The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated

by Alexandre Dumas

  Chapter 50. The Morrel Family

  In a very few minutes the count reached No. 7 in the Rue Meslay. Thehouse was of white stone, and in a small court before it were two smallbeds full of beautiful flowers. In the concierge that opened the gatethe count recognized Cocles; but as he had but one eye, and that eye hadbecome somewhat dim in the course of nine years, Cocles did notrecognize the count.

  The carriages that drove up to the door were compelled to turn, to avoida fountain that played in a basin of rockwork,—an ornament that hadexcited the jealousy of the whole quarter, and had gained for the placethe appellation of The Little Versailles. It is needless to add thatthere were gold and silver fish in the basin. The house, with kitchensand cellars below, had above the ground floor, two stories and attics.The whole of the property, consisting of an immense workshop, twopavilions at the bottom of the garden, and the garden itself, had beenpurchased by Emmanuel, who had seen at a glance that he could make of ita profitable speculation. He had reserved the house and half the garden,and building a wall between the garden and the workshops, had let themupon lease with the pavilions at the bottom of the garden. So that for atrifling sum he was as well lodged, and as perfectly shut out fromobservation, as the inhabitants of the finest mansion in the FaubourgSt. Germain.

  The breakfast-room was finished in oak; the salon in mahogany, and thefurnishings were of blue velvet; the bedroom was in citronwood and greendamask. There was a study for Emmanuel, who never studied, and a music-room for Julie, who never played. The whole of the second story was setapart for Maximilian; it was precisely similar to his sister’sapartments, except that for the breakfast-parlor he had a billiard-room,where he received his friends. He was superintending the grooming of hishorse, and smoking his cigar at the entrance of the garden, when thecount’s carriage stopped at the gate.

  Cocles opened the gate, and Baptistin, springing from the box, inquiredwhether Monsieur and Madame Herbault and Monsieur Maximilian Morrelwould see his excellency the Count of Monte Cristo.

  “The Count of Monte Cristo?” cried Morrel, throwing away his cigar andhastening to the carriage; “I should think we would see him. Ah, athousand thanks, count, for not having forgotten your promise.”

  And the young officer shook the count’s hand so warmly, that MonteCristo could not be mistaken as to the sincerity of his joy, and he sawthat he had been expected with impatience, and was received withpleasure.

  “Come, come,” said Maximilian, “I will serve as your guide; such a manas you are ought not to be introduced by a servant. My sister is in thegarden plucking the dead roses; my brother is reading his two papers, laPresse and les Débats, within six steps of her; for wherever you seeMadame Herbault, you have only to look within a circle of four yards andyou will find M. Emmanuel, and ‘reciprocally,’ as they say at thePolytechnic School.”

  At the sound of their steps a young woman of twenty to five-and-twenty,dressed in a silk morning gown, and busily engaged in plucking the deadleaves off a noisette rose-tree, raised her head. This was Julie, whohad become, as the clerk of the house of Thomson & French had predicted,Madame Emmanuel Herbault. She uttered a cry of surprise at the sight ofa stranger, and Maximilian began to laugh.

  “Don’t disturb yourself, Julie,” said he. “The count has only been twoor three days in Paris, but he already knows what a fashionable woman ofthe Marais is, and if he does not, you will show him.”

  “Ah, monsieur,” returned Julie, “it is treason in my brother to bringyou thus, but he never has any regard for his poor sister. Penelon,Penelon!”

  An old man, who was digging busily at one of the beds, stuck his spadein the earth, and approached, cap in hand, striving to conceal a quid oftobacco he had just thrust into his cheek. A few locks of gray mingledwith his hair, which was still thick and matted, while his bronzedfeatures and determined glance well suited an old sailor who had bravedthe heat of the equator and the storms of the tropics.

  “I think you hailed me, Mademoiselle Julie?” said he.

  Penelon had still preserved the habit of calling his master’s daughter“Mademoiselle Julie,” and had never been able to change the name toMadame Herbault.

  “Penelon,” replied Julie, “go and inform M. Emmanuel of this gentleman’svisit, and Maximilian will conduct him to the salon.”

  Then, turning to Monte Cristo,—“I hope you will permit me to leave youfor a few minutes,” continued she; and without awaiting any reply,disappeared behind a clump of trees, and escaped to the house by alateral alley.

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  “I am sorry to see,” observed Monte Cristo to Morrel, “that I cause nosmall disturbance in your house.”

  “Look there,” said Maximilian, laughing; “there is her husband changinghis jacket for a coat. I assure you, you are well known in the RueMeslay.”

  “Your family appears to be a very happy one,” said the count, as ifspeaking to himself.

  “Oh, yes, I assure you, count, they want nothing that can render themhappy; they are young and cheerful, they are tenderly attached to eachother, and with twenty-five thousand francs a year they fancy themselvesas rich as Rothschild.”

