The Sultan of Monte Cristo: First Sequel to The Count of Monte Cristo
Page 8
THE MORNING AFTER, MERCEDES AWAKES feeling youthful and invigorated. The flavor of the delightful nightcap she shared with Dantes is still dancing on her taste buds.
After her appointment with the finest dressmaker in Paris, Mercedes dresses for horseback riding, as Dantes has requested, and finds him with two black Arabian beauties in the courtyard of the Paris Princess Hotel.
While Dantes helps Mercedes mount her stallion, she asks, “Can we ride on horseback as far as Marseilles?”
“Our servants will follow with whatever we need, and you can ride in the coach, if you tire; or, we can race home alone.”
They enjoy the balmy spring atmosphere, as they take in the scenic surroundings throughout the greening countryside.
“Have you kept your promise to watch over my son, Albert?” Mercedes asks.
“He has already received two promotions into the elite Zouaves.”
“The Zouaves?” asks Mercedes. “Perhaps that is why he stopped writing to me. He must have little free time, if he is training with that regiment.”
“Yes, the Zouaves are a tribal confederation of Kabylia members of a French infantry unit. It is composed of Algerians wearing brilliant uniforms and conducting quick spirited drills.”
Excited to learn this, Mercedes blurts out, “He must look handsome, dressed so brilliantly.”
“You mean like his father, Fernand, the Count de Morcerf?”
“No! Albert is nothing like his father. Not in mind, soul, countenance, or deeds. Fernand’s first consummation of our marriage was his last — after that I barred him from my room, and he was too prideful to force himself upon me again. He took advantage of me at my weakest point, after your father told me to give up waiting for your return. When Albert was forming in my womb, I thought only of you. In that sense, he is your child!”
Tears begin to roll down her face, as they had two decades earlier on her wedding day, and in a choked-up voice she says, “I never was in love with Fernand, and I only married him for the sake of my unborn son, so he would not be a bastard.”
Mercedes continues by asking, “Can we erase the name of Fernand from our minds? If I accept to be a wife in your harem, will you accept Albert as your son and treat him like one?”
“I have already begun to do that. Here, read this letter I brought from Albert. I read it with his permission. He wrote to you that quote, ‘The Sultan of Monte Cristo treats me like I am his own son, and he makes me feel like he is my real father. I believe Heaven has preserved him to bless our lives and for us to bless his.’ So you see, Mercedes, you are in good hands.”
After Mercedes’ tears of grief turn into tears of joy, the reunited couple arrives at a lush meadow, where Ali has ridden ahead and laid out a delicious picnic. The pair feast on roasted pheasant and dried fruits mixed with wild Spanish chestnuts, enjoying the peaceful countryside and lush vegetation. The meadow is beautified with cuckoopints of yellow-green spathe covered by arrow-shaped leaves, punctuated by tiny purple flowers. Napping on a Persian rug, they become lost in the moment. They resume travelling and for days do not say a word, till they arrive at La Reserve to enjoy Turkish coffee and coconut macaroons at the Cercles des Phoceens, where they read Le Semaphore newspaper.
Mercedes says, “I can't find a newspaper these days that does not reveal some new rumor or revelation about the exploits of the Count of Monte Cristo. I’m seriously considering your strange marriage proposal. I’m not saying ‘yes,’ but if I do agree, it will have to be on the condition that Albania grants me a monopoly on growing hemp. I’ve started a business inventing and creating hemp products, and I wish to retain a modicum of independence. I’ve found that I have grown to like some small power over my own being, after a period of solitude. Can you agree to these conditions?”
“Yes,” says Dantes, without hesitation. “But you can’t let anyone know you are not subservient to the Sultan of Albania, for political and religious reasons. I cannot have my friends or my enemies thinking I am weak, for the former would lose respect for me and the latter would attempt to take advantage of me.”
“Oh, you! The Sultan of my heart! I — not be subservient? That isn’t the right word. I will sin by worshipping you, instead of God. You, like God, destroy only as a god could; and then, in a way only God could, save my life! You are my savior!”
