The Count of Monte Cristo

by Alexandre Dumas

  ‘I have never seen any man more handsome than you, or loved any man except my father and you.’

  ‘Poor child,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘That is because you have only ever spoken to your father and to me.’

  ‘What need have I to speak to anyone else? My father called me “my sweet”, you call me “my love”, and you both call me “my child”.’

  ‘Do you remember your father, Haydée?’

  The girl smiled and put her hand on her eyes and her heart: ‘He is here… and here…’ she said.

  ‘And where am I?’ Monte Cristo asked with a smile.

  ‘You are everywhere.’

  He took Haydée’s hand to kiss it, but the innocent girl drew it back and offered him her forehead.

  ‘Now, Haydée,’ he said, ‘you know that you are free, that you are your own mistress, that you are queen. You can keep your native costume, or change it as you wish. You can stay here whenever you like, and go out when you want to go out. There will always be a carriage harnessed and ready for you. Ali and Myrto will accompany you everywhere and be at your orders. I ask only one thing.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Keep the secret of your birth and do not say a word about your past. At no time must you give the name of your illustrious father or that of your poor mother.’

  ‘My Lord, I have already told you: I shall not meet anyone.’

  ‘Listen to me, Haydée: this Oriental style of seclusion may not be possible in Paris. Carry on learning about life in these northern countries, just as you did in Rome, Florence, Milan and Madrid. It will always be useful to you, whether you continue to live here or you return to the East.’

  The girl looked at the count with her wide, moist eyes and asked: ‘If we return to the East, you must surely mean, my Lord?’

  ‘Yes, child,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘You know very well that it will never be I who will leave you. It is not the tree that forsakes the flower, but the flower that forsakes the tree.’

  ‘And I shall never leave you, my Lord,’ said Haydée. ‘For I am sure that I could not live without you.’

  ‘Poor child! In ten years I shall be old and in ten years you will still be young.’

  ‘My father had a long white beard, but that did not stop me loving him. My father was sixty years old and he seemed to me more beautiful than any of the young men I saw.’

  ‘But tell me, do you think you could get used to living here?’

  ‘Shall I see you?’

  ‘Every day.’

  ‘So, my Lord, why are you asking me?’

  ‘I am afraid you may be bored.’

  ‘No, Lord, for in the morning I shall be thinking that you will come and in the evening I shall recall your visit. In any case, when I am alone I have marvellous memories, I see huge landscapes and vast horizons, with Pindus and Olympus in the distance. Then I have in my heart three feelings with which one can never be bored: sadness, love and gratitude.’

  ‘You are a worthy daughter of Epirus, Haydée, graceful, poetic… One can see that you are descended from that family of goddesses to which your country gave birth. So have no fear, my child, I shall ensure that your youth will not be wasted; for, if you love me as though I were your father, I love you as my child.’

  ‘You are mistaken, Lord. I did not love my father as I love you. My love for you is a different kind of love. My father is dead, and I am alive, while if you were to die, I should die also.’

  The count held out his hand to the young woman with a smile of deep tenderness and she, as usual, kissed it.

  In this way, prepared for the interview that he was about to have with Morrel and his family, the count left, murmuring these verses from Pindar: ‘Youth is a flower of which love is the fruit… Happy the vintager who picks it after watching it slowly mature.’

  As he had ordered, the carriage was ready. He stepped into it and the horses, as always, set off at a gallop.

  L

  THE MORRELS

  In a few minutes the count reached No. 7, Rue Meslay. It was a cheerful white house with a front garden with two small banks full of quite lovely flowers.

  The count recognized the concierge who came to open the gate to him: it was old Coclès. But the latter, as you may recall, had only one eye, and even this eye had considerably weakened over the past nine years, so he did not recognize the count.

