Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  And yet, the young Greek herself, although tired from her journey, could not pass the night without a real greeting from the Count. He kept calm and cool airs about them while in public but she knew the depth of his heart and his mind, and only wished to be greeted as he assuredly longed to do.

  Haidee slipped from beneath the plush covers of her bed and quietly tiptoed past her sleeping attendant. The house was quiet and calm and it took no time to figure which suite belonged to her master. She only hoped his attendant had left for the evening.

  She turned the door handle slowly, and given the Count’s servants were very well versed in his actions, the door did not creak or moan in the slightest. Haidee sent a quiet prayer to God as she squeezed through the door she only opened as wide as she dared. Once inside, the room was as dark as the rest of the house and for a moment she feared he slumbered until a movement near the window caught her eye.

  The Count stood, a tumbler in hand, staring out the window as if it reached a lot further than it actually did. In his posture Haidee saw the lonely, sad man, he kept private, and everything inside yearned to comfort him.

  “Little one, you should not be here,” his voice registered loud against the previous squelching silence. Haidee froze, caught, and waited to see what he might do to her.

  He turned around and sat his drink on a sideboard. She caught a glimpse of his rumpled hair and open collar in a beam of moonlight before he descended upon her.

  He didn’t appear to be angry but one could never be certain around him. “What would possess you to come to my rooms?”

  Her voice never wavered as she answered. “I had to see you, my lord, I missed you.”

  He moved closer and for the first time in too long she could look upon his face. Without invitation she reached out, grasped one of his overly large hands and held it in her own. His skin felt warm and soft even though she knew they were the hands of a fighter. Bringing his palm to her lips she planted one fleeting kiss at the center before releasing him.

  Neither the Count nor Haidee moved; they simply stared into each other’s eyes. It seemed the pair were in a standoff before the Count reached out, as if willing himself to stop while he did it, and pulled her by the waist flush against him. A thrill jolted up the woman’s spine and even though she was not completely innocent there was something new about this encounter; it held a delicious edge that she wished to explore. The Count was no ordinary man looking to satisfy his lust. He touched her in a reverent way, the exact way any woman would want to be touched.

  “I should not…” he whispered, his voice falling away as he ran one of his hands down the length of her spine from nape to buttocks.

  “You are a temptation, Haidee. I try to resist you at every turn but it seems to be like resisting the rain when it falls in torrents.”

  Her reply was husky and filled with wanton things, “shall I find you an umbrella then, my lord?”

  “Would it save me?”

  “I think not, my lord,” she whispered, finally giving in to the long held desire and reaching out to draw him to her lips.

  He followed under her hand willingly and the sizzle that raced through her blood when their lips touched was enough to ignite all of Paris. It started as a chaste kiss but the moment young Haidee darted her tongue between his lips it was his undoing. He hauled her completely against his chest, picking her up off the ground. The panted dress of her people allowed her to wrap her legs around his lean hips as he carried her to the bed on the far side of the room.

  His weight crushed her into his bedclothes but neither party paid any heed. The Count trailed hot melting kisses down the column of Haidee’s neck and all the young lady could do was hold on to his already rumpled shirtsleeves and acquiesce.

  “My lord, please…” Haidee begged but she did not know for what. The Count could take these small gifts from her but never her innocence, not while she was in his charge. He broke away from her skin, the pain of parting clear across his solemn features.

  “I can’t give you more than this, little one.”

  She didn’t speak only ran her hands up and down his powerful arms, relishing in the heat on her palms. With nothing more to say she leaned up so he could take her lips anew, savoring every single touch he deigned to give her.

  The young lady harbored a love for the Count she could not even voice, even if he would deign to listen. He believed she was his charge, his responsibility, and all she wanted was for him to be her responsibility in turn.

  He kissed her hard and passionately with the earlier hesitation gone from him. Haidee traced her fingers down the curve of his spine, learning what made him moan or pant in her arms. The puissance to render a man powerless was a heady thing and each time the Count seemed to lose himself to her, she relished in it.

  With lips and tongues, hands and legs, the couple did everything they could to one another without removing their clothing. Eventually the waiting became too much and the Count broke away so as to not push his will too far.

