Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  “I am sorry to say I cannot,” replied the baron; “and I was just asking the same question of Albert.”

  “Are you very anxious to know, countess?” asked Albert.

  “To know what?”

  “The name of the owner of the winning horse?”

  “Excessively; only imagine—but do tell me, viscount, whether you really are acquainted with it or no?”

  “I beg your pardon, madame, but you were about to relate some story, were you not? You said, ‘only imagine,’—and then paused. Pray continue.”

  “Well, then, listen. You must know I felt so interested in the splendid roan horse, with his elegant little rider, so tastefully dressed in a pink satin jacket and cap, that I could not help praying for their success with as much earnestness as though the half of my fortune were at stake; and when I saw them outstrip all the others, and come to the winning-post in such gallant style, I actually clapped my hands with joy. Imagine my surprise, when, upon returning home, the first object I met on the staircase was the identical jockey in the pink jacket! I concluded that, by some singular chance, the owner of the winning horse must live in the same hotel as myself; but, as I entered my apartments, I beheld the very gold cup awarded as a prize to the unknown horse and rider. Inside the cup was a small piece of paper, on which were written these words— ‘From Lord Ruthven to Countess G——.’”

  “Precisely; I was sure of it,” said Morcerf.

  “Sure of what?”

  “That the owner of the horse was Lord Ruthven himself.”

  “What Lord Ruthven do you mean?”

  “Why, our Lord Ruthven—the Vampire of the Salle Argentino!”

  “Is it possible?” exclaimed the countess; “is he here in Paris?”

  “To be sure,—why not?”

  “And you visit him?—Meet him at your own house and elsewhere?”

  “I assure you he is my most intimate friend, and M. de Chateau-Renaud has also the honor of his acquaintance.”

  “But why are you so sure of his being the winner of the Jockey Club prize?”

  “Was not the winning horse entered by the name of Vampa?”

  “What of that?”

  “Why, do you not recollect the name of the celebrated bandit by whom I was made prisoner?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And from whose hands the Count extricated me in so wonderful a manner?”

  “To be sure, I remember it all now.”

  “He called himself Vampa. You see, it’s evident where the Count got the name.”

  “But what could have been his motive for sending the cup to me?”

  “In the first place, because I had spoken much of you to him, as you may believe; and in the second, because he delighted to see a countrywoman take so lively an interest in his success.”

  “I trust and hope you never repeated to the Count all the foolish remarks we used to make about him?”

  “I should not like to affirm upon oath that I have not. Besides, his presenting you the cup under the name of Lord Ruthven”—

  “Oh, but that is dreadful! Why, the man must owe me a fearful grudge.”

  “Does his action appear like that of an enemy?”

  “No; certainly not.”

  “Well, then”—

  “And so he is in Paris?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what effect does he produce?”

  “Why,” said Albert, “he was talked about for a week; then the coronation of the queen of England took place, followed by the theft of Mademoiselle Mars’s diamonds; and so people talked of something else.”

  “My good fellow,” said Chateau-Renaud, “the Count is your friend and you treat him accordingly. Do not believe what Albert is telling you, countess; so far from the sensation excited in the Parisian circles by the appearance of the Count of Monte Cristo having abated, I take upon myself to declare that it is as strong as ever. His first astounding act upon coming amongst us was to present a pair of horses, worth 32,000 francs, to Madame Danglars; his second, the almost miraculous preservation of Madame de Villefort’s life; now it seems that he has carried off the prize awarded by the Jockey Club. I therefore maintain, in spite of Morcerf, that not only is the Count the object of interest at this present moment, but also that he will continue to be so for a month longer if he pleases to exhibit an eccentricity of conduct which, after all, may be his ordinary mode of existence.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” said Morcerf; “meanwhile, who is in the Russian ambassador’s box?”

  “Which box do you mean?” asked the countess.

  “The one between the pillars on the first tier—it seems to have been fitted up entirely afresh.”

