Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  This visit with the baroness served to remind Villefort how much he missed Hermine: her quiet strength and an edge to her person—that Heloise never had. His mind drifted back to the first time he spoke with her. A beauty, by anyone’s esteem, Hermine held gentleman as her captives until she chose to release them. He became ensnared and captivated just after his second marriage when he realized Heloise would do her marital duties and no more.

  Across a cool garden he first saw her wrapped in the arms of another man against a hedge. She had no shame and boldly met his eyes as the other gentleman trailed small kisses down the uncovered curve of her elbow. In that moment he fell for her and the need to know her weakened him as he stood watching.

  Madame Danglars, she had already become, and despite his dealing with the baron, the baroness was an altogether different creature. She knew him by sight of course, before they were properly introduced. Upon the sight of his enrapt countenance, she dismissed her would be companion for the evening in favor of his company.

  She actually approached him, mocking the gentleman by giving him a bow instead of feminine equivalent.

  “Lord Procureur,” she continued in her jest.

  He bowed low, clasping her hand, and gently kissing it. It had been some time since he had to play the game of seduction but the company of the baroness gave it an air of joviality, yet another lost sensation.

  “Baroness Danglars. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Is it, Lord Procureur?”

  “My lady, the most acute pleasure I have had in at least a month.”

  She giggled at his small jest.

  “Didn’t you recently celebrate your marriage, Lord Procureur?”

  “Of course, Baroness, but that was one month and one day ago, you see.”

  Her big eyes shone brightly in the light of the moon and reflected the filtering gaiety from the nearby ballroom.

  “Lord Procurer, you are not as I thought you would be.”

  “Oh?” he raised a singular eyebrow.

  “I pictured you more a scholarly man, possibly older and more wise.”

  “I assure you, Baroness, I am plenty wise.”

  He elicited another sly grin from her lips.

  “Not if you are in my company. Shall we go somewhere considerably more private?”

  Villefort bowed his head in acquiescence and the lady led him away to an alcove hidden among the bushes of the garden.

  “They call this place the lover’s nook, how do you like it?” she asked as she sat on a stone bench.

  “It is conveniently located, lady.”

  The lady in question provided the procureur yet another mercurial grin. After a moment of companionable silence Villefort placed himself on the bench, mindful of her voluminous costume.

  “You may call me Hermine, if you wish.”

  “I would take pleasure in it, Hermine. You may call me Gerard.”

  “Certainly less bothersome than Lord Procureur.”

  “It was beginning to wear on me, I’m afraid,” Villefort said, with a masculine chuckle.

  The baroness smiled gently, it seemed the temperature of the air surrounding the pair heated and sparked. Neither lover knew this particular feeling but neither was loathe to walk away from the other.

  In a forward fashion, Villefort reached out and took the baroness’s gloves hand. Encased in white satin the lady sat perfectly still as he pealed the fabric from her elbow down the length of her arm and then off her fingertips. Her pale skin shone brilliant and white beneath the shining moon and Villefort met Hermine’s eyes as he brought her delicate wrist to his lips.

  “Do you intend to make love to me, Gerard?”

  “Is that what you wish?” Villefort asked, continuing the exploration of her arm with his mouth.

  “I think, with the fete so near us, it would be quite foolish to start such an endeavor. Perhaps you wish to see me again?” Her words slowed and trailed off toward the end of her statement as Villefort found a particularly sensitive area near the lady’s palm.

  “Hermine, continue to assail me with those pretty noises you keep making and I think an arrangement could be made.”

  Villefort released her arm and before Hermine could acquire her bearings he pulled her heavily against his chest, encircling in his arms.

  She gasped aloud but did not struggle. The lady simply waited for the kiss Villefort’s embrace promised.

  When their lips met the air sparking between them ignited and something was born, something dangerous and dark that neither would be able to control. It was the beginning of the end. He took her mouth savagely, without quarter, until all she could do was clutch his coat to support her own driving need.