  “Five-and-twenty thousand francs is not a large sum, however,” repliedMonte Cristo, with a tone so sweet and gentle, that it went toMaximilian’s heart like the voice of a father; “but they will not becontent with that. Your brother-in-law is a barrister? a doctor?”

  “He was a merchant, monsieur, and had succeeded to the business of mypoor father. M. Morrel, at his death, left 500,000 francs, which weredivided between my sister and myself, for we were his only children. Herhusband, who, when he married her, had no other patrimony than his nobleprobity, his first-rate ability, and his spotless reputation, wished topossess as much as his wife. He labored and toiled until he had amassed250,000 francs; six years sufficed to achieve this object. Oh, I assureyou, sir, it was a touching spectacle to see these young creatures,destined by their talents for higher stations, toiling together, andthrough their unwillingness to change any of the customs of theirpaternal house, taking six years to accomplish what less scrupulouspeople would have effected in two or three. Marseilles resounded withtheir well-earned praises. At last, one day, Emmanuel came to his wife,who had just finished making up the accounts.

  “‘Julie,’ said he to her, ‘Cocles has just given me the last rouleau ofa hundred francs; that completes the 250,000 francs we had fixed as thelimits of our gains. Can you content yourself with the small fortunewhich we shall possess for the future? Listen to me. Our house transactsbusiness to the amount of a million a year, from which we derive anincome of 40,000 francs. We can dispose of the business, if we please,in an hour, for I have received a letter from M. Delaunay, in which heoffers to purchase the good-will of the house, to unite with his own,for 300,000 francs. Advise me what I had better do.’

  “‘Emmanuel,’ returned my sister, ‘the house of Morrel can only becarried on by a Morrel. Is it not worth 300,000 francs to save ourfather’s name from the chances of evil fortune and failure?’

  “‘I thought so,’ replied Emmanuel; ‘but I wished to have your advice.’

  “‘This is my counsel:—Our accounts are made up and our bills paid; allwe have to do is to stop the issue of any more, and close our office.’

  “This was done instantly. It was three o’clock; at a quarter past, amerchant presented himself to insure two ships; it was a clear profit of15,000 francs.

  “‘Monsieur,’ said Emmanuel, ‘have the goodness to address yourself to M.Delaunay. We have quitted business.’

  “‘How long?’ inquired the astonished merchant.

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  “‘A quarter of an hour,’ was the reply.

  “And this is the reason, monsieur,” continued Maximilian, “of my sisterand brother-in-law having only 25,000 francs a year.”

  Maximilian had scarcely finished his story, during which the count’sheart had swelled within him, when Emmanuel entered wearing a hat andcoat. He saluted the count
with the air of a man who is aware of therank of his guest; then, after having led Monte Cristo around the littlegarden, he returned to the house.

  A large vase of Japan porcelain, filled with flowers that loaded the airwith their perfume, stood in the salon. Julie, suitably dressed, and herhair arranged (she had accomplished this feat in less than ten minutes),received the count on his entrance. The songs of the birds were heard inan aviary hard by, and the branches of laburnums and rose acacias formedan exquisite framework to the blue velvet curtains. Everything in thischarming retreat, from the warble of the birds to the smile of themistress, breathed tranquillity and repose.

  The count had felt the influence of this happiness from the moment heentered the house, and he remained silent and pensive, forgetting thathe was expected to renew the conversation, which had ceased after thefirst salutations had been exchanged. The silence became almost painfulwhen, by a violent effort, tearing himself from his pleasing reverie:

  “Madame,” said he at length, “I pray you to excuse my emotion, whichmust astonish you who are only accustomed to the happiness I meet here;but contentment is so new a sight to me, that I could never be weary oflooking at yourself and your husband.”

  “We are very happy, monsieur,” replied Julie; “but we have also knownunhappiness, and few have ever undergone more bitter sufferings thanourselves.”

  The count’s features displayed an expression of the most intensecuriosity.

  “Oh, all this is a family history, as Château-Renaud told you the otherday,” observed Maximilian. “This humble picture would have but littleinterest for you, accustomed as you are to behold the pleasures and themisfortunes of the wealthy and industrious; but such as we are, we haveexperienced bitter sorrows.”

  “And God has poured balm into your wounds, as he does into those of allwho are in affliction?” said Monte Cristo inquiringly.

  “Yes, count,” returned Julie, “we may indeed say he has, for he has donefor 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 anexcuse 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 asthose who have been tossed on the stormy waters of the ocean on a fewfrail planks can alone realize the blessings of fair weather.”

  Monte Cristo rose, and without making any answer (for the tremulousnessof his voice would have betrayed his emotion) walked up and down theapartment with a slow step.

  “Our magnificence makes you smile, count,” said Maximilian, who hadfollowed him with his eyes.

  “No, no,” returned Monte Cristo, pale as death, pressing one hand on hisheart to still its throbbings, while with the other he pointed to acrystal cover, beneath which a silken purse lay on a black velvetcushion. “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 mostprecious family treasures.”