  “Did you observe any one during the first act?” asked Chateau-Renaud.

  “Where?”

  “In that box.”

  “No,” replied the countess, “it was certainly empty during the first act;” then, resuming the subject of their previous conversation, she said, “And so you really believe it was your mysterious Count of Monte Cristo that gained the prize?”

  “I am sure of it.”

  “And who afterwards sent the cup to me?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “But I don’t know him,” said the countess; “I have a great mind to return it.”

  “Do no such thing, I beg of you; he would only send you another, formed of a magnificent sapphire, or hollowed out of a gigantic ruby. It is his way, and you must take him as you find him.” At this moment the bell rang to announce the drawing up of the curtain for the second act. Albert rose to return to his place. “Shall I see you again?” asked the countess. “At the end of the next act, with your permission, I will come and inquire whether there is anything I can do for you in Paris?”

  The lady slipped a missive into his clutch as he bent and kissed her hand in a courtly fashion.

  “Pray take notice,” said the countess, “that my present residence is 22 Rue de Rivoli, and that I am at home to my friends every Saturday evening. So now, you are both forewarned.” The young men bowed, and quitted the box. Upon reaching their stalls, they found the whole of the audience in the parterre standing up and directing their gaze towards the box formerly possessed by the Russian ambassador. A man of from thirty-five to forty years of age, dressed in deep black, had just entered, accompanied by a young woman dressed after the Eastern style. The lady was surpassingly beautiful, while the rich magnificence of her attire drew all eyes upon her. “Hullo,” said Albert; “it is Monte Cristo and his Greek!”

  The strangers were, indeed, no other than the Count and Haidee. In a few moments the young girl had attracted the attention of the whole house, and even the occupants of the boxes leaned forward to scrutinize her magnificent diamonds. The second act passed away during one continued buzz of voices—one deep whisper—intimating that some great and universally interesting event had occurred; all eyes, all thoughts, were occupied with the young and beautiful woman, whose gorgeous apparel and splendid jewels made a most extraordinary spectacle. Upon this occasion an unmistakable sign from Madame Danglars intimated her desire to see Albert in her box directly the curtain fell on the second act, and neither the politeness nor good taste of Morcerf would permit his neglecting an invitation so unequivocally given. At the close of the act he therefore went to the baroness. Having bowed to the two ladies, he extended his hand to Debray. By the baroness he was most graciously welcomed, while Eugenie received him with her accustomed coldness.

  “My dear fellow,” said Debray, “you have come in the nick of time. There is madame overwhelming me with questions respecting the Count; she insists upon it that I can tell her his birth, education, and parentage, where he came from, and whither he is going. Being no disciple of Cagliostro, I was wholly unable to do this; so, by way of getting out of the scrape, I said, ‘Ask Morcerf; he has got the whole history of his beloved Monte Cristo at his fingers’ ends;’ whereupon the baroness signified her desire to see you.”

 
“Is it not almost incredible,” said Madame Danglars, “that a person having at least half a million of secret-service money at his command, should possess so little information?”

  “Let me assure you, madame,” said Lucien, “that had I really the sum you mention at my disposal, I would employ it more profitably than in troubling myself to obtain particulars respecting the Count of Monte Cristo, whose only merit in my eyes consists in his being twice as rich as a nabob. However, I have turned the business over to Morcerf, so pray settle it with him as may be most agreeable to you; for my own part, I care nothing about the Count or his mysterious doings.”

  “I am very sure no nabob would have sent me a pair of horses worth 32,000 francs, wearing on their heads four diamonds valued at 5,000 francs each.”

  “He seems to have a mania for diamonds,” said Morcerf, smiling, “and I verily believe that, like Potemkin, he keeps his pockets filled, for the sake of strewing them along the road, as Tom Thumb did his flint stones.”

  “Perhaps he has discovered some mine,” said Madame Danglars. “I suppose you know he has an order for unlimited credit on the baron’s banking establishment?”