  To reach the front door, carriages had to drive round a little fountain of water, set in the middle of a rocky pool: this ostentation had excited much jealousy in the district and accounted for the house being called ‘Little Versailles’. The pool, needless to say, was full of red and yellow fish. The house had a basement with kitchens and cellars, above which, apart from the ground floor, there were two full storeys and attics. The young people had bought it with its appurtenances: a huge workshop, two lodges in the garden, and the garden itself. On first visiting the property, Emmanuel had seen that this arrangement might be the opportunity for a little speculative venture. He had set aside the house and half the garden for himself and had drawn a line across it: that is to say, he built a wall between himself and the workshops, which he leased out with the outbuildings and the part of the garden surrounding them. In this way, he had a home for a quite modest sum and was as tightly enclosed in his own home as the most fastidious householder of a private mansion on the Faubourg Saint-Germain.

  The dining-room was in oak, the drawing-room in walnut and blue velvet, and the bedroom in lemonwood and green damask. In addition, there was a study for Emmanuel, who did not study, and a music room for Julie, who did not play any music.

  The second floor was entirely devoted to Maximilien. It was the precise replica of his sister’s apartment, except that the dining-room had been converted into a billiard room where he brought his friends. He was himself overseeing the grooming of his horse and smoking a cigar at the entrance to the garden when the count’s carriage drew up in front of the gate.

  As we said, Coclès opened the gate and Baptistin, leaping down from his seat, asked if M. and Mme Herbault and M. Maximilien Morrel would receive the Count of Monte Cristo. ‘The Count of Monte Cristo!’ Morrel exclaimed, casting aside his cigar and running down to meet the visitor. ‘I should say we will receive the Count of Monte Cristo! Thank you, thank you a hundred times, Count, for not forgetting your promise.’

  The young officer shook the count’s hand so warmly that he could not mistake the sincerity of the gesture and understood that he had been awaited with impatience, to be greeted with enthusiasm.

  ‘Come, come,’ said Maximilien. ‘I want to introduce you myself. A man like you should not be announced by a servant. My sister is in her garden, pruning the roses. My brother is reading his two newspapers, the Presse and the Débats1 – a few feet away from her; because, wherever you see Madame Herbault, you have only to search in a radius of four yards around her to find Monsieur Emmanuel – and reciprocally, as they say at the Ecole Polytechnique.’

  Their footsteps attracted the attention of a young woman of between twenty and twenty-five, wearing a silk robe, who was concentrating on pruning a reddish brown rose bush. This was little Julie. As the emissary of the firm of Thomson and French had predicted, she was now Mme Emmanuel Herbault. She looked up and gave a cry on seeing a stranger. Maximilien began to laugh.

  ‘Don’t worry, sister,’ he said. ‘The count has only been in Paris for two or three days, but he already knows what to expect from a lady with a private income in the Marais. If he doesn’t, you will show him.’

  ‘Oh, Monsieur,’ said Julie. ‘This is treachery on the part of my brother, bringing you here without the slightest regard for how his sister looks… Penelon! Penelon!’

  An old man who was digging a bed of Bengal roses stuck his spade in the ground and came over, cap in hand, doing his best to hide a quid of tobacco which he had temporarily pushed to the back of his cheek. His hair was still thick, though streaked with a few while strands, while his sunburnt complexion and his shar
p, fearless eyes betrayed the old sailor, tanned by the equatorial sun and weathered in the storm.

  ‘I think you called me, Mademoiselle Julie. Here I am.’

  Penelon still called his boss’s daughter ‘Mademoiselle Julie’, never having managed to accustom himself to call her ‘Madame Herbault’.

  ‘Penelon,’ Julie said, ‘go and inform Monsieur Emmanuel of our visitor’s welcome arrival, while Monsieur Maximilien is showing the count into the drawing-room.’ Then, turning to Monte Cristo, she added: ‘You will permit me to retire for a moment, I hope?’ and, without waiting for the count’s consent, she set off briskly behind a bank of flowers, taking a side-path into the house.

  ‘Oh, now, my dear Monsieur Morrel!’ Monte Cristo said. ‘It pains me to see that I am turning your whole house upside down.’

  ‘Come, come,’ Maximilien said, laughing. ‘Look: there is the husband, who is also changing his jacket for a frock-coat! You are known in the Rue Meslay and, I beg you to believe me, your arrival was announced.’

  ‘It appears to me that you have a happy family here,’ said the count, following his own train of thought.