  “The stone seems very brilliant,” answered the count.

  “Oh, my brother does not allude to its value, although it has beenestimated at 100,000 francs; he means, that the articles contained inthis 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 ofcommitting an indiscretion.”

  “Indiscretion,—oh, you make us happy by giving us an excuse forexpatiating on this subject. If we wanted to conceal the noble actionthis purse commemorates, we should not expose it thus to view. Oh, wouldwe could relate it everywhere, and to everyone, so that the emotion ofour unknown benefactor might reveal his presence.”

  “Ah, really,” said Monte Cristo in a half-stifled voice.

  “Monsieur,” returned Maximilian, raising the glass cover, andrespectfully kissing the silken purse, “this has touched the hand of aman who saved my father from suicide, us from ruin, and our name fromshame and disgrace,—a man by whose matchless benevolence we poorchildren, doomed to want and wretchedness, can at present hear everyoneenvying our happy lot. This letter” (as he spoke, Maximilian drew aletter from the purse and gave it to the count)—“this letter was writtenby him the day that my father had taken a desperate resolution, and thisdiamond was given by the generous unknown to my sister as her dowry.”

  Monte Cristo opened the letter, and read it with an indescribablefeeling of delight. It was the letter written (as our readers know) toJulie, and signed “Sinbad the Sailor.”

  “Unknown you say, is the man who rendered you this service—unknown toyou?”

  “Yes; we have never had the happiness of pressing his hand,” continuedMaximilian. “We have supplicated Heaven in vain to grant us this favor,but the whole affair has had a mysterious meaning that we cannotcomprehend—we have been guided by an invisible hand,—a hand as powerfulas that of an enchanter.”

  “Oh,” cried Julie, “I have not lost all hope of some day kissing thathand, 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 thegarden, and who, from quartermaster, has become gardener—Penelon, whenhe was at Trieste, saw on the quay an Englishman, who was on the pointof embarking on board a yacht, and he recognized him as the person whocalled on my father the fifth of June, 1829, and who wrote me thisletter on the fifth of September. He felt convinced of his identity, buthe did not venture to address him.”

  “An Englishman,” said Monte Cristo, who grew uneasy at the attentionwith which Julie looked at him. “An Englishman you say?”

  “Yes,” replied Maximilian, “an Englishman, who represented himself asthe confidential clerk of the house of Thomson & French, at Rome. It wasthis 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 Itold you, in 1829. For God’s sake, tell me, did you know thisEnglishman?”

  “But you tell me, also, that the house of Thomson & French haveconstantly denied having rendered you this service?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then is it not probable that this Englishman may be someone who,grateful for a kindness your father had shown him, and which he himselfhad 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 littletaller, with his chin imprisoned, as it were, in a high cravat; his coatclosely 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, whowas constantly doing actions of this kind.”

  “Without revealing himself?”

  “He was an eccentric being, and did not believe in the existence ofgratitude.”

  “Oh, Heaven,” exclaimed Julie, clasping her hands, “in what did hebelieve, then?”

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  “He did not credit it at the period which I knew him,” said MonteCristo, 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 heis—where we can find him? Maximilian—Emmanuel—if we do but discover him,he must believ
e in the gratitude of the heart!”

  Monte Cristo felt tears start into his eyes, and he again walked hastilyup 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 LordWilmore was your unknown benefactor, I fear you will never see himagain. I parted from him two years ago at Palermo, and he was then onthe point of setting out for the most remote regions; so that I fear hewill never return.”

  “Oh, monsieur, this is cruel of you,” said Julie, much affected; and theyoung lady’s eyes swam with tears.

  “Madame,” replied Monte Cristo gravely, and gazing earnestly on the twoliquid pearls that trickled down Julie’s cheeks, “had Lord Wilmore seenwhat I now see, he would become attached to life, for the tears you shedwould reconcile him to mankind;” and he held out his hand to Julie, whogave him hers, carried away by the look and accent of the count.

  “But,” continued she, “Lord Wilmore had a family or friends, he musthave known someone, 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 secretsfrom 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, “monsieuris 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?” saidhe eagerly.

  “My father thought that this action had been miraculously performed—hebelieved that a benefactor had arisen from the grave to save us. Oh, itwas a touching superstition, monsieur, and although I did not myselfbelieve 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—afriend lost to him forever; and on his death-bed, when the near approachof eternity seemed to have illumined his mind with supernatural light,this thought, which had until then been but a doubt, became aconviction, and his last words were, ‘Maximilian, it was EdmondDantès!’”

  At these words the count’s paleness, which had for some time beenincreasing, became alarming; he could not speak; he looked at his watchlike a man who has forgotten the hour, said a few hurried words toMadame Herbault, and pressing the hands of Emmanuel andMaximilian,—“Madame,” said he, “I trust you will allow me to visit youoccasionally; I value your friendship, and feel grateful to you for yourwelcome, for this is the first time for many years that I have thusyielded 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 Ifancied that I had heard it before.”