  Moments stretched into minutes stretched into hours before the procureur released the lady’s mouth. Villefort smiled down as his gazed racked across her flushed cheeks and swollen lips, all inspired by him.

  That night was the start of an ongoing affair between Villefort and Madame Danglars. An affair tempered by sadness that neither could give themselves over to the other.

  Villefort pulled himself back to the present and stared at Hermine. The lady aged well, she was still equally as beautiful as she was in her youth, if even more beautiful due to the years of knowledge etched in her features.

  The end came when the child was discovered. There was no keeping up pretenses if they were discovered. It was the best recourse in the situation and they both always did what they must to survive.

  He gave the lady a small bolstering smile.

  Then he pressed the hand the baroness reluctantly gave him, and led her respectfully back to the door. Madame Danglars returned in another cab to the passage, on the other side of which she found her carriage, and her coachman sleeping peacefully on his box while waiting for her.

  Chapter 3. A Summer Ball.

  The same day during the interview between Madame Danglars and the procureur, a travelling-carriage entered the Rue du Helder, passed through the gateway of No. 27, and stopped in the yard. In a moment the door was opened, and Madame de Morcerf alighted, leaning on her son’s arm. Albert soon left her, ordered his horses, and having arranged his toilet, drove to the Champs Elysees, to the house of Monte Cristo. The count received him with his habitual smile. It was a strange thing that no one ever appeared to advance a step in that man’s favor. Those who would, as it were, force a passage to his heart, found an impassable barrier. Morcerf, who ran towards him with open arms, was chilled as he drew near, in spite of the friendly smile, and simply held out his hand. Monte Cristo shook it coldly, according to his invariable practice.

  “Here I am, dear count.”

  “Welcome home again.”

  “I arrived an hour since.”

  “From Dieppe?”

  “No, from Treport.”

  “Indeed?”

  “And I have come at once to see you.”

  “That is extremely kind of you,” said Monte Cristo with a tone of perfect indifference.

  “And what is the news?”

  “You should not ask a stranger, a foreigner, for news.”

  “I know it, but in asking for news, I mean, have you done anything for me?”

  “Had you commissioned me?” said Monte Cristo, feigning uneasiness.

  “Come, come,” said Albert, “do not assume so much indifference. It is said, sympathy travels rapidly, and when at Treport, I felt the electric shock; you have either been working for me or thinking of me.”

  “Possibly,” said Monte Cristo, “I have indeed thought of you, but the magnetic wire I was guiding acted, indeed, without my knowledge.”

  “Indeed? Pray tell me how it happened?”

  “Willingly. M. Danglars dined with me.”

  “I know it; to avoid meeting him, my mother and I left town.”

  “But he met here M. Andrea Cavalcanti.”

  “Your Italian prince?”

  “Not so fast; M. Andrea only calls himself count.”

&nbs
p; “Calls himself, do you say?”

  “Yes, calls himself.”

  “Is he not a count?”

  “What can I know of him? He calls himself so. I, of course, give him the same title, and every one else does likewise.”

  “What a strange man you are! What next? You say M. Danglars dined here?”

  “Yes, with Count Cavalcanti, the marquis his father, Madame Danglars, M. and Madame de Villefort,—charming people,—M. Debray, Maximilian Morrel, and M. de Chateau-Renaud.”

  “Did they speak of me?”

  “Not a word.”

  “So much the worse.”

  “Why so? I thought you wished them to forget you?”

  “If they did not speak of me, I am sure they thought about me, and I am in despair.”

  “How will that affect you, since Mademoiselle Danglars was not among the number here who thought of you? Truly, she might have thought of you at home.”

  “I have no fear of that; or, if she did, it was only in the same way in which I think of her.”

  “Touching sympathy! So you hate each other?” said the count.

