The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (168 page)

No sooner had the gate closed behind the count than Albert went up to his mother’s apartment and, since no one was there to announce him, went directly to Mercédès’ room. There, his heart swelling at what he saw – and what he guessed – he stopped on the threshold.

As if a single soul had inhabited the two bodies, Mercédès was doing in her apartment just what Albert had been doing in his. Everything had been put in order: lace, trimmings, jewels, linen, money, all to be carefully put away in the bottom of drawers, to which the countess was carefully collecting the keys.

Albert saw all these preparations. He knew what they meant and, crying, ‘Mother!’ threw his arms round Mercédès’ neck. The painter who could capture the expression on those two faces would surely have created a fine picture.

All the material evidence of firm determination, which had not
worried Albert for himself, made him deeply anxious for his mother. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

‘And what were you doing?’ she replied.

‘Oh, mother!’ Albert cried, almost speechless with emotion. ‘It is not the same for you as for me. No, you cannot have come to the same decision as I have, because I am here to tell you that I am bidding farewell to your house… and to you.’

‘So am I, Albert,’ Mercédès replied. ‘I, too, am leaving. But I confess, I had been counting on my son’s going with me. Was I wrong?’

‘Mother,’ Albert said firmly, ‘I cannot make you share the fate that I intend for myself. Henceforth I must live without a name and without a fortune. So as to begin learning this hard existence, I shall have to borrow from a friend the bread that I shall eat between now and the time when I have earned more. That is why, my dearest mother, I was going to see Franz, to ask him to lend me the small sum which I have calculated I shall need.’

‘You, my poor child!’ Mercédès cried. ‘You! Suffer poverty, suffer hunger… Oh, don’t say that, or you will shatter all my resolutions.’

‘But not mine, mother,’ Albert replied. ‘I am young, I am strong, I believe that I am courageous. Since yesterday, I have learnt what willpower can achieve. Alas, mother, there are people who have suffered greatly, and who did not die, but raised a new fortune on the ruins of all those promises of happiness that heaven had made to them, and on the debris of all the hopes that God had given them! I learned as much, mother, I have seen these men. I know that from the depths of the abyss into which their enemies plunged them, they have risen with such strength and glory that they have overcome their former vanquisher and cast him down in his turn. No, mother, no. From today, I have broken with the past. I accept nothing of it, not even my name, because you understand… you do understand this, mother, don’t you? Your son cannot bear the name of a man who ought to blush before another.’

‘Albert, my child,’ said Mercédès, ‘if my heart had been stronger, that is the advice I should have given you. Your conscience spoke when my exhausted voice was hushed. Listen to your conscience, my son. You had friends, Albert; break with them for the time being, but do not despair, for your mother’s sake. At your age, life is still sweet, my dear Albert: you are barely twenty-two; and since
a heart as pure as yours needs a spotless name, take that of my father: he was called Herrera. I know you, Albert. Whatever path you follow, you will soon make this name illustrious in it. So, my friend, come back to the world, made still more brilliant by your past misfortunes; and, if that is not to be, despite all my expectations, at least leave me that hope: from now on, I shall have only that thought, since I have no future and the tomb awaits me on the threshold of this house.’

‘I shall do everything, just as you wish, mother,’ the young man said. ‘Yes, I share your hope: the wrath of heaven will not pursue us, you who are so pure and I so innocent. But since we are resolved, let us act promptly. Monsieur de Morcerf left the house around half an hour ago; so, as you see, we have a good opportunity to avoid scandal or explanations.’

‘I shall wait for you, my son,’ said Mercédès.

Albert hurried on to the boulevard and brought back a cab which would pick them up outside the house. He recalled a little boarding-house in the Rue des Saints-Pères, where his mother could find simple but decent lodgings. He came back to fetch her.

Just as the cab stopped in front of the door and Albert was getting down, a man came over to him and gave him a letter. Albert recognized him; it was Bertuccio. ‘From the count,’ he said.