  “You must go,” he whispered into her midnight hair before helping her to stand.

  She swallowed and arranged her clothes in some semblance of order before slipping out the way she came. Her lips, bruised from the Count’s own, and his heady scent clinging to her clothing were the only reminders of the dream finally come to life.

  Chapter 3. Unlimited Credit.

  About two o’clock the following day a calash, drawn by a pair of magnificent English horses, stopped at the door of Monte Cristo and a person, dressed in a blue coat, with buttons of a similar color, a white waistcoat, over which was displayed a massive gold chain, brown trousers, and a quantity of black hair descending so low over his eyebrows as to leave it doubtful whether it were not artificial so little did its jetty glossiness assimilate with the deep wrinkles stamped on his features—a person, in a word, who, although evidently past fifty, desired to be taken for not more than forty, bent forwards from the carriage door, on the panels of which were emblazoned the armorial bearings of a baron, and directed his groom to inquire at the porter’s lodge whether the Count of Monte Cristo resided there, and if he were within. While waiting, the occupant of the carriage surveyed the house, the garden as far as he could distinguish it, and the livery of servants who passed to and fro, with an attention so close as to be somewhat impertinent. His glance was keen but showed cunning rather than intelligence; his lips were straight, and so thin that, as they closed, they were drawn in over the teeth; his cheek-bones were broad and projecting, a never-failing proof of audacity and craftiness; while the flatness of his forehead, and the enlargement of the back of his skull, which rose much higher than his large and coarsely shaped ears, combined to form a physiognomy anything but prepossessing, save in the eyes of such as considered that the owner of so splendid an equipage must needs be all that was admirable and enviable, more especially when they gazed on the enormous diamond that glittered in his shirt, and the red ribbon that depended from his buttonhole.

  The groom, in obedience to his orders, tapped at the window of the porter’s lodge, saying, “Pray, does not the Count of Monte Cristo live here?”

  “His excellency does reside here,” replied the concierge; “but”—added he, glancing an inquiring look at Ali. Ali returned a sign in the negative. “But what?” asked the groom.

  “His excellency does not receive visitors to-day.”

  “Then here is my master’s card,—the Baron Danglars. You will take it to the Count, and say that, although in haste to attend the Chamber, my master came out of his way to have the honor of calling upon him.”

  “I never speak to his excellency,” replied the concierge; “the valet de chambre will carry your message.” The groom returned to the carriage. “Well?” asked Danglars. The man, somewhat crest-fallen by the rebuke he had received, repeated what the concierge had said. “Bless me,” murmured Baron Danglars, “this must surely be a prince instead of a Count by their styling him ‘excellency,’ and only venturing to
address him by the medium of his valet de chambre. However, it does not signify; he has a letter of credit on me, so I must see him when he requires his money.”

  Then, throwing himself back in his carriage, Danglars called out to his coachman, in a voice that might be heard across the road, “To the Chamber of Deputies.”

  Apprised in time of the visit paid him, Monte Cristo had, from behind the blinds of his pavilion, as minutely observed the baron, by means of an excellent lorgnette, as Danglars himself had scrutinized the house, garden, and servants. “That fellow has a decidedly bad countenance,” said the Count in a tone of disgust, as he shut up his glass into its ivory case. “How comes it that all do not retreat in aversion at sight of that flat, receding, serpent-like forehead, round, vulture-shaped head, and sharp-hooked nose, like the beak of a buzzard? Ali,” cried he, striking at the same time on the brazen gong. Ali appeared. “Summon Bertuccio,” said the Count. Almost immediately Bertuccio entered the apartment. “Did your excellency desire to see me?” inquired he. “I did,” replied the Count. “You no doubt observed the horses standing a few minutes since at the door?”

  “Certainly, your excellency. I noticed them for their remarkable beauty.”

  “Then how comes it,” said Monte Cristo with a frown, “that, when I desired you to purchase for me the finest pair of horses to be found in Paris, there is another pair, fully as fine as mine, not in my stables?” At the look of displeasure, added to the angry tone in which the Count spoke, Ali turned pale and held down his head. “It is not your fault, my good Ali,” said the Count in the Arabic language, and with a gentleness none would have thought him capable of showing, either in voice or face—“it is not your fault. You do not understand the points of English horses.” The countenance of poor Ali recovered its serenity. “Permit me to assure your excellency,” said Bertuccio, “that the horses you speak of were not to be sold when I purchased yours.” Monte Cristo shrugged his shoulders. “It seems, sir steward,” said he, “that you have yet to learn that all things are to be sold to such as care to pay the price.”

