Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  “Really, count, you do nothing, and have nothing like other people. The slave of the Count of Monte Cristo! Why, it is a rank of itself in France, and from the way in which you lavish money, it is a place that must be worth a hundred thousand francs a year.”

  “A hundred thousand francs! The poor girl originally possessed much more than that; she was born to treasures in comparison with which those recorded in the ‘Thousand and One Nights’ would seem but poverty.”

  “She must be a princess then.”

  “You are right; and she is one of the greatest in her country too.”

  “I thought so. But how did it happen that such a great princess became a slave?”

  “How was it that Dionysius the Tyrant became a schoolmaster? The fortune of war, my dear viscount,—the caprice of fortune; that is the way in which these things are to be accounted for.”

  “And is her name a secret?”

  “As regards the generality of mankind it is; but not for you, my dear viscount, who are one of my most intimate friends, and on whose silence I feel I may rely, if I consider it necessary to enjoin it—may I not do so?”

  “Certainly; on my word of honor.”

  “You know the history of the Pasha of Yanina, do you not?”

  “Of Ali Tepelini? Oh, yes; it was in his service that my father made his fortune.”

  “True, I had forgotten that.”

  “Well, what is Haidee to Ali Tepelini?”

  “Merely his daughter.”

  “What? the daughter of Ali Pasha?”

  “Of Ali Pasha and the beautiful Vasiliki.”

  “And your slave?”

  “Ma foi, yes.”

  “But how did she become so?”

  “Why, simply from the circumstance of my having bought her one day, as I was passing through the market at Constantinople.”

  “Wonderful! Really, my dear count, you seem to throw a sort of magic influence over all in which you are concerned; when I listen to you, existence no longer seems reality, but a waking dream. Now, I am perhaps going to make an imprudent and thoughtless request, but”—

  “Say on.”

  “But, since you go out with Haidee, and sometimes even take her to the opera”—

  “Well?”

  “I think I may venture to ask you this favor.”

  “You may venture to ask me anything.”

  “Well then, my dear count, present me to your princess.”

  “I will do so; but on two conditions.”

  “I accept them at once.”

  “The first is, that you will never tell any one that I have granted the interview.”

  “Very well,” said Albert, extending his hand; “I swear I will not.”

  “The second is, that you will not tell her that your father ever served hers.”

  “I give you my oath that I will not.”

  “Enough, viscount; you will remember those two vows, will you not? But I know you to be a man of honor.” The count again struck the gong. Ali reappeared. “Tell Haidee,” said he, “that I will take coffee with her, and give her to understand that I desire permission to present one of my friends to her.” Ali bowed and left the room. “Now, understand me,” said the count, “no direct questions, my dear Morcerf; if you wish to know anything, tell me, and I will ask her.”

  “Agreed.” Ali reappeared for the third time, and drew back the tapestried hanging which concealed the door, to signify to his master and Albert that they were at liberty to pass on. “Let us go in,” said Monte Cristo.

  Albert passed his hand through his hair, and curled his mustache, then, having satisfied himself as to his personal appearance, followed the count into the room, the latter having previously resumed his hat and gloves. Ali was stationed as a kind of advanced guard, and the door was kept by the three French attendants, commanded by Myrtho. Haidee was awaiting her visitors in the first room of her apartments, which was the drawing-room. Her large eyes were dilated with surprise and expectation, for it was the first time that any man, except Monte Cristo, had been accorded an entrance into her presence. She was sitting on a sofa placed in an angle of the room, with her legs crossed under her in the Eastern fashion, and seemed to have made for herself, as it were, a kind of nest in the rich Indian silks, which enveloped her. Near her was the instrument on which she had just been playing; it was elegantly fashioned, and worthy of its mistress. On perceiving Monte Cristo, she arose and welcomed him with a smile peculiar to herself, expressive at once of the most implicit obedience and also of the deepest love. Monte Cristo advanced towards her and extended his hand, which she as usual raised to her lips.