Albert took the letter, opened it and read. After reading it, he looked around for Bertuccio, but the steward had vanished. So Albert, with tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat, went back to Mercédès and, without a word, handed her the letter. She read:

ALBERT
,

By showing you that I have guessed the plan that you are about to adopt, I hope also to show you that I understand tact. You are free, you are leaving the count’s house and you are going to take your mother, who is as free as you are. But consider, Albert, you owe her more than you can ever repay, poor noble soul though you are. Keep the struggles for yourself, demand suffering for yourself, but spare her the first destitution that must inevitably accompany your first efforts; for she does not even deserve to partake indirectly of the misfortune that has befallen her, and Providence does not wish the innocent to pay for the guilty.

I know that you are both going to leave the house in the Rue du Helder, taking nothing with you. Don’t attempt to discover how I found this out. I know it: that’s all.

So listen to me, Albert. Twenty-four years ago I returned home to my own country, joyful and proud. I had a fiancée, Albert, a pious young woman whom I adored, and I was bringing back to my fiancée one hundred and fifty
louis
which I had managed to save with much difficulty through continual labour. I intended this money for her and, knowing how treacherous the sea is, I had buried our treasure in the little garden of the house that my father inhabited in Marseille, on the Allées de Meilhan.

Your mother, Albert, knows that dear little house well.

Recently, on my way to Paris, I came through Marseille. I went to see that house with its painful memories. And in the evening, with a spade, I probed the corner where I had buried my treasure. The iron box was still in the same place, no one had touched it. It is in the corner shaded by a fine fig-tree, which my father planted on the day of my birth.

Well, Albert, this money, which was once intended to secure the life and tranquillity of the woman I loved, has now, by a strange and painful twist of fate, returned to its former use. Oh, please understand how I feel – I who could offer millions to that poor woman, and who am merely returning to her a scrap of black bread which has been hidden under my humble roof since the day when I was separated from her whom I loved.

You are a generous man, Albert, but perhaps despite that you are blinded by pride or resentment. If you refuse me, if you ask someone else to do what I have the right to offer you, then I shall say that it was cruel of you to refuse the offer of life to your mother, from a man whose father was driven to starvation, despair and death by your father.

When she had finished reading, Albert remained pale and motionless, waiting for his mother to make up her mind. She looked up to heaven with an indescribable expression and said: ‘I accept. He has the right to pay the dowry that I shall take into a convent.’ And putting the letter to her heart, she took her son’s arm and walked towards the stairs, perhaps with a firmer step than even she had expected.

Meanwhile Monte Cristo had also gone back into town with Emmanuel and Maximilien. Their return was merry. Emmanuel did not disguise his joy at seeing war replaced by peace and loudly proclaimed his philanthropic feelings. Morrel, seated in a corner of the carriage, let his brother-in-law’s merriment evaporate in words and kept his own joy to himself, allowing it to shine only in his look, though it was no less sincere.

At the Barrière du Trône they met Bertuccio, who was waiting there as motionless as a sentry on duty. Monte Cristo put his head out and exchanged a few words with him; then the steward disappeared.

‘Count,’ said Emmanuel when they got to the Place Royale, ‘please drop me off at my front door, so that my wife will not have a single unnecessary moment of anxiety for either of us.’

‘If it was not ridiculous to go around proclaiming one’s triumph,’ said Morrel, ‘I should invite the count into our home. But he too has no doubt some anxious minds to put at rest. Here we are, Emmanuel. Let’s say goodbye to our friend and allow him to go on his way.’

‘One moment,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Don’t deprive me in this way of both my companions together. Go in and see your wife, and give her my respects; and you, Morrel, come with me to the Champs-Elysées.’

‘Perfect,’ said Maximilien. ‘Particularly since I have something to attend to in your part of town, Count.’

‘Can we expect you for lunch?’ asked Emmanuel.

‘No,’ Morrel replied.

The door closed and the carriage went on its way.

