There is one last request I must make of you, beautiful Albert. I wish to feel you between my legs. I do not mean your manhood; I mean the supple pink pout of your mouth on my secret places. I am aware that such things are not often done but I read about the act in a novel and long have I wished to test the experience for myself. If you cannot condone such acts I understand but I take pleasure in voicing my desire to you for you have always professed a desire to fill every one. In return I might bestow the same act on you, if that is something you wish. My love, I will finish only with hope that you come to me. All my love.
- G.
Just as he was passing the Count’s box, the door opened, and Monte Cristo came forth. After giving some directions to Ali, who stood in the lobby, the Count took Albert’s arm. Carefully closing the box door, Ali placed himself before it, while a crowd of spectators assembled round the Nubian.
“Upon my word,” said Monte Cristo, “Paris is a strange city, and the Parisians a very singular people. See that cluster of persons collected around poor Ali, who is as much astonished as themselves; really one might suppose he was the only Nubian they had ever beheld. Now I can promise you, that a Frenchman might show himself in public, either in Tunis, Constantinople, Bagdad, or Cairo, without being treated in that way.”
“That shows that the Eastern nations have too much good sense to waste their time and attention on objects undeserving of either. However, as far as Ali is concerned, I can assure you, the interest he excites is merely from the circumstance of his being your attendant—you, who are at this moment the most celebrated and fashionable person in Paris.”
“Really? And what has procured me so fluttering a distinction?”
“What? Why, yourself, to be sure! You give away horses worth a thousand louis; you save the lives of ladies of high rank and beauty; under the name of Major Brack you run thoroughbreds ridden by tiny urchins not larger than marmots; then, when you have carried off the golden trophy of victory, instead of setting any value on it, you give it to the first handsome woman you think of!”
“And who has filled your head with all this nonsense?”
“Why, in the first place, I heard it from Madame Danglars, who, by the by, is dying to see you in her box, or to have you seen there by others; secondly, I learned it from Beauchamp’s journal; and thirdly, from my own imagination. Why, if you sought concealment, did you call your horse Vampa?”
“That was an oversight, certainly,” replied the Count; “but tell me, does the Count of Morcerf never visit the Opera? I have been looking for him, but without success.”
“He will be here tonight.”
“In what part of the house?”
“In the baroness’s box, I believe.”
“That charming young woman with her is her daughter?”
“Yes.”
“I congratulate you.” Morcerf smiled. “We will discuss that subject at length some future time,” said he. “But what do you think of the music?”
“What music?”
“Why, the music you have been listening to.”
“Oh, it is well enough as the production of a human composer, sung by featherless bipeds, to quote the late Diogenes.”
“From which it would seem, my dear Count, that you can at pleasure enjoy the seraphic strains that proceed from the seven choirs of paradise?”
“You are right, in some degree; when I wish to listen to sounds more exquisitely attuned to melody than mortal ear ever yet listened to, I go to sleep.”
“Then sleep here, my dear Count. The conditions are favorable; what else was opera invented for?”
“No, thank you. Your orchestra is too noisy. To sleep after the manner I speak of, absolute calm and silence are necessary, and then a certain preparation”—
“I know—the famous hashish!”
“Precisely. So, my dear viscount, whenever you wish to be regaled with music come and sup with me.”
“I have already enjoyed that treat when breakfasting with you,” said Morcerf.
“Do you mean at Rome?”
“I do.”
“Ah, then, I suppose you heard Haidee’s guzla; the poor exile frequently beguiles a weary hour in playing over to me the airs of her native land.” Morcerf did not pursue the subject, and Monte Cristo himself fell into a silent reverie. The bell rang at this moment for the rising of the curtain. “You will excuse my leaving you,” said the Count, turning in the direction of his box.
“What? Are you going?”
“Pray, say everything that is kind to Countess G—— on the part of her friend the Vampire.”
“And what message shall I convey to the baroness!”