  Albert had proceeded no farther than the door, where he remained rooted to the spot, being completely fascinated by the sight of such surpassing beauty, beheld as it was for the first time, and of which an inhabitant of more northern climes could form no adequate idea.

  “Whom do you bring?” asked the young girl in Romaic, of Monte Cristo; “is it a friend, a brother, a simple acquaintance, or an enemy.”

  “A friend,” said Monte Cristo in the same language.

  “What is his name?”

  “Count Albert; it is the same man whom I rescued from the hands of the banditti at Rome.”

  “In what language would you like me to converse with him?”

  Monte Cristo turned to Albert. “Do you know modern Greek,” asked he.

  “Alas, no,” said Albert; “nor even ancient Greek, my dear count; never had Homer or Plato a more unworthy scholar than myself.”

  “Then,” said Haidee, proving by her remark that she had quite understood Monte Cristo’s question and Albert’s answer, “then I will speak either in French or Italian, if my lord so wills it.”

  Monte Cristo reflected one instant. “You will speak in Italian,” said he. Then, turning towards Albert,—“It is a pity you do not understand either ancient or modern Greek, both of which Haidee speaks so fluently; the poor child will be obliged to talk to you in Italian, which will give you but a very false idea of her powers of conversation.” The count made a sign to Haidee to address his visitor. “Sir,” she said to Morcerf, “you are most welcome as the friend of my lord and master.” This was said in excellent Tuscan, and with that soft Roman accent which makes the language of Dante as sonorous as that of Homer. Then, turning to Ali, she directed him to bring coffee and pipes, and when he had left the room to execute the orders of his young mistress she beckoned Albert to approach nearer to her. Monte Cristo and Morcerf drew their seats towards a small table, on which were arranged music, drawings, and vases of flowers. Ali then entered bringing coffee and chibouques; as to M. Baptistin, this portion of the building was interdicted to him. Albert refused the pipe, which the Nubian offered him. “Oh, take it—take it,” said the count; “Haidee is almost as civilized as a Parisian; the smell of an Havana is disagreeable to her, but the tobacco of the East is a most delicious perfume, you know.”

  Ali left the room. The cups of coffee were all prepared, with the addition of sugar, which had been brought for Albert. Monte Cristo and Haidee took the beverage in the original Arabian manner, that is to say, without sugar. Haidee took the porcelain cup in her little slender fingers and conveyed it to her mouth with all the innocent artlessness of a child when eating or drinking something which it likes. At this moment two women entered, bringing salvers filled with ices and sherbet, which they placed on two small tables appropriated to that purpose. “My dear host, and you, signora,” said Albert, in Italian, “excuse my apparent stupidity. I am quite bewildered, and it is natural that it should be so. Here I am in the heart of Paris; but a moment ago I heard the rumbling of the omnibuses and the tinkling of the bells of the lemonade-sellers, and now I feel as if I were suddenly transported to the East; not such as I have seen it, but such as my dreams have painted it. Oh, signora, if I could but speak Greek, your conversation, added to the fairy-scene which surrounds me, would furnish an evening of such delight as it would be impossible for me ev
er to forget.”

  “I speak sufficient Italian to enable me to converse with you, sir,” said Haidee quietly; “and if you like what is Eastern, I will do my best to secure the gratification of your tastes while you are here.”

  “On what subject shall I converse with her?” said Albert, in a low tone to Monte Cristo.

  “Just what you please; you may speak of her country and of her youthful reminiscences, or if you like it better you can talk of Rome, Naples, or Florence.”

  “Oh,” said Albert, “it is of no use to be in the company of a Greek if one converses just in the same style as with a Parisian; let me speak to her of the East.”

  “Do so then, for of all themes which you could choose that will be the most agreeable to her taste.” Albert turned towards Haidee. “At what age did you leave Greece, signora?” asked he.

  “I left it when I was but five years old,” replied Haidee.

  “And have you any recollection of your country?”

  “When I shut my eyes and think, I seem to see it all again. The mind can see as well as the body. The body forgets sometimes—but the mind never forgets.”