  ‘Yes, indeed, you may be assured of that. What do you expect? They have all that they need to be happy. They are young, merry, in love and, with their income of twenty-five thousand livres a year, even though they have rubbed shoulders with vast fortunes, they think themselves as wealthy as Rothschild.’

  ‘Yet, it is a small sum, twenty-five thousand livres a year,’ said Monte Cristo with such softness that it found a path to the depths of Maximilien’s heart like the voice of a loving father. ‘But these young people will not stop there. They will be millionaires in their turn. Is your brother-in-law a lawyer… a doctor… ?’

  ‘He was a merchant, Count. He took over my poor father’s business. Monsieur Morrel died leaving five hundred thousand francs. There were only two children, so I had one half and my sister the other. Her husband, who had married her with no other fortune except his unflinching honesty, his outstanding intelligence and his spotless reputation, wanted to match his wife’s patrimony. He worked until he had saved two hundred and fifty thousand francs; six years were enough. I assure you, Count, it was touching to see these two young people, so hardworking, so devoted to one another, destined by their talents to enjoy the greatest good fortune, desirous of changing nothing in the customary methods of the family firm: they took six years to accomplish what an innovator could have done in two or three, and all Marseille resounded with praise for such brave self-denial. Finally, one day, Emmanuel came to his wife, who had just made the final payment.

  ‘ “Julie,” he told her, “here is the last bundle of one hundred francs that Coclès has just given me, completing the two hundred and fifty thousand francs that we set as the limit to our profits. Will you be content with this small sum on which we shall have henceforth to survive? Listen, the firm has a turnover of a million a year and can bring in a profit of forty thousand francs. If we wish, we can sell our clientele within the hour for three hundred thousand francs: here is a letter from Monsieur Delaunay, offering us that in exchange for our assets, which he wants to merge with his own. Consider what we should do.”

  ‘ “My dear,” my sister answered, “the firm of Morrel can only be run by a Morrel. Is it not worth three hundred thousand francs, to save our father’s name for ever from the mischances of fortune?”

  ‘ “I had reached the same conclusion,” Emmanuel said, “but I wanted to know your opinion.”

  ‘ “Now you know it, my dear. All our accounts are up to date, all our bills are paid. We can draw a line under the balance sheet for this fortnight and put up the shutters: let’s do it.” And they did, immediately. It was three o’clock. At a quarter past, a customer came in to insure two ships for a voyage, which would have meant a clear profit of fifteen thousand francs.

  ‘ “Monsieur,” Emmanuel said, “please be so good as to take your business to our colleague, Monsieur Delaunay. We are no longer in business.”

  ‘ “Since when?” the customer asked in amazement.

  ‘ “Since a quarter of an hour ago.”

  ‘And that, Monsieur,’ Maximilien continued, with a smile, ‘is how my sister and my brother-in-law come to have an income of only twenty-five thousand livres.’

  Maximilien had barely finished his story – the count’s heart had swelled progressively as it proceeded – when Emmanuel reappeared, properly fitted out with a hat and frock-coat. He gave a bow that acknowledged the visitor’s importance, then, after showing the count round the little flower garden, he led him back to the house.

  The drawing-room was already redolent of the flowers that burst out of a huge, wicker-handled Japanese vase. Julie, tidily dressed and her hair prettily done (she had achieved this tour de force in ten minutes), was waiting to receive the count as he came in.

  Birds could be heard singing in a nearby aviary, and the blue velvet curtains were bordered with clusters of laburnum and pink acacia branches: everything in this charming little retreat spoke of tranquillity, from the song of the birds to the smile of the owners.

  From the moment he entered the house, the count had been filled with this happiness. He remained silent and meditative, forgetting that the others were waiting for him to resume the conversation, which had halted after the first exchange of greetings. Finally, becoming aware of this silence, which was on the point of becoming embarrassing, and forcing himself out of his reverie, he said: ‘Madame, forgive me. Accustomed as you are to the atmosphere of happiness that I find here, my feelings must astonish you. But, for me, the sight of contentment on a human face is so novel that I cannot resist looking at you and your husband.’