  “Listen,” said Morcerf—“if Mademoiselle Danglars were disposed to take pity on my supposed martyrdom on her account, and would dispense with all matrimonial formalities between our two families, I am ready to agree to the arrangement. In a word, Mademoiselle Danglars would make a charming mistress—but a wife—diable!”

  “And this,” said Monte Cristo, “is your opinion of your intended spouse?”

  “Yes; it is rather unkind, I acknowledge, but it is true. But as this dream cannot be realized, since Mademoiselle Danglars must become my lawful wife, live perpetually with me, sing to me, compose verses and music within ten paces of me, and that for my whole life, it frightens me. One may forsake a mistress, but a wife,—good heavens! There she must always be; and to marry Mademoiselle Danglars would be awful.”

  “You are difficult to please, viscount.”

  “Yes, for I often wish for what is impossible.”

  “What is that?”

  “To find such a wife as my father found.” Monte Cristo turned pale, and looked at Albert, while playing with some magnificent pistols.

  “Your father was fortunate, then?” said he.

  “You know my opinion of my mother, count; look at her,—still beautiful, witty, more charming than ever. For any other son to have stayed with his mother for four days at Treport, it would have been a condescension or a martyrdom, while I return, more contented, more peaceful—shall I say more poetic!—than if I had taken Queen Mab or Titania as my companion.”

  “That is an overwhelming demonstration, and you would make every one vow to live a single life.”

  “Such are my reasons for not liking to marry Mademoiselle Danglars. Have you ever noticed how much a thing is heightened in value when we obtain possession of it? The diamond which glittered in the window at Marle’s or Fossin’s shines with more splendor when it is our own; but if we are compelled to acknowledge the superiority of another, and still must retain the one that is inferior, do you not know what we have to endure?”

  “Worldling,” murmured the count.

  “Thus I shall rejoice when Mademoiselle Eugenie perceives I am but a pitiful atom, with scarcely as many hundred thousand francs as she has millions.” Monte Cristo smiled. “One plan occurred to me,” continued Albert; “Franz likes all that is eccentric; I tried to make him fall in love with Mademoiselle Danglars; but in spite of four letters, written in the most alluring style, he invariably answered: ‘My eccentricity may be great, but it will not make me break my promise.’“

  “That is what I call devoted friendship, to recommend to another one whom you would not marry yourself.” Albert smiled.—”Apropos,” continued he, “Franz is coming soon, but it will not interest you; you dislike him, I think?”

  “I?” said Monte Cristo; “my dear Viscount, how have you discovered that I did not like M. Franz! I like every one.”

  “And you include me in the expression every one—many thanks!”

  “Let us not mistake,” said Monte Cristo; “I love every one as God commands us to love our neighbor, as Christians; but I thoroughly hate but a few. Let us return to M. Franz d’Epinay. Did you say he was coming?”

  “Yes; summoned by M. de Villefort, who is apparently as anxious to get Mademoiselle Valentine married as M. Danglars is to see Mademoiselle Eugenie settled. It must be a very irksome office to be the father of a grownup daughter; it seems to make one feverish, and to raise one’s pulse to ninety beats a minute until the deed is done.”

  “But M. d’Epinay, unlike you, bears his misfortune patiently.”

  “Still more, he talks seriously about the matter, puts on a white tie, and speaks of his family. He entertains a very high opinion of M. and Madame de Villefort.”

  “Which they deserve, do they not?”

  “I believe they do. M. de Villefort has always passed for a severe but a just man.”

  “There is, then, one,” said Monte Cristo, “whom you do not condemn like poor Danglars?”

  “Because I am not compelled to marry his daughter perhaps,” replied Albert, laughing.

  “Indeed, my dear sir,” said Monte Cristo, “you are revoltingly foppish.”

  “I foppish? How do you mean?”

  “Yes; pray take a cigar, and cease to defend yourself, and to struggle to escape marrying Mademoiselle Danglars. Let things take their course; perhaps you may not have to retract.”

  “Bah,” said Albert, staring.