  “And how far back into the past do your recollections extend?”

  “I could scarcely walk when my mother, who was called Vasiliki, which means royal,” said the young girl, tossing her head proudly, “took me by the hand, and after putting in our purse all the money we possessed, we went out, both covered with veils, to solicit alms for the prisoners, saying, ‘He who giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.’ Then when our purse was full we returned to the palace, and without saying a word to my father, we sent it to the convent, where it was divided amongst the prisoners.”

  “And how old were you at that time?”

  “I was three years old,” said Haidee.

  “Then you remember everything that went on about you from the time when you were three years old?” said Albert.

  “Everything.”

  “Count,” said Albert, in a low tone to Monte Cristo, “do allow the signora to tell me something of her history. You prohibited my mentioning my father’s name to her, but perhaps she will allude to him of her own accord in the course of the recital, and you have no idea how delighted I should be to hear our name pronounced by such beautiful lips.” Monte Cristo turned to Haidee, and with an expression of countenance which commanded her to pay the most implicit attention to his words, he said in Greek,—“Tell us the fate of your father; but neither the name of the traitor nor the treason.” Haidee sighed deeply, and a shade of sadness clouded her beautiful brow.

  “What are you saying to her?” said Morcerf in an undertone.

  “I again reminded her that you were a friend, and that she need not conceal anything from you.”

  “Then,” said Albert, “this pious pilgrimage in behalf of the prisoners was your first remembrance; what is the next?”

  “Oh, then I remember as if it were but yesterday sitting under the shade of some sycamore-trees, on the borders of a lake, in the waters of which the trembling foliage was reflected as in a mirror. Under the oldest and thickest of these trees, reclining on cushions, sat my father; my mother was at his feet, and I, childlike, amused myself by playing with his long white beard which descended to his girdle, or with the diamond-hilt of the scimitar attached to his girdle. Then from time to time there came to him an Albanian who said something to which I paid no attention, but which he always answered in the same tone of voice, either ‘Kill,’ or ‘Pardon.’“

  “It is very strange,” said Albert, “to hear such words proceed from the mouth of any one but an actress on the stage, and one needs constantly to be saying to one’s self, ‘This is no fiction, it is all reality,’ in order to believe it. And how does France appear in your eyes, accustomed as they have been to gaze on such enchanted scenes?”

  “I think it is a fine country,” said Haidee, “but I see France as it really is, because I look on it with the eyes of a woman; whereas my own country, which I can only judge of from the impression produced on my childish mind, always seems enveloped in a vague atmosphere, which is luminous or otherwise, according as my remembrances of it are sad or joyous.”

  “So young,” said Albert, forgetting at the moment the Count’s command that he should ask no questions of the slave herself, “is it possible that you can have known what suffering is except by name?”

  Haidee turned her eyes towards Monte Cristo, who, making at the same time some imperceptible sign, murmured,—“Go on.”

  “Nothing is ever so firmly impressed on the mind as the memory of our early childhood, and with the exception of the two scenes I have just described to you, all my earliest reminiscences are fraught with deepest sadness.”

  “Speak, speak, signora,” said Albert, “I am listening with the most intense delight and interest to all you say.”

  Haidee answered his remark with a melancholy smile. “You wish me, then, to relate the history of my past sorrows?” said she.

  “I beg you to do so,” replied Albert.

  “Well, I was but four years old when one night I was suddenly awakened by my mother. We were in the palace of Yanina; she snatched me from the cushions on which I was sleeping, and on opening my eyes I saw hers filled with tears. She took me away without speaking. When I saw her weeping I began to cry too. ‘Hush, child!’ said she. At other times in spite of maternal endearments or threats, I had with a child’s caprice been accustomed to indulge my feelings of sorrow or anger by crying as much as I felt inclined; but on this occasion there was an intonation of such extreme terror in my mother’s voice when she enjoined me to silence, that I ceased crying as soon as her command was given. She bore me rapidly away.