  “I was not aware of it,” replied Albert, “but I can readily believe it.”

  “And, further, that he stated to M. Danglars his intention of only staying a year in Paris, during which time he proposed to spend six million.

  “He must be the Shah of Persia, travelling incog.”

  “Have you noticed the remarkable beauty of the young woman, M. Lucien?” inquired Eugenie.

  “I really never met with one woman so ready to do justice to the charms of another as yourself,” responded Lucien, raising his lorgnette to his eye. “A most lovely creature, upon my soul!” was his verdict.

  “Who is this young person, M. de Morcerf?” inquired Eugenie; “does anybody know?”

  “Mademoiselle,” said Albert, replying to this direct appeal, “I can give you very exact information on that subject, as well as on most points relative to the mysterious person of whom we are now conversing—the young woman is a Greek.”

  “So I should suppose by her dress; if you know no more than that, everyone here is as well-informed as yourself.”

  “I am extremely sorry you find me so ignorant a cicerone,” replied Morcerf, “but I am reluctantly obliged to confess, I have nothing further to communicate—yes, stay, I do know one thing more, namely, that she is a musician, for one day when I chanced to be breakfasting with the Count, I heard the sound of a guzla—it is impossible that it could have been touched by any other finger than her own.”

  “Then your Count entertains visitors, does he?” asked Madame Danglars.

  “Indeed he does, and in a most lavish manner, I can assure you.”

  “I must try and persuade M. Danglars to invite him to a ball or dinner, or something of the sort, that he may be compelled to ask us in return.”

  “What,” said Debray, laughing; “do you really mean you would go to his house?”

  “Why not? my husband could accompany me.”

  “But do you know this mysterious Count is a bachelor?”

  “You have ample proof to the contrary, if you look opposite,” said the baroness, as she laughingly pointed to the beautiful Greek.

  “No, no!” exclaimed Debray; “that girl is not his wife: he told us himself she was his slave. Do you not recollect, Morcerf, his telling us so at your breakfast?”

  “Well, then,” said the baroness, “if slave she be, she has all the air and manner of a princess.”

  “Of the ‘Arabian Nights’?”

  “If you like; but tell me, my dear Lucien, what it is that constitutes a princess. Why, diamonds—and she is covered with them.”

  “To me she seems overloaded,” observed Eugenie; “she would look far better if she wore fewer, and we should then be able to see her finely formed throat and wrists.”

  “See how the artist peeps out!” exclaimed Madame Danglars. “My poor Eugenie, you must conceal your passion for the fine arts.”

  “I admire all that is beautiful,” returned the young lady.

  “What do you think of the Count?” inquired Debray; “he is not much amiss, according to my ideas of good looks.”

  “The Count,” repeated Eugenie, as though it had not occurred to her to observe him sooner; “the Count?—Oh, he is so dreadfully pale.”

  “I quite agree with you,” said Morcerf; “and the secret of that very pallor is what we want to find out. The Countess G—— insists upon it that he is a vampire.”

  “Then the Countess G—— has returned to Paris, has she?” inquired the baroness.

  “Is that she, mamma?” asked Eugenie; “almost opposite to us, with that profusion of beautiful light hair?”

  “Yes,” said Madame Danglars, “that is she. Shall I tell you what you ought to do, Morcerf?”

  “Command me, madame.”

  “Well, then, you should go and bring your Count of Monte Cristo to us.”

  “What for?” asked Eugenie.

  “What for? Why, to converse with him, of course. Have you really no desire to meet him?”

  “None whatever,” replied Eugenie.

  “Strange child,” murmured the baroness.

  “He will very probably come of his own accord,” said Morcerf. “There; do you see, madame, he recognizes you, and bows.” The baroness returned the salute in the most smiling and graceful manner.

  “Well,” said Morcerf, “I may as well be magnanimous, and tear myself away to forward your wishes. Adieu; I will go and try if there are any means of speaking to him.”

  “Go straight to his box; that will be the simplest plan.”

