Wilmore, who was constantly doing actions of this kind."
"Without revealing himself?"
"He was an eccentric being, and did not believe in the existence
of gratitude."
"Oh, heaven," exclaimed Julie, clasping her hands, "in what did
he believe, then?"
"He did not credit it at the period which I knew him," said
Monte Cristo, touched to the heart by the accents of Julie's voice;
"but, perhaps, since then he has had proofs that gratitude does
exist."
"And do you know this gentleman, monsieur?" inquired
Emmanuel.
"Oh, if you do know him," cried Julie, "can you tell us where he
is — where we can find him? Maximilian — Emmanuel — if we do but
discover him, he must believe in the gratitude of the heart!" Monte
Cristo felt tears start into his eyes, and he again walked hastily
up and down the room.
"In the name of heaven," said Maximilian, "if you know anything
of him, tell us what it is."
"Alas," cried Monte Cristo, striving to repress his emotion, "if
Lord Wilmore was your unknown benefactor, I fear you will never see
him again. I parted from him two years ago at Palermo, and he was
then on the point of setting out for the most remote regions; so
that I fear he will never return."
"Oh, monsieur, this is cruel of you," said Julie, much affected;
and the young lady's eyes swam with tears.
"Madame," replied Monte Cristo gravely, and gazing earnestly on
the two liquid pearls that trickled down Julie's cheeks, "had Lord
Wilmore seen what I now see, he would become attached to life, for
the tears you shed would reconcile him to mankind;" and he held out
his hand to Julie, who gave him hers, carried away by the look and
accent of the count. "But," continued she, "Lord Wilmore had a
family or friends, he must have known some one, can we not — "
"Oh, it is useless to inquire," returned the count; "perhaps,
after all, he was not the man you seek for. He was my friend: he
had no secrets from me, and if this had been so he would have
confided in me."
"And he told you nothing?"
"Not a word."
"Nothing that would lead you to suppose?"confided in me."
"And he told you nothing?"
"Not a word."
"Nothing that would lead you to suppose?"
"Nothing."
"And yet you spoke of him at once."
"Ah, in such a case one supposes" —
"Sister, sister," said Maximilian, coming to the count's aid,
"monsieur is quite right. Recollect what our excellent father so
often told us, `It was no Englishman that thus saved us.'" Monte
Cristo started. "What did your father tell you, M. Morrel?" said he
eagerly.
"My father thought that this action had been miraculously
performed — he believed that a benefactor had arisen from the grave
to save us. Oh, it was a touching superstition, monsieur, and
although I did not myself believe it, I would not for the world
have destroyed my father's faith. How often did he muse over it and
pronounce the name of a dear friend — a friend lost to him forever;
and on his death-bed, when the near approach of eternity seemed to
have illumined his mind with supernatural light, this thought,
which had until then been but a doubt, became a conviction, and his
last words were, `Maximilian, it was Edmond Dantes!'" At these
words the count's paleness, which had for some time been
increasing, became alarming; he could not speak; he looked at his
watch like a man who has forgotten the hour, said a few hurried
words to Madame Herbault, and pressing the hands of Emmanuel and
Maximilian, — "Madame," said he, "I trust you will allow me to
visit you occasionally; I value your friendship, and feel grateful
to you for your welcome, for this is the first time for many years
that I have thus yielded to my feelings;" and he hastily quitted
the apartment.
"This Count of Monte Cristo is a strange man," said
Emmanuel.
"Yes," answered Maximilian, "but I feel sure he has an excellent
heart, and that he likes us."
"His voice went to my heart," observed Julie; "and two or three
times I fancied that I had heard it before."About two-thirds of the way along the Faubourg Saint-Honore, and
in the rear of one of the most imposing mansions in this rich
neighborhood, where the various houses vie with each other for
elegance of design and magnificence of construction, extended a
large garden, where the wide-spreading chestnut-trees raised their
heads high above the walls in a solid rampart, and with the coming
of every spring scattered a shower of delicate pink and white
blossoms into the large stone vases that stood upon the two square
pilasters of a curiously wrought iron gate, that dated from the
time of Louis XII. This noble entrance, however, in spite of its
striking appearance and the graceful effect of the geraniums
planted in the two vases, as they waved their variegated leaves in
the wind and charmed the eye with their scarlet bloom, had fallen
into utter disuse. The proprietors of the mansion had many years
before thought it best to confine themselves to the possession of
the house itself, with its thickly planted court-yard, opening into
the Faubourg Saint-Honore, and to the garden shut in by this gate,
which formerly communicated with a fine kitchen-garden of about an
acre. For the demon of speculation drew a line, or in other words
projected a street, at the farther side of the kitchen-garden. The
street was laid out, a name was chosen and posted up on an iron
plate, but before construction was begun, it occurred to the
possessor of the property that a handsome sum might be obtained for
the ground then devoted to fruits and vegetables, by building along
the line of the proposed street, and so making it a branch of
communication with the Faubourg Saint-Honore itself, one of the
most important thoroughfares in the city of Paris.
In matters of speculation, however, though "man proposes,"
"money disposes." From some such difficulty the newly named street
died almost in birth, and the purchaser of the kitchen-garden,
having paid a high price for it, and being quite unable to find any