XLIX. Haydée.

XLIX

Haydée.

It will be remembered who were the new, or rather the old, acquaintances of the Count of Monte Cristo living in the Rue Meslay: they were Maximilien, Julie, and Emmanuel.

The hope of that pleasant visit he was about to pay, of those few happy moments he was about to spend, of that gleam of paradise slipping into the hell into which he had voluntarily plunged, had spread, from the moment he had lost sight of Villefort, the most charming serenity over the count's face; and Ali, who had run at the sound of the bell, seeing that face so radiant with so rare a joy, had withdrawn on tiptoe and holding his breath, as if not to frighten away the good thoughts he believed he saw fluttering around his master.

It was noon: the count had reserved an hour to go up to Haydée; it was as if joy could not all at once re-enter that soul so long broken, and that it needed to prepare itself for gentle emotions, just as other souls need to prepare themselves for violent ones.

The young Greek was, as we have said, in an apartment entirely separate from the count's. This apartment was wholly furnished in the Oriental manner; that is to say, the parquet floors were covered with thick Turkish carpets, brocade stuffs hung down along the walls, and in each room a wide divan ran all around the chamber with piles of cushions that shifted at the will of those who used them.

Haydée had three French women and one Greek woman. The three French women stayed in the first room, ready to run at the sound of a small gold bell and to obey the orders of the Romaic slave, who knew enough French to transmit her mistress's wishes to her three chambermaids, to whom Monte Cristo had recommended showing Haydée the respect one would show a queen.

The young girl was in the farthest room of her apartment, that is to say in a sort of round boudoir, lighted only from above, and into which the daylight entered only through panes of rose-colored glass. She was lying on the ground upon cushions of blue satin embroidered with silver, half reclining backward on the divan, framing her head with her softly rounded right arm, while with the left she fixed through her lips the coral tube in which was set the flexible pipe of a hookah, which let the vapor reach her mouth only perfumed by the benzoin water through which her gentle inhalation forced it to pass.

Her pose, entirely natural for an Eastern woman, would have been for a Frenchwoman perhaps a coquetry somewhat affected.

As for her toilette, it was that of the Epirote women, that is to say a pair of white satin drawers embroidered with pink flowers, which left uncovered two childlike feet that one would have taken for marble from Paros, had one not seen them play with two little slippers with recurved points, embroidered with gold and pearls; a jacket with long blue and white stripes, with wide slashed sleeves for the arms, with silver buttonholes and pearl buttons; finally a sort of bodice leaving, by its heart-shaped open cut, the neck and all the upper part of the chest visible, and fastening below the breast with three diamond buttons. As for the lower part of the bodice and the upper part of the drawers, they were lost in one of those vividly colored sashes with long silken fringes that are the ambition of our Parisian elegants.

The head was dressed with a small gold skullcap embroidered with pearls, tilted to one side, and below the skullcap, on the side to which it tilted, a beautiful natural purple rose stood out mingled with hair so black it seemed blue.

As for the beauty of that face, it was Greek beauty in all the perfection of its type, with its large velvety black eyes, its straight nose, its coral lips and its pearl teeth.

Then, over that charming whole, the flower of youth was spread with all its radiance and all its perfume; Haydée might have been nineteen or twenty years old.

Monte Cristo called the Greek attendant, and had permission asked of Haydée to enter to her.

For answer, Haydée signed to the attendant to lift the tapestry hanging before the door, whose square frame enclosed the reclining young girl like a charming picture. Monte Cristo advanced.

Haydée raised herself on the elbow that held the hookah, and stretching out her hand to the count while welcoming him with a smile:

“Why,” she said in the sonorous language of the daughters of Sparta and Athens, “why do you have permission asked to enter my home? Are you no longer my master, am I no longer your slave?”

Monte Cristo smiled in his turn.

“Haydée,” said he, “you know….”

“Why do you not say tu to me as usual?” interrupted the young Greek; “have I then committed some fault? In that case I must be punished, but not addressed as vous.”

“Haydée,” resumed the count, “you know that we are in France, and consequently that you are free.”

“Free to do what?” asked the young girl.

“Free to leave me.”

“Leave you!… and why should I leave you?”

“How should I know? We are going to see the world.”

“I wish to see no one.”

“And if among the handsome young men you will meet you found one who pleased you, I would not be unjust enough….”

“I have never seen men more handsome than you, and I have never loved but my father and you.”

“Poor child,” said Monte Cristo, “it is that you have scarcely spoken to anyone but your father and me.”

“Well, what need have I to speak to others? My father called me his joy; you call me your love, and both of you call me your child.”

“Do you remember your father, Haydée?”

The young girl smiled.

“He is there and there,” said she, putting her hand on her eyes and on her heart.

“And I, where am I?” asked Monte Cristo, smiling.

“You,” said she, “you are everywhere.”

Monte Cristo took Haydée's hand to kiss it; but the naive child withdrew her hand and presented her forehead.

“Now, Haydée,” he said to her, “you know that you are free, that you are mistress, that you are queen; you may keep your costume or lay it aside at your fancy; you will remain here when you wish to remain, you will go out when you wish to go out; there will always be a carriage harnessed for you; Ali and Myrto will accompany you everywhere and be at your orders; only, one thing, I beg of you.”

“Speak.”

“Keep the secret of your birth, do not say a word of your past; pronounce on no occasion the name of your illustrious father nor that of your poor mother.”

“I have already told you, my lord, I shall see no one.”

“Listen, Haydée; perhaps this wholly Oriental seclusion will be impossible in Paris: continue to learn the life of our northern countries as you have done at Rome, at Florence, at Milan and at Madrid; that will always serve you, whether you continue to live here or return to the Orient.”

The young girl raised her large moist eyes to the count and answered:

“Or that we return to the Orient, do you mean, is it not, my lord?”

“Yes, my daughter,” said Monte Cristo; “you know well that it is never I who will leave you. It is not the tree that leaves the flower, it is the flower that leaves the tree.”

“I shall never leave you, my lord,” said Haydée, “for I am sure I could not live without you.”

“Poor child! in ten years I shall be old, and in ten years you will still be young.”

“My father had a long white beard, that did not prevent me from loving him; my father was sixty years old, and he seemed to me more handsome than all the young men I saw.”

“But come, tell me, do you think you will grow accustomed here?”

“Shall I see you?”

“Every day.”

“Well, what do you ask of me then, my lord?”

“I fear you may be bored.”

“No, my lord, for in the morning I shall think you are coming, and in the evening I shall recall that you have come; besides, when I am alone, I have great memories, I see again immense pictures, great horizons with Pindus and Olympus in the distance; then I have in my heart three feelings with which one is never bored: sadness, love, and gratitude.”

“You are a worthy daughter of Epirus, Haydée, graceful and poetic, and one sees that you descend from that family of goddesses that was born in your country. Be tranquil then, my daughter, I shall take care that your youth be not wasted, for if you love me as your father, I, I love you as my child.”

“You are mistaken, my lord; I did not love my father as I love you; my love for you is another love: my father is dead and I am not dead; whereas you, if you were to die, I should die.”

The count stretched out his hand to the young girl with a smile of profound tenderness; she imprinted her lips upon it as usual.

And the count, thus disposed for the interview he was about to have with Morrel and his family, departed murmuring these lines of Pindar:

“Youth is a flower whose fruit is love…. Happy the vintager who gathers it after having seen it slowly ripen.”

According to his orders, the carriage was ready. He got in, and the carriage, as always, set off at a gallop.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”