hastened into the Corso by the Via Vittoria. At the second turn,
a bunch of fresh violets, thrown from a carriage filled with harlequins, indicated to Albert that, like himself and his friend, the peasants had changed their costume, also; and whether it was the result of chance, or whether a similar feeling had possessed them both, while he had changed his costume they had assumed his.

  Albert placed the fresh bouquet in his buttonhole, but he kept the faded one in his hand; and when he again met the calash, he raised it to his lips, an action which seemed greatly to amuse not only the fair lady who had thrown it, but her joyous companions also. The day was as gay as the preceding one, perhaps even more animated and noisy; the count appeared for an instant at his window, but when they again passed he had disappeared. It is almost needless to say that the flirtation between Albert and the fair peasant continued all day. In the evening, on his return, Franz found a letter from the embassy, informing him that he would have the honor of being received by his holiness the next day. At each previous visit he had made to Rome, he had solicited and obtained the same favor; and incited as much by a religious feeling as by gratitude, he was unwilling to quit the capital of the Christian world without laying his respectful homage at the feet of one of St. Peter’s successors who has set the rare example of all the virtues. He did not then think of the Carnival, for in spite of his condescension and touching kindness, one cannot incline one’s self without awe before the venerable and noble old man called Gregory XVI. On his return from the Vatican, Franz carefully avoided the Corso; he brought away with him a treasure of pious thoughts, to which the mad gayety of the maskers would have been profanation. At ten minutes past five Albert entered overjoyed. The harlequin had reassumed her peasant’s costume, and as she passed she raised her mask. She was charming. Franz congratulated Albert, who received his congratulations with the air of a man conscious that they are merited. He had recognized by certain unmistakable signs, that his fair incognita belonged to the aristocracy. He had made up his mind to write to her the next day. Franz remarked, while he gave these details, that Albert seemed to have something to ask of him, but that he was unwilling to ask it. He insisted upon it, declaring beforehand that he was willing to make any sacrifice the other wished. Albert let himself be pressed just as long as friendship required, and then avowed to Franz that he would do him a great favor by allowing him to occupy the carriage alone the next day. Albert attributed to Franz’s absence the extreme kindness of the fair peasant in raising her mask. Franz was not sufficiently egotistical to stop Albert in the middle of an adventure that promised to prove so agreeable to his curiosity and so flattering to his vanity. He felt assured that the perfect indiscretion of his friend would duly inform him of all that happened; and as, during three years that he had travelled all over Italy, a similar piece of good fortune had never fallen to his share, Franz was by no means sorry to learn how to act on such an occasion. He therefore promised Albert that he would content himself the morrow with witnessing the Carnival from the windows of the Rospoli Palace.

  The next morning he saw Albert pass and repass, holding an enormous bouquet, which he doubtless meant to make the bearer of his amorous epistle. This belief was changed into certainty when Franz saw the bouquet (conspicuous by a circle of white camellias) in the hand of a charming harlequin dressed in rose-colored satin. The evening was no longer joy, but delirium. Albert nothing doubted but that the fair unknown would reply in the same manner. Franz anticipated his wishes by saying that the noise fatigued him, and that he should pass the next day in writing and looking over his journal. Albert was not deceived, for the next evening Franz saw him enter triumphantly shaking a folded paper which he held by one corner. “Well,” said he, “was I mistaken?”

  “She has answered you!” cried Franz.

  “Read.” This word was pronounced in a manner impossible to describe. Franz took the letter, and read: —

  Tuesday evening, at seven o’clock, descend from your carriage opposite the Via dei Pontefici, and follow the Roman peasant who snatches your torch from you. When you arrive at the first step of the church of San Giacomo, be sure to fasten a knot of rose-colored ribbons to the shoulder of your harlequin costume, in order that you may be recognized. Until then you will not see me.

  Constancy and Discretion.

  “Well,” asked he, when Franz had finished, “what do you think of that?”

  “I think that the adventure is assuming a very agreeable appearance.”