‘You see: I brought you good luck,’ said Morrel when he was alone with the count. ‘Did that occur to you?’

‘Certainly,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘That’s why I always want to keep you by me.’

‘It’s a miracle!’ said Morrel, in answer to his own thoughts.

‘What is?’ asked Monte Cristo.

‘What has happened.’

‘Yes,’ the count said, smiling. ‘That’s the right word, Morrel: a miracle!’

‘Because Albert is brave enough.’

‘Very much so,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘I’ve seen him sleeping with a dagger hanging over his head.’

‘And I know that he has fought twice already, and very well,’ Morrel said. ‘So how does that square with his behaviour this morning?’

‘Your influence, again,’ said Monte Cristo, still smiling.

‘Lucky for Albert he’s not a soldier,’ said Morrel.

‘Why?’

‘Excuses on the field!’ the young captain said, shaking his head.

‘Now, now,’ the count said gently. ‘Don’t let’s give way to these prejudices of ordinary people, Morrel. You must agree that, since Albert is brave, he cannot be a coward, so he must have had some reason to act as he did this morning; and that consequently his behaviour was more heroic than otherwise?’

‘No doubt,’ said Morrel. ‘But, like the Spaniard, I would say: He was not as brave today as he was yesterday.’

‘You’ll take lunch with me, won’t you, Morrel?’ the count said, to change the subject.

‘No, I’m afraid I must leave you at ten o’clock.’

‘So your appointment is for lunch?’

Morrel smiled and shook his head.

‘But you must eat somewhere.’

‘But suppose I am not hungry?’

‘Ah,’ said the count, ‘I know of only two things which can spoil one’s appetite like that: pain – and since, I’m pleased to say, you seem very happy, it can’t be that – and love. Moreover, in view of what you told me about your affections, I may perhaps surmise…’

‘I won’t deny it, Count,’ Morrel said merrily.

‘But you’re not telling me about it, Maximilien?’ the count said, in a tone of voice that showed how curious he was to learn the secret.

‘Didn’t I show you this morning that I have a heart?’

In reply, Monte Cristo offered the young man his hand.

‘Well,’ he continued, ‘as that heart is no longer with you in the Bois de Vincennes, it is somewhere else, and I am going to recover it.’

‘Go on, then,’ the count said slowly. ‘Go, my dear friend, but do
this for me: if you should encounter any obstacle, remember that I have some power in this world, that I am happy to use it for the benefit of those I love, and that I love you, Morrel.’

‘Thank you,’ the young man said. ‘I shall remember it as selfish children remember their parents when they need them. When I need you, Count – and that time may come – I shall ask for your help.’

‘Very well, I have your word. Goodbye, now.’

‘Au revoir.’

They had reached the door of the house on the Champs-Elysées. Monte Cristo opened the door and Morrel jumped on to the pavement. Bertuccio was waiting at the steps. Morrel vanished down the Avenue de Marigny and Monte Cristo walked quickly over to Bertuccio. ‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Well, she is leaving her house,’ said the steward.

‘And her son?’

‘Florentin, his valet, thinks he will do the same.’

‘Come with me.’

Monte Cristo took Bertuccio into his study, wrote the letter that we have already seen and gave it to the steward. ‘Go, and go quickly,’ he said, adding: ‘Oh, and have Haydée told that I am back.’

‘I am here,’ said the girl, who had already come down at the sound of the carriage, her face shining with joy at seeing the count safe and sound. Bertuccio went out.

In the first moments after this return which she had awaited with such impatience, Haydée experienced all the emotion of a daughter reunited with a dear father and all the delirium of a mistress greeting an adored lover. And Monte Cristo’s joy, though less expansive, was no less great. For hearts which have long suffered, happiness is like dew on soil parched by the sun: both heart and earth absorb this beneficial rain as it falls on them, and nothing appears on the surface. For some days, Monte Cristo had realized something that for a long time he had not dared to believe, which is that there were two Mercédès in the world, and he could once more be happy.