  “But I have never been presented.”

  “Presented to whom?”

  “To the beautiful Greek.”

  “You say she is only a slave?”

  “While you assert that she is a queen, or at least a princess. No; I hope that when he sees me leave you, he will come out.”

  “That is possible—go.”

  “I am going,” said Albert, as he made his parting bow. He slipped out, but before he made his way toward the Count’s box he stole away into an alcove and read the Countess’s letter.

  I dared not voice my words for lack of your own encouragement from our last meeting. My love, as I feel so bold to call you, I cannot keep you from my mind. Your haunting words when last we spoke, and the lovely letters you have written, have instilled you in my thoughts for days on end. The only reason I attended tonight was that I was told you would be in attendance as well. I know you should be betrothed, especially to someone your own age, but it is nice to dream that a young, beautiful, man might have a need for me after all these years.

  My beauty fades as each year passes and I see more and more youths take up the mantle of beautiful debutante and I can’t help but long for the days when that was me, and I was the envy of every young lady for the shining fall of my hair or the sensual soft curve of my arm.

  When you spoke of your love, nay lust, for me when we last met I could not help but to believe that you were sincere. Were you dear, Albert?

  Do you really desire to be with me at my whim and will? Your bare flesh under my hands is just one of the fantasies I harbor for you, each additional longing more fantastic and lecherous than the last.

  Dearest Albert, I long to hear my name on your lips, falling in a lover’s whisper, a simple sound that can both arouse and inspire. If you were sincere, meet me at the address I mentioned at midnight and I will show you one of my fantasies in person. Should I warn you, tell you now, what I have planned? You are so young and beautiful it would be a shame to leave you unprepared for our encounter.

  When you first arrive I plan to secrete you away to a room off the main house where we will not be disturbed. Once alone, there is nothing I could want more than to strip you nude and view every bare beautiful curve of your body. You are truly a piece of art, Albert. Finally, once you are stripped bare to m
y sight, I might take your manhood in hand and stroke it, savoring the response you create only for me.

  It has been sometime since I had a man at my disposal and as I write this I can’t help but flush at the prospects, especially to be with someone so young and responsive. I recall well how you reacted under my hands while we touched in secret and I have wanted to be with you again since that moment.

  But, I digress. You will be bared to me and just as you are exposed I will do the same, baring this old woman’s body to your beauty. What I lack in youthful exuberance I make up for in experience, young Albert, and you will not be disappointed by our lovemaking, I swear to you.

  Where was I? Oh yes, your manhood in my hands. The thought of stroking your silky flesh is beyond erotic in nature. I long to straddle your shapely legs and maybe even perhaps take that manhood into my mouth. I imagine you might be salty with that taste that only belongs to men in their prime. Each pass of my lips and tongue would ignite you from the inside out and I would savor it, waiting for the moment when it becomes too much for you to bear.

  At that point, my love, I want you to take me. I want to feel the entire passion of your youth come to bear in me. It has been so long since I was thorough and well taken. I have spent some time imagining what you might feel like inside me, you are well endowed, that I recall, and the feel of your girth might just be enough to spirit me over the edge of pleasure with a few passes.

  Young Albert, please do not think me crass, or uncivilized. You have completely unnerved, upset, and rebuilt my constitution for the sensual arts. I long for you and you alone, no other man has caught my eye save my beautiful vampire, but you must not hold that against me as the entire court holds a secret longing for him.

  While you wile away the hours in my arms I dream of some many things we could do together. I can feel the length of your erection inside me even now; my body burns at the thought, at the longing of you so close, and yet, I cannot touch you.

  We must be discreet, I do not believe I have to inform you, but I would hate to ruin any chance at a fortuitous match in the future. When you come to me tonight wear only the clothing most easily removed and prepare in advance for a secret exit upon completion. It is my hope we might take time to enjoy the delights one another has to offer for as long as possible. When daylight breaks, the dream ends and we must both return to our own elements.