"Oh, all this is a family history, as Chateau-Renaud told you
the other day," observed Maximilian. "This humble picture would
have but little interest for you, accustomed as you are to behold
the pleasures and the misfortunes of the wealthy and industrious;
but such as we are, we have experienced bitter sorrows."
"And God has poured balm into your wounds, as he does into those
of all who are in affliction?" said Monte Cristo inquiringly.
"Yes, count," returned Julie, "we may indeed say he has, for he
has done for us what he grants only to his chosen; he sent us one
of his angels." The count's cheeks became scarlet, and he coughed,
in order to have an excuse for putting his handkerchief to his
mouth. "Those born to wealth, and who have the means of gratifying
every wish," said Emmanuel, "know not what is the real happiness of
life, just as those who have been tossed on the stormy waters of
the ocean on a few frail planks can alone realize the blessings of
fair weather."
Monte Cristo rose, and without making any answer (for the
tremulousness of his voice would have betrayed his emotion) walked
up and down the apartment with a slow step.
"Our magnificence makes you smile, count," said Maximilian, who
had followed him with his eyes. "No, no," returned Monte Cristo,
pale as death, pressing one hand on his heart to still its
throbbings, while with the other he pointed to a crystal cover,
beneath which a silken purse lay on a black velvet cushion. "I was
wondering what could be the significance of this purse, with the
paper at one end and the large diamond at the other."
"Count," replied Maximilian, with an air of gravity, "those are
our most precious family treasures."
"The stone seems very brilliant," answered the count.
"Oh, my brother does not allude to its value, although it has
been estimated at 100,000 francs; he means, that the articles
contained in this purse are the relics of the angel I spoke of just
now."
"This I do not comprehend; and yet I may not ask for annow."
"This I do not comprehend; and yet I may not ask for an
explanation, madame," replied Monte Cristo bowing. "Pardon me, I
had no intention of committing an indiscretion."
"Indiscretion, — oh, you make us happy by giving us an excuse
for expatiating on this subject. If we wanted to conceal the noble
action this purse commemorates, we should not expose it thus to
view. Oh, would we could relate it everywhere, and to every one, so
that the emotion of our unknown benefactor might reveal his
presence."
"Ah, really," said Monte Cristo in a half-stifled voice.
"Monsieur," returned Maximilian, raising the glass cover, and
respectfully kissing the silken purse, "this has touched the hand
of a man who saved my father from suicide, us from ruin, and our
name from shame and disgrace, — a man by whose matchless
benevolence we poor children, doomed to want and wretchedness, can
at present hear every one envying our happy lot. This letter" (as
he spoke, Maximilian drew a letter from the purse and gave it to
the count) — "this letter was written by him the day that my father
had taken a desperate resolution, and this diamond was given by the
generous unknown to my sister as her dowry." Monte Cristo opened
the letter, and read it with an indescribable feeling of delight.
It was the letter written (as our readers know) to Julie, and
signed "Sinbad the Sailor." "Unknown you say, is the man who
rendered you this service — unknown to you?"
"Yes; we have never had the happiness of pressing his hand,"
continued Maximilian. "We have supplicated heaven in vain to grant
us this favor, but the whole affair has had a mysterious meaning
that we cannot comprehend — we have been guided by an invisible
hand, — a hand as powerful as that of an enchanter."
"Oh," cried Julie, "I have not lost all hope of some day kissing
that hand, as I now kiss the purse which he has touched. Four years
ago, Penelon was at Trieste — Penelon, count, is the old sailor you
saw in the garden, and who, from quartermaster, has become gardenersaw in the garden, and who, from quartermaster, has become gardener
— Penelon, when he was at Trieste, saw on the quay an Englishman,
who was on the point of embarking on board a yacht, and he
recognized him as the person who called on my father the fifth of
June, 1829, and who wrote me this letter on the fifth of September.
He felt convinced of his identity, but he did not venture to
address him."
"An Englishman," said Monte Cristo, who grew uneasy at the
attention with which Julie looked at him. "An Englishman you
say?"
"Yes," replied Maximilian, "an Englishman, who represented
himself as the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson &
French, at Rome. It was this that made me start when you said the
other day, at M. de Morcerf's, that Messrs. Thomson & French
were your bankers. That happened, as I told you, in 1829. For God's
sake, tell me, did you know this Englishman?"
"But you tell me, also, that the house of Thomson & French
have constantly denied having rendered you this service?"
"Yes."
"Then is it not probable that this Englishman may be some one
who, grateful for a kindness your father had shown him, and which
he himself had forgotten, has taken this method of requiting the
obligation?"
"Everything is possible in this affair, even a miracle."
"What was his name?" asked Monte Cristo.
"He gave no other name," answered Julie, looking earnestly at
the count, "than that at the end of his letter — `Sinbad the
Sailor.'"
"Which is evidently not his real name, but a fictitious
one."
Then, noticing that Julie was struck with the sound of his
voice, —
"Tell me," continued he, "was he not about my height, perhaps a
little taller, with his chin imprisoned, as it were, in a high
cravat; his coat closely buttoned up, and constantly taking out his
pencil?"
"Oh, do you then know him?" cried Julie, whose eyes sparkled
with joy.
"No," returned Monte Cristo "I only guessed. I knew a Lord
Wilmore, who was constantly doing actions of this kind."
"Without revealing himself?"