  “Doubtless, my dear viscount, you will not be taken by force; and seriously, do you wish to break off your engagement?”

  “I would give a hundred thousand francs to be able to do so.”

  “Then make yourself quite easy. M. Danglars would give double that sum to attain the same end.”

  “Am I, indeed, so happy?” said Albert, who still could not prevent an almost imperceptible cloud passing across his brow. “But, my dear count, has M. Danglars any reason?”

  “Ah, there is your proud and selfish nature. You would expose the self-love of another with a hatchet, but you shrink if your own is attacked with a needle.”

  “But yet M. Danglars appeared”—

  “Delighted with you, was he not? Well, he is a man of bad taste, and is still more enchanted with another. I know not whom; look and judge for yourself.”

  “Thank you, I understand. But my mother—no, not my mother; I mistake—my father intends giving a ball.”

  “A ball at this season?”

  “Summer balls are fashionable.”

  “If they were not, the countess has only to wish it, and they would become so.”

  “You are right; you know they are select affairs; those who remain in Paris in July must be true Parisians. Will you take charge of our invitation to Messieurs Cavalcanti?”

  “When will it take place?”

  “On Saturday.”

  “M. Cavalcanti’s father will be gone.”

  “But the son will be here; will you invite young M. Cavalcanti?”

  “I do not know him, viscount.”

  “You do not know him?”

  “No, I never saw him until a few days since, and am not responsible for him.”

  “But you receive him at your house?”

  “That is another thing: he was recommended to me by a good abbe, who may be deceived. Give him a direct invitation, but do not ask me to present him. If he were afterwards to marry Mademoiselle Danglars, you would accuse me of intrigue, and would be challenging me,—besides, I may not be there myself.”

  “Where?”

  “At your ball.”

  “Why should you not be there?”

  “Because you have not yet invited me.”

  “But I come expressly for that purpose.”

  “You are very kind, but I may be prevented.”

  “If I tell you one thing, you will be so amiable as to set aside all impediments.”


  “Tell me what it is.”

  “My mother begs you to come.”

  “The Comtesse de Morcerf?” said Monte Cristo, starting.

  “Ah, count,” said Albert, “I assure you Madame de Morcerf speaks freely to me, and if you have not felt those sympathetic fibers of which I spoke just now thrill within you, you must be entirely devoid of them, for during the last four days we have spoken of no one else.”

  “You have talked of me?”

  “Yes, that is the penalty of being a living puzzle!”

  “Then I am also a puzzle to your mother? I should have thought her too reasonable to be led by imagination.”

  “A problem, my dear count, for every one—for my mother as well as others; much studied, but not solved, you still remain an enigma, do not fear. My mother is only astonished that you remain so long unsolved. I believe, while the Countess G—— takes you for Lord Ruthven, my mother imagines you to be Cagliostro or the Count Saint-Germain. The first opportunity you have, confirm her in her opinion; it will be easy for you, as you have the philosophy of the one and the wit of the other.”

  “I thank you for the warning,” said the count; “I shall endeavor to be prepared for all suppositions.”

  “You will, then, come on Saturday?”

  “Yes, since Madame de Morcerf invites me.”

  “You are very kind.”

  “Will M. Danglars be there?”

  “He has already been invited by my father. We shall try to persuade the great d’Aguesseau, M. de Villefort, to come, but have not much hope of seeing him.”

  “‘Never despair of anything,’ says the proverb.”

  “Do you dance, count?”

  “I dance?”

  “Yes, you; it would not be astonishing.”

  “That is very well before one is over forty. No, I do not dance, but I like to see others do so. Does Madame de Morcerf dance?”

  “Never; you can talk to her, she so delights in your conversation.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, truly; and I assure you. You are the only man of whom I have heard her speak with interest.” Albert rose and took his hat; the count conducted him to the door. “I have one thing to reproach myself with,” said he, stopping Albert on the steps. “What is it?”