“That, with her permission, I shall do myself the honor of paying my respects in the course of the evening.”
The third act had begun; and during its progress the Count of Morcerf, according to his promise, made his appearance in the box of Madame Danglars. The Count of Morcerf was not a person to excite either interest or curiosity in a place of public amusement; his presence, therefore, was wholly unnoticed, save by the occupants of the box in which he had just seated himself. The quick eye of Monte Cristo however, marked his coming; and a slight though meaning smile passed over his lips. Haidee, whose soul seemed centered in the business of the stage, like all unsophisticated natures, delighted in whatever addressed itself to the eye or ear.
The third act passed off as usual. Mesdemoiselles Noblet, Julie, and Leroux executed the customary pirouettes; Robert duly challenged the Prince of Granada; and the royal father of the princess Isabella, taking his daughter by the hand, swept round the stage with majestic strides, the better to display the rich folds of his velvet robe and mantle. After which the curtain again fell, and the spectators poured forth from the theatre into the lobbies and salon. The Count left his box, and a moment later was saluting the Baronne Danglars, who could not restrain a cry of mingled pleasure and surprise. “You are welcome, Count!” she exclaimed, as he entered. “I have been most anxious to see you, that I might repeat orally the thanks writing can so ill express.”
“Surely so trifling a circumstance cannot deserve a place in your remembrance. Believe me, madame, I had entirely forgotten it.”
“But it is not so easy to forget, monsieur, that the very next day after your princely gift you saved the life of my dear friend, Madame de Villefort, which was endangered by the very animals your generosity restored to me.”
“This time, at least, I do not deserve your thanks. It was Ali, my Nubian slave, who rendered this service to Madame de Villefort.”
“Was it Ali,” asked the Count of Morcerf, “who rescued my son from the hands of bandits?”
“No, Count,” replied Monte Cristo taking the hand held out to him by the general; “in this instance I may fairly and freely accept your thanks; but you have already tendered them, and fully discharged your debt—if indeed there existed one—and I feel almost mortified to find you still reverting to the subject. May I beg of you, baroness, to honor me with an introduction to your daughter?”
“Oh, you are no stranger—at least not by name,” replied Madame Danglars, “and the last two or three days we have really talked of nothing but you. Eugenie,” continued the baroness, turning towards her daughter, “this is the Count of Monte Cristo.” The Count bowed, while Mademoiselle Danglars bent her head slightly. “You have a charming young person with you tonight, Count,” said Eugenie. “Is she your daughter?”
“No, mademoiselle,” said Monte Cristo, astonished at the coolness and freedom of the question. “She is a poor unfortunate Greek left under my care.”
“And what is her name?”
“Haidee,” replied Monte Cristo.
“A Greek?” murmured the Count of Morcerf.
“Yes, indeed, Count,” said Madame Danglars; “and tell me, did you ever see at the court of Ali Tepelini, whom you so gloriously and valiantly served, a more exquisite beauty or richer costume?”
“Did I hear rightly, mo
nsieur,” said Monte Cristo “that you served at Yanina?”
“I was inspector-general of the pasha’s troops,” replied Morcerf; “and it is no secret that I owe my fortune, such as it is, to the liberality of the illustrious Albanese chief.”
“But look!” exclaimed Madame Danglars.
“Where?” stammered Morcerf.
“There,” said Monte Cristo placing his arms around the Count, and leaning with him over the front of the box, just as Haidee, whose eyes were occupied in examining the theatre in search of her guardian, perceived his pale features close to Morcerf’s face. It was as if the young girl beheld the head of Medusa. She bent forwards as though to assure herself of the reality of what she saw, then, uttering a faint cry, threw herself back in her seat. The sound was heard by the people about Ali, who instantly opened the box-door. “Why, Count,” exclaimed Eugenie, “what has happened to your ward? she seems to have been taken suddenly ill.”