  “His excellency is not, perhaps, aware that M. Danglars gave 16,000 francs for his horses?”

  “Very well. Then offer him double that sum; a banker never loses an opportunity of doubling his capital.”

  “Is your excellency really in earnest?” inquired the steward. Monte Cristo regarded the person who durst presume to doubt his words with the look of one equally surprised and displeased. “I have to pay a visit this evening,” replied he. “I desire that these horses, with completely new harness, may be at the door with my carriage.” Bertuccio bowed, and was about to retire; but when he reached the door, he paused, and then said, “At what o’clock does your excellency wish the carriage and horses to be ready?”

  “At five o’clock,” replied the Count.

  “I beg your excellency’s pardon,” interposed the steward in a deprecating manner, “for venturing to observe that it is already two o’clock.”

  “I am perfectly aware of that fact,” answered Monte Cristo calmly. Then, turning towards Ali, he said, “Let all the horses in my stables be led before the windows of your young lady, that she may select those she prefers for her carriage. Request her also to oblige me by saying whether it is her pleasure to dine with me; if so, let dinner be served in her apartments. Now, leave me, and desire my valet de chambre to come hither.” Scarcely had Ali disappeared when the valet entered the chamber. “Monsieur Baptistin,” said the Count, “you have been in my service one year, the time I generally give myself to judge of the merits or demerits of those about me. You suit me very well.” Baptistin bowed low. “It only remains for me to know whether I also suit you?”

  “Oh, your excellency!” exclaimed Baptistin eagerly.

  “Listen, if you please, till I have finished speaking,” replied Monte Cristo. “You receive 1,500 francs per annum for your services here—more than many a brave subaltern, who continually risks his life for his country, obtains. You live in a manner far superior to many clerks who work ten times harder than you do for their money. Then, though yourself a servant, you have other servants to wait upon you, take care of your clothes, and see that your linen is duly prepared for you. Again, you make a profit upon each article you purchase for my toilet, amounting in the course of a year to a sum equaling your wages.”

  “Nay, indeed, your excellency.”

  “I am not condemning you for this, Monsieur Baptistin; but let your profits end here. It would be long indeed ere you would find so lucrative a post as that you have now the good fortune to fill. I neither ill-use nor ill-treat my servants by word or action. An error I readily forgive, but willful negligence or forgetfulness, never. My commands are ordinarily short, clear, and precise; and I would rather be obliged to repeat my words twice, or even three times, than they should be misunderstood. I am rich enough to know whatever I desire to know, and I can promise you I am not wanting in curiosity. If, then, I should learn that you had taken upon yourself to speak of me to any one favorably or unfavorably, to comment on my actions, or watch my conduct, that very instant you would quit my service. You may now retire. I never caution my servants a second time—remember that.” Baptistin bowed, and was proceeding towards the door. “I forgot to mention to you,” said the Count, “that I lay yearly aside a certain sum for each servant in my establishment; those whom I am compelled to dismiss lose (as a matter of course) all participation in this money, while their portion goes to the fund accumulating for those domestics who remain with me, and among whom it will be divided at my death. You have been in my service a year, your fund has already begun to accumulate—let it continue to do so.”

  This address, delivered in the presence of Ali, who, not understanding one word of the language in which it was spoken, stood wholly unmoved, produced an effect on M. Baptistin only to be conceived by such as have occasion to study the character and disposition of French domestics. “I assure your excellency,” said he, “that at least it shall be my study to merit your approbation in all things, and I will take M. Ali as my model.”

  “By no means,” replied the Count in the most frigid tones; “Ali has many faults mixed with most excellent qualities. He cannot possibly serve you as a pattern for your conduct, not being, as you are, a paid servant, but a mere slave—a dog, who, should he fail in his duty towards me, I should not discharge from my service, but kill.” Baptistin opened his eyes with astonishment.