  “I think so, also,” replied Albert; “and I very much fear you will go alone to the Duke of Bracciano’s ball.” Franz and Albert had received that morning an invitation from the celebrated Roman banker. “Take care, Albert,” said Franz. “All the nobility of Rome will be present, and if your fair incognita belong to the higher class of society, she must go there.”

  “Whether she goes there or not, my opinion is still the same,” returned Albert. “You have read the letter?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know how imperfectly the women of the mezzo cito are educated in Italy?” (This is the name of the lower class.)

  “Yes.”

  “Well, read the letter again. Look at the writing, and find if you can, any blemish in the language or orthography.” (The writing was, in reality, charming, and the orthography irreproachable.) “You are born to good fortune,” said Franz, as he returned the letter.

  “Laugh as much as you will,” replied Albert, “I am in love.”

  “You alarm me,” cried Franz. “I see that I shall not only go alone to the Duke of Bracciano’s, but also return to Florence alone.”

  “If my unknown be as amiable as she is beautiful,” said Albert, “I shall fix myself at Rome for six weeks, at least. I adore Rome, and I have always had a great taste for archaeology.”

  “Come, two or three more such adventures, and I do not despair of seeing you a member of the Academy.” Doubtless Albert was about to discuss seriously his right to the academic chair when they were informed that dinner was ready.

  Albert did not show Franz the second missive he received, a significantly more private letter for his eyes alone. The countess G — — deigned to invite him for a visit with a detailed plan as to exactly what she might do once she attracted him alone. The letter read:

  Dearest,

  I am well aware I take a risk in writing to you in such a direct fashion but I deemed it worth laying out the plan I might have if I were to rule the time we might have together. In the short time we spent together you so graciously bestowed upon me the plan you might have fashioned if we were alone together in that moment but you failed to account for my desires. Yes, I have no doubt your abilities would have left me sated and satisfied but you sir, do not suppose I might fancy certain aspects in the carnal variety that are slightly less classic in nature.

  In the art of love, I must admit I am no stranger — as you surmised, I’m sure, from my lack of shock or blush when you spoke to me in such a bold fashion, and at a public event, no less. I found myself intrigued by your ability to address me frankly when many don’t even speak to me thus when discussing a much more appropriate topic. So, with everything that has passed between us to this day I will be frank and hope you do not find offence at my boldness.

  I want to see you, Albert. Your words moved me in a way I haven’t been in such a long while, and I do believe, given the chance, we might have a time unlike any other meeting of the opposite sex.

  So, sir, I will now take this chance to lay out my plan. The one I would be free to participate in should you be available to meet in private.

  My beautiful young man, I would have you kneel before me in your beauty, first and foremost. Not in homage, just in reverence. Then I might have you, as you so eloquently put the words in my mouth, strip until not a stitch of cloth mars the length and breadth of your body. You are exquisite, unlike any man I have seen in sometime, and I would savor every tiny bit of you.

  Next, I would copy your words again and have you lay down before me so I can explore the map of your body with my mouth, d
iscovering new lands and my favorite places to worship. No, I do not blaspheme, this is how I worship, by paying heed to the commandments of my body and allowing my mind to wander places it has previously not been allowed as a woman. You were very curious about my forwardness with you, but I will always be this way and do not object to that aspect of my personality.

  My love, once I learn every bit of your flesh with fingers, teeth, lips, and tongue I would have your manhood both inside my body and in my mouth. I highly doubt you have been in such a situation before but I would do everything in my power to ensure your ease before I did such a thing. It won’t be you rutting on top of me — I will take you from the top and show you a time unlike any you have ever seen.

  We pause here to allow Albert a moment to cool his ardor. The lady’s words almost had him whipped into a frenzy of wanton lust and panic. Albert had never known a woman such as the countess, and her forward thinking was both arousing and caused him fear. She had bold thoughts, bold hands, and very bold words. After a moment of pulling fresh air into his lungs he turned back to the letter, to the tiny, beautifully ornate scrawl of her hand across the parchment. This letter was something he would keep for a lifetime, something to collect even if it would be dangerous to hold onto.