“Very probably,” answered the Count. “But do not be alarmed on her account. Haidee’s nervous system is delicately organized, and she is peculiarly susceptible to the odors even of flowers—nay, there are some, which cause her to faint if brought into her presence. However,” continued Monte Cristo, drawing a small phial from his pocket, “I have an infallible remedy.” So saying, he bowed to the baroness and her daughter, exchanged a parting shake of the hand with Debray and the Count, and left Madame Danglars’ box. Upon his return to Haidee he found her still very pale. As soon as she saw him she seized his hand; her own hands were moist and icy cold. “Who was it you were talking with over there?” she asked.
“With the Count of Morcerf,” answered Monte Cristo. “He tells me he served your illustrious father, and that he owes his fortune to him.”
“Wretch!” exclaimed Haidee, her eyes flashing with rage; “he sold my father to the Turks, and the fortune he boasts of was the price of his treachery! Did not you know that, my dear lord?”
“Something of this I heard in Epirus,” said Monte Cristo; “but the particulars are still unknown to me. You shall relate them to me, my child. They are, no doubt, both curious and interesting.”
“Yes, yes; but let us go. I feel as though it would kill me to remain long near that dreadful man.” So saying, Haidee arose, and wrapping herself in her burnoose of white cashmire embroidered with pearls and coral, she hastily quitted the box at the moment when the curtain was rising upon the fourth act.
“Do you observe,” said the Countess G—— to Albert, who had returned to her side, “that man does nothing like other people; he listens most devoutly to the third act of ‘Robert le Diable,’ and when the fourth begins, takes his departure.”
Chapter 11. A Flurry in Stocks.
Some days after this meeting, Albert de Morcerf visited the Count of Monte Cristo at his house in the Champs Elysees, which had already assumed that palace-like appearance which the Count’s princely fortune enabled him to give even to his most temporary residences. He came to renew the thanks of Madame Danglars, which had been already conveyed to the Count through the medium of a letter, signed “Baronne Danglars, nee Hermine de Servieux.” Albert was accompanied by Lucien Debray, who, joining in his friend’s conversation, added some passing compliments, the source of which the Count’s talent for finesse easily enabled him to guess. He was convinced that Lucien’s visit was due to a double feeling of curiosity, the larger half of which sentiment emanated from the Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin. In short, Madame Danglars, not being able personally to examine in detail the domestic economy and household arrangements of a man who gave away horses worth 30,000 francs and who went to the opera with a Greek slave wearing diamonds to the amount of a million of money, had deputed those eyes, by which she was accustomed to see, to give her a faithful account of the mode of life of this incomprehensible person. But the Count did not appear to suspect that there could be the slightest connection between Lucien’s visit and the curiosity of the baroness.
“You are in constant communication with the Baron Danglars?” the Count inquired of Albert de Morcerf.
“Yes, Count, you know what I told you?”
“All remains the same, then, in that quarter?”
“It is more than ever a settled thing,” said Lucien,—and, considering that this remark was all that he was at that time called upon to make, he adjusted the glass to his eye, and biting the top of his gold headed cane, began to make the tour of the apartment, examining the arms and the pictures.
“Ah,” said Monte Cristo “I did not expect that the affair would be so promptly concluded.”
“Oh, things take their course without our assistance. While we are forgetting them, they are falling into their appointed order; and when, again, our attention is directed to them, we are surprised at the progress they have made towards the proposed end. My father and M. Danglars served together in Spain, my father in the army and M. Danglars in the commissariat department. It was there that my father, ruined by the revolution, and M. Danglars, who never had possessed any patrimony, both laid the foundations of their different fortunes.”
“Yes,” said Monte Cristo “I think M. Danglars mentioned that in a visit which I paid him; and,” continued he, casting a side-glance at Lucien, who was turning over the leaves of an album, “Mademoiselle Eugenie is pretty—I think I remember that to be her name.”
“Very pretty, or rather, very beautiful,” replied Albert, “but of that style of beauty which I do not appreciate; I am an ungrateful fellow.”