“So,” Dantes says, “we will marry then?”
“I will give you my answer tonight,” promises Mercedes, “but why are you not anxious to read your father's letter?”
“Fourteen years in prison taught me patience. Did the coconut macaroon satisfy you? Are you ready to take me home?” asks Dantes.
As they approach Dantes’ old home, Mercedes says, “Edmond, I'm beginning to feel butterflies in my stomach. I thought that only happened to young lovers, but it is not an unpleasant surprise to find that those entering a more golden stage of life may feel it as well.”
Dantes’ smile answers her statement, and she realizes aloud, “Youth is eternal for those in love, and neither time nor space can extinguish the magic of that original spark.”
Dantes is impressed with the charming style in which Mercedes has redecorated his apartment, and he is glad that it partially bars his childhood memories from flooding his emotions. She lights the fireplace, adding warmth to her cozy bedroom. The herbal odor of hemp incense rises to delight the senses. Mercedes opens the secret hiding place and brings out the letter, then retrieves two bottles of wine. “Your father saved these wines for our honeymoon. One made the year you were born, 1796, and one from my birth year, 1800. We can enjoy these after you read his letter.”
Dantes’ eyes well up with tears, as he reads the missive with astonishment, and then regret. He wishes he could ask his parents a thousand questions, and that his father had not been deprived of personally conveying his blessings. Dantes’ anger toward those who falsely imprisoned him resurfaces, as he realizes how his father must have suffered in those last days alone.
He is deep in thought after re-reading his father's letter, when Mercedes returns dressed in exotic silk. She takes the letter from Dantes and returns it to its hiding place, redirecting his attention to the wine. She reads the label on the 1796 bottle. “Principle Corsini from the Corti Estate, founded 1427 - Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Petit Verdot, aged in French oak. Let’s open this one first.”
Mercedes gently pours a taste of the wine into Dantes’ glass. He inhales its rich aroma before drinking, then states, “A mouth-watering medley of plum, mocha, and smoke flavors. What a rare treat my father left for us; a future the Greek gods could not imagine to plan. Let’s toast to Louis Dantes.”
“To Louis Dantes,” salutes Mercedes, “who gave me the best wedding gift a woman could dream of. To this best day of my life!”
Passionate feelings begin to flame in their hearts as the wine dulls their senses.
The poet in Dantes begins to emerge, and he recites:
“Mademoiselle has the velvet eyes of a gazelle
She is as sleek as the finest vessel on the sea
Mercedes ages better than this cabernet
The finest wine
Her radiance is only matched
By Haydee.”
“Let's open my birth year’s wine,” says Mercedes, trying to distract Dantes from his thoughts of Haydee.
Dantes reads the 1800 label, “Chateau Margaux - Founded 1784,” and again inhales deeply before taking a sip. “This wine has a soft, floral character on the nose, and its palate is loaded with cassis, pure dark chocolate, licorice and black raspberry on the finish,” he notes.
Mercedes encourages, “Please wax eloquent with another of your poems.”
Dantes, his creativity unloosed by the wine, obliges her request:
“Love the younger wine
With its playful zest and zeal
Will the mature shine
To show me the best
Tonight opens to the mystery within
The delights my soul longs for.”
Mercedes places her finger on Dantes’ lips, whispering, “Yes, let me give you that delight.”
“Shouldn’t we marry first?” Dantes asks. “You have your reputation to consider — and France is full of gossips, as we both well know.”
“Why? Certainly, as Sultan, you can make it so with one word. Yet I’m afraid by chance, fate will stop us again!” declares Mercedes.
Dantes opens an envelope on the table and hands Mercedes their marriage certificate, signed and sealed by his in-house Imam, saying, “This is the work I did for us last night. We’ve been on our honeymoon all day, but I couldn’t tell you until you said ‘yes!’ ”
Mercedes whispers, “You may now kiss the bride.”
Dantes pulls her into his lap and Mercedes gently presses her lips to his, feeling they have finally fulfilled their destiny.
Book II Count VIII:
THE INIMITABLE RAYMEE