  “I saw then that we were descending a large staircase; around us were all my mother’s servants carrying trunks, bags, ornaments, jewels, purses of gold, with which they were hurrying away in the greatest distraction.

  “Behind the women came a guard of twenty men armed with long guns and pistols, and dressed in the costume which the Greeks have assumed since they have again become a nation. You may imagine there was something startling and ominous,” said Haidee, shaking her head and turning pale at the mere remembrance of the scene, “in this long file of slaves and women only half-aroused from sleep, or at least so they appeared to me, who was myself scarcely awake. Here and there on the walls of the staircase, were reflected gigantic shadows, which trembled in the flickering light of the pine-torches till they seemed to reach to the vaulted roof above.

  “‘Quick!’ said a voice at the end of the gallery. This voice made every one bow before it, resembling in its effect the wind passing over a field of wheat, by its superior strength forcing every ear to yield obeisance. As for me, it made me tremble. This voice was that of my father. He came last, clothed in his splendid robes and holding in his hand the carbine which your emperor presented him. He was leaning on the shoulder of his favorite Selim, and he drove us all before him, as a shepherd would his straggling flock. My father,” said Haidee, raising her head, “was that illustrious man known in Europe under the name of Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and before whom Turkey trembled.”

  Albert, without knowing why, started on hearing these words pronounced with such a haughty and dignified accent; it appeared to him as if there was something supernaturally gloomy and terrible in the expression which gleamed from the brilliant eyes of Haidee at this moment; she appeared like a Pythoness evoking a spectre, as she recalled to his mind the remembrance of the fearful death of this man, to the news of which all Europe had listened with horror. “Soon,” said Haidee, “we halted on our march, and found ourselves on the borders of a lake. My mother pressed me to her throbbing heart, and at the distance of a few paces I saw my father, who was glancing anxiously around. Four marble steps led down to the water’s edge, and below them was a boat floating on the tide.

  “From where we stood I could see in the middle of the lake a large blank mass; it was the kiosk to which we were going. T
his kiosk appeared to me to be at a considerable distance, perhaps on account of the darkness of the night, which prevented any object from being more than partially discerned. We stepped into the boat. I remember well that the oars made no noise whatever in striking the water, and when I leaned over to ascertain the cause I saw that they were muffled with the sashes of our Palikares.

  Besides the rowers, the boat contained only the women, my father, mother, Selim, and myself. The Palikares had remained on the shore of the lake, ready to cover our retreat; they were kneeling on the lowest of the marble steps, and in that manner intended making a rampart of the three others, in case of pursuit. Our bark flew before the wind. ‘Why does the boat go so fast?’ asked I of my mother.

  “‘Silence, child! Hush, we are flying!’ I did not understand. Why should my father fly?—he, the all-powerful—he, before whom others were accustomed to fly—he, who had taken for his device, ‘They hate me; then they fear me!’ It was, indeed, a flight which my father was trying to effect. I have been told since that the garrison of the castle of Yanina, fatigued with long service”—

  Here Haidee cast a significant glance at Monte Cristo, whose eyes had been riveted on her countenance during the whole course of her narrative. The young girl then continued, speaking slowly, like a person who is either inventing or suppressing some feature of the history which he is relating. “You were saying, signora,” said Albert, who was paying the most implicit attention to the recital, “that the garrison of Yanina, fatigued with long service”—

  “Had treated with the Serasker Koorshid, who had been sent by the sultan to gain possession of the person of my father; it was then that Ali Tepelini—after having sent to the sultan a French officer in whom he reposed great confidence—resolved to retire to the asylum which he had long before prepared for himself, and which he called kataphygion, or the refuge.”

  “And this officer,” asked Albert, “do you remember his name, signora?” Monte Cristo exchanged a rapid glance with the young girl, which was quite unperceived by Albert. “No,” said she, “I do not remember it just at this moment; but if it should occur to me presently, I will tell you.” Albert was on the point of pronouncing his father’s name, when Monte Cristo gently held up his finger in token of reproach; the young man recollected his promise, and was silent.