“You speak as if you were already her husband.”
“Ah,” returned Albert, in his turn looking around to see what Lucien was doing.
“Really,” said Monte Cristo, lowering his voice, “you do not appear to me to be very enthusiastic on the subject of this marriage.”
“Mademoiselle Danglars is too rich for me,” replied Morcerf, “and that frightens me.”
“Bah,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, “that’s a fine reason to give. Are you not rich yourself?”
“My father’s income is about 50,000 francs per annum; and he will give me, perhaps, ten or twelve thousand when I marry.”
“That, perhaps, might not be considered a large sum, in Paris especially,” said the Count; “but everything does not depend on wealth, and it is a fine thing to have a good name, and to occupy a high station in society. Your name is celebrated, your position magnificent; and then the Comte de Morcerf is a soldier, and it is pleasing to see the integrity of a Bayard united to the poverty of a Duguesclin; disinterestedness is the brightest ray in which a noble sword can shine. As for me, I consider the union with Mademoiselle Danglars a most suitable one; she will enrich you, and you will ennoble her.” Albert shook his head, and looked thoughtful. “There is still something else,” said he.
“I confess,” observed Monte Cristo, “that I have some difficulty in comprehending your objection to a young lady who is both rich and beautiful.”
“Oh,” said Morcerf, “this repugnance, if repugnance it may be called, is not all on my side.”
“Whence can it arise, then? for you told me your father desired the marriage.”
“It is my mother who dissents; she has a clear and penetrating judgment, and does not smile on the proposed union. I cannot account for it, but she seems to entertain some prejudice against the Danglars.”
“Ah,” said the Count, in a somewhat forced tone, “that may be easily explained; the Comtesse de Morcerf, who is aristocracy and refinement itself, does not relish the idea of being allied by your marriage with one of ignoble birth; that is natural enough.”
“I do not know if that is her reason,” said Albert, “but one thing I do know, that if this marriage be consummated, it will render her quite miserable. There was to have been a meeting six weeks ago in order to talk over and settle the affair; but I had such a sudden attack of indisposition”—
“Real?” interrupted the Count, smiling.
“Oh, real enough, from anxiety doubtless,—at any rate they
postponed the matter for two months. There is no hurry, you know. I am not yet twenty-one, and Eugenie is only seventeen; but the two months expire next week. It must be done. My dear Count, you cannot imagine how my mind is harassed. How happy you are in being exempt from all this!”
“Well, and why should not you be free, too? What prevents you from being so?”
“Oh, it will be too great a disappointment to my father if I do not marry Mademoiselle Danglars.”
“Marry her then,” said the Count, with a significant shrug of the shoulders.
“Yes,” replied Morcerf, “but that will plunge my mother into positive grief.”
“Then do not marry her,” said the Count.
“Well, I shall see. I will try and think over what is the best thing to be done; you will give me your advice, will you not, and if possible extricate me from my unpleasant position? I think, rather than give pain to my dear mother, I would run the risk of offending the Count.” Monte Cristo turned away; he seemed moved by this last remark. “Ah,” said he to Debray, who had thrown himself into an easy-chair at the farthest extremity of the salon, and who held a pencil in his right hand and an account book in his left, “what are you doing there? Are you making a sketch after Poussin?”
“Oh, no,” was the tranquil response; “I am too fond of art to attempt anything of that sort. I am doing a little sum in arithmetic.”
“In arithmetic?”
“Yes; I am calculating—by the way, Morcerf, that indirectly concerns you—I am calculating what the house of Danglars must have gained by the last rise in Haiti bonds; from 206 they have risen to 409 in three days, and the prudent banker had purchased at 206; therefore he must have made 300,000 livres.”
“That is not his biggest scoop,” said Morcerf; “did he not make a million in Spaniards this last year?”
“My dear fellow,” said Lucien, “here is the Count of Monte Cristo, who will say to you, as the Italians do,—
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