Paris — merely to introduce him into society — would you have me
refuse? My good fellow, you must have lost your senses to think it
possible I could act with such cold-blooded policy." And this time
it must be confessed that, contrary to the usual state of affairs
in discussions between the young men, the effective arguments were
all on Albert's side.
"Well," said Franz with a sigh, "do as you please my dear
viscount, for your arguments are beyond my powers of refutation.
Still, in spite of all, you must admit that this Count of Monte
Cristo is a most singular personage."
"He is a philanthropist," answered the other; "and no doubt his
motive in visiting Paris is to compete for the Monthyon prize,
given, as you are aware, to whoever shall be proved to have most
materially advanced the interests of virtue and humanity. If my
vote and interest can obtain it for him, I will readily give him
the one and promise the other. And now, my dear Franz, let us talk
of something else. Come, shall we take our luncheon, and then pay a
last visit to St. Peter's?" Franz silently assented; and the
following afternoon, at half-past five o'clock, the young men
parted. Albert de Morcerf to return to Paris, and Franz d'Epinay to
pass a fortnight at Venice. But, ere he entered his travelling
carriage, Albert, fearing that his expected guest might forget the
engagement he had entered into, placed in the care of a waiter at
the hotel a card to be delivered to the Count of Monte Cristo, on
which, beneath the name of Vicomte Albert de Morcerf, he had
written in pencil — "27, Rue du Helder, on the 21st May, half-past
ten A.M."When Albert found himself alone with Monte Cristo, "My dear
count," said he, "allow me to commence my services as cicerone by
showing you a specimen of a bachelor's apartment. You, who are
accustomed to the palaces of Italy, can amuse yourself by
calculating in how many square feet a young man who is not the
worst lodged in Paris can live. As we pass from one room to
another, I will open the windows to let you breathe." Monte Cristo
had already seen the breakfast-room and the salon on the
ground-floor. Albert led him first to his atelier, which was, as we
have said, his favorite apartment. Monte Cristo quickly appreciated
all that Albert had collected here — old cabinets, Japanese
porcelain, Oriental stuffs, Venetian glass, arms from all parts of
the world — everything was familiar to him; and at the first glance
he recognized their date, their country, and their origin. Morcerf
had expected he should be the guide; on the contrary, it was he
who, under the count's guidance, followed a course of archaeology,
mineralogy, and natural history. They descended to the first floor;
Albert led his guest into the salon. The salon was filled with the
works of modern artists; there were landscapes by Dupre, with their
long reeds and tall trees, their lowing oxen and marvellous skies;
Delacroix's Arabian cavaliers, with their long white burnouses,
their shining belts, their damasked arms, their horses, who tore
each other with their teeth while their riders contended fiercely
with their maces; aquarelles of Boulanger, representing Notre Dame
de Paris with that vigor that makes the artist the rival of the
poet; there were paintings by Diaz, who makes his flowers more
beautiful than flowers, his suns more brilliant than the sun;
designs by Decamp, as vividly colored as those of Salvator Rosa,
but more poetic; pastels by Giraud and Muller, representing
children like angels and women with the features of a virgin;
sketches torn from the album of Dauzats' "Travels in the East,"sketches torn from the album of Dauzats' "Travels in the East,"
that had been made in a few seconds on the saddle of a camel, or
beneath the dome of a mosque — in a word, all that modern art can
give in exchange and as recompense for the art lost and gone with
ages long since past.
Albert expected to have something new this time to show to the
traveller, but, to his great surprise, the latter, without seeking
for the signatures, many of which, indeed, were only initials,
named instantly the author of every picture in such a manner that
it was easy to see that each name was not only known to him, but
that each style associated with it had been appreciated and studied
by him. From the salon they passed into the bed-chamber; it was a
model of taste and simple elegance. A single portrait, signed by
Leopold Robert, shone in its carved and gilded frame. This portrait
attracted the Count of Monte Cristo's attention, for he made three
rapid steps in the chamber, and stopped suddenly before it. It was
the portrait of a young woman of five or six and twenty, with a
dark complexion, and light and lustrous eyes, veiled beneath long
lashes. She wore the picturesque costume of the Catalan
fisherwomen, a red and black bodice, and golden pins in her hair.
She was looking at the sea, and her form was outlined on the blue
ocean and sky. The light was so faint in the room that Albert did
not perceive the pallor that spread itself over the count's visage,
or the nervous heaving of his chest and shoulders. Silence
prevailed for an instant, during which Monte Cristo gazed intently
on the picture.
"You have there a most charming mistress, viscount," said the
count in a perfectly calm tone; "and this costume — a ball costume,
doubtless — becomes her admirably."
"Ah, monsieur," returned Albert, "I would never forgive you this
mistake if you had seen another picture beside this. You do not
know my mother; she it is whom you see here. She had her portrait
painted thus six or eight years ago. This costume is a fancy one,