  ‘We are, indeed, very happy, Monsieur,’ Julie replied. ‘But we had to suffer for a long time, and few people have bought their happiness as dearly as we have.’

  The count’s face expressed his curiosity.

  ‘Oh, there is a whole family history here, as Château-Renaud told you the other day,’ Maximilien remarked. ‘You, Monsieur le Comte, accustomed as you are to notorious misfortunes and illustrious joys, will find little to interest you in this domestic scene. Yet, as Julie says, we have suffered much pain, even though it was confined to a small stage…’

  ‘And did God give you consolation for your sufferings, as He does for all of us?’ Monte Cristo asked.

  ‘Yes, Count,’ Julie said. ‘We can say that, indeed, for He did something for us that He does only for the chosen few: He sent us one of his angels.’

  The count blushed and he coughed, to give himself an excuse to put a handkerchief to his mouth and hide the evidence of his feelings.

  ‘Those who are born with a silver spoon,’ Emmanuel said, ‘those who have never needed anything, do not understand what happiness is, any more than those who do not know the blessing of a clear sky and who have never entrusted their lives to four planks tossing on a raging sea.’

  Monte Cristo got up and started to pace up and down the room, but said nothing, because his voice would have betrayed his emotion.

  ‘You are smiling at the splendour of our apartments, Count,’ said Maximilien, watching him.

  ‘No, not at all,’ replied Monte Cristo, pale, holding one hand across his chest to repress the beating of his heart and pointing with the other to a crystal globe under which a silk purse was carefully preserved, lying on a black velvet cushion. ‘I was just wondering what was the purpose of this purse which, it seems to me, holds on one side a piece of paper and on the other a rather fine diamond.’

  ‘That, Monsieur le Comte, is the most precious of the family treasures.’

  ‘The diamond is indeed rather fine,’ the Count replied.

  ‘Oh, my brother is not referring to the value of the stone, Monsieur, though it is estimated at a hundred thousand francs. He merely wishes to tell you that the objects in this purse are the relics of the angel about whom we spoke a moment ago.’

  ‘I do not understand what you
can mean, yet I have no right to question you about it, Madame,’ Monte Cristo said, with a bow. ‘Pray forgive me. I did not mean to be inquisitive.’

  ‘What do you mean, inquisitive? Please, Count, allow us the pleasure of this opportunity to talk about it. If we wished to conceal this fine deed and keep secret the story behind this purse, then we should not exhibit it in this way. But we wish, on the contrary, to publish it throughout the world, so that our unknown benefactor might give a sign which would betray his presence to us.’

  ‘Indeed!’ Monte Cristo exclaimed in a muffled voice.

  Maximilien lifted the crystal dome and piously kissed the silk purse. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘this has been touched by the hand of a man who saved my father from death, us from ruin and our name from ignominy – a man thanks to whom we, poor children destined for poverty and tears, can today hear people rhapsodize about our happiness and good fortune. This letter’ (Maximilien took it out of the purse and handed it to the count) ‘was written by him on a day when my father had taken the most desperate decision and this diamond was given to my sister by this generous stranger as her dowry.’

  Monte Cristo opened the letter and read it with an indescribable expression of happiness: it was the note that the reader will already know: the one addressed to Julie and signed by ‘Sinbad the Sailor’.

  ‘A stranger, you say? So you have never discovered the identity of the man who did this for you?’

  ‘No, Monsieur, we have never had the pleasure of shaking his hand. It is not through want of praying God for the opportunity to do so,’ Maximilien continued, ‘but there was a mysterious purpose behind all this adventure that we cannot yet understand: it was entirely controlled by an invisible hand, powerful as that of an enchanter.’

  ‘Oh!’ Julie exclaimed. ‘I have not lost all hope that I may one day kiss that hand as I now kiss the purse that it touched. Four years ago Penelon was in Trieste – Penelon, Count, is the honest sailor whom you saw with a spade in his hand and who, once a bosun, is now a gardener. As I say, Penelon was in Trieste where he saw an Englishman on the quayside about to embark on a yacht and recognized the man who came to my father’s on June the fifth, 1829, and wrote me that note on September the fifth. He assures me it was the same man, but that he did not dare speak to him.’