  “You seem incredulous,” said Monte Cristo, who repeated to Ali in the Arabic language what he had just been saying to Baptistin in French. The Nubian smiled assentingly to his master’s words, then, kneeling on one knee, respectfully kissed the hand of the Count. This corroboration of the lesson he had just received put the finishing stroke to the wonder and stupefaction of M. Baptistin. The Count then motioned the valet de chambre to retire, and to Ali to follow to his study, where they conversed long and earnestly together. As the hand of the clock pointed to five the Count struck thrice upon his gong. When Ali was wanted one stroke was given, two summoned Baptistin, and three Bertuccio. The steward entered. “My horses,” said Monte Cristo.

  “They are at the door harnessed to the carriage as your excellency desired. Does your excellency wish me to accompany him?”

  “No, the coachman, Ali, and Baptistin will go.” The Count descended to the door of his mansion, and beheld his carriage drawn by the very pair of horses he had so much admired in the morning as the property of Danglars. As he passed them he said—“They are extremely handsome certainly, and you have done well to purchase them, although you were somewhat remiss not to have procured them sooner.”

  “Indeed, your excellency, I had very considerable difficulty in obtaining them, and, as it is, they have cost an enormous price.”

  “Does the sum you gave for them make the animals less beautiful,” inquired the Count, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Nay, if your excellency is satisfied, it is all that I could wish. Whither does your e
xcellency desire to be driven?”

  “To the residence of Baron Danglars, Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin.” This conversation had passed as they stood upon the terrace, from which a flight of stone steps led to the carriage-drive. As Bertuccio, with a respectful bow, was moving away, the Count called him back. “I have another commission for you, M. Bertuccio,” said he; “I am desirous of having an estate by the seaside in Normandy—for instance, between Havre and Boulogne. You see I give you a wide range. It will be absolutely necessary that the place you may select have a small harbor, creek, or bay, into which my corvette can enter and remain at anchor. She draws only fifteen feet. She must be kept in constant readiness to sail immediately I think proper to give the signal. Make the requisite inquiries for a place of this description, and when you have met with an eligible spot, visit it, and if it possesses the advantages desired, purchase it at once in your own name. The corvette must now, I think, be on her way to Fecamp, must she not?”

  “Certainly, your excellency; I saw her put to sea the same evening we quitted Marseilles.”

  “And the yacht.”

  “Was ordered to remain at Martigues.”

  “‘Tis well. I wish you to write from time to time to the captains in charge of the two vessels so as to keep them on the alert.”

  “And the steamboat?”

  “She is at Chalons?”

  “Yes.”

  “The same orders for her as for the two sailing vessels.”

  “Very good.”

  “When you have purchased the estate I desire, I want constant relays of horses at ten leagues apart along the northern and southern road.”

  “Your excellency may depend upon me.” The Count made a gesture of satisfaction, descended the terrace steps, and sprang into his carriage, which was whirled along swiftly to the banker’s house. Danglars was engaged at that moment, presiding over a railroad committee. But the meeting was nearly concluded when the name of his visitor was announced. As the Count’s title sounded on his ear he rose, and addressing his colleagues, who were members of one or the other Chamber, he said,—“Gentlemen, pardon me for leaving you so abruptly; but a most ridiculous circumstance has occurred, which is this,—Thomson & French, the Roman bankers, have sent to me a certain person calling himself the Count of Monte Cristo, and have given him an unlimited credit with me. I confess this is the drollest thing I have ever met with in the course of my extensive foreign transactions, and you may readily suppose it has greatly roused my curiosity. I took the trouble this morning to call on the pretended Count—if he were a real Count he wouldn’t be so rich. But, would you believe it, ‘He was not receiving.’ So the master of Monte Cristo gives himself airs befitting a great millionaire or a capricious beauty. I made inquiries, and found that the house in the Champs Elysees is his own property, and certainly it was very decently kept up. But,” pursued Danglars with one of his sinister smiles, “an order for unlimited credit calls for something like caution on the part of the banker to whom that order is given. I am very anxious to see this man. I suspect a hoax is intended, but the instigators of it little knew whom they had to deal with. ‘They laugh best who laugh last!’”