Edmond Dantès | Page 8

on delicately fashioned easels, themselves entitled
to a high, rank as works of art. In the salons were statues by Michael
Angelo, Pierre Puget and Pompeo Marchesi, and paintings by Claude
Lorraine, Titian, Sir Thomas Lawrence, Correggio and Salvator Rosa.
The vast library was encircled by lofty bookcases of walnut and ebony,
filled with rare and costly volumes from the curiously illuminated
missals of monkish days to the latest scientific works, together with a
liberal sprinkling of poetry and fiction; upon tables, stands and mantels
were superb ornaments in brass repoussé work and grand old faïence,
including some wonderful specimens of ancient Chinese crackle ware,
the peculiar secret of the manufacture of which had been lost in the
flight of ages.

At an exquisite desk of walnut, carved with grotesque images, sat the
Count of Monte-Cristo; he was busily engaged in writing, and beside
him lay a huge pile of manuscript that was ever and anon augmented by
an additional sheet, hastily scrawled in strange, bewildering Semitic
characters.
The Count showed but small trace of the passage of years; he did not
look much older than when he left the Isle of Monte-Cristo with
Haydée on that voyage which was destined to result so disastrously for
the Alcyon and her ill-fated crew. To be sure, his hair was slightly
flecked with gray, but his visage still retained its full outline, and not a
wrinkle marred its masculine beauty. He was clad in an exceedingly
picturesque costume, half Greek and half Turkish, while upon his head
was a red fez from the centre of which hung down a gilt tassel.
As he wrote his eyes sparkled and he seemed filled with enthusiasm. At
length he threw aside his pen, and rising began to pace the vast
apartment with long strides. "Alas!" he muttered, "perhaps after all I
am only a vain dreamer, as hosts of others have been before me. But no,
my scheme is feasible and cannot fail; it is based on sound principles
and a thorough knowledge of mankind; besides, the immense wealth
that an all-wise God has placed at my disposal will aid me and form a
mighty factor in the cause. In the past I used that wealth solely for my
own selfish ends, but now all is different; I have no thought of self--the
philanthropist has replaced the egotist; I have aided the poor, relieved
the stricken and brought joy to many a sorrowing home, but hitherto I
have acted only in isolated cases; now I meditate a grand, a sublime
stroke--to give freedom to man throughout the entire length and breadth
of the Continent of Europe. If I succeed, and succeed I must, every
down-trodden human being from the coast of France to the Ural
Mountains, from the sunny Mediterranean to the frozen Arctic Ocean,
will reap the benefit of my efforts and shake off the yoke of tyranny.
Where shall I begin? Ah! with France, my own country, the land that
gave me birth. I shall thus return good for evil, and Edmond Dantès, the
prisoner of the Château d'If, will free the masses from their galling
chains. My most potent instrument will be the public press; by means
of journals I will found, or buy, the minds of all Europeans shall

become familiarized with the theory of universal liberty and ripened for
sweeping revolutions and the establishment of republics; I will also call
fiction to my aid; struggling novelists and feuilletonists shall receive
liberal subsidies from my hand on condition that they disseminate my
ideas, theories and plans in their romances and feuilletons; thus will I
reach thousands upon thousands who hold themselves aloof from
politics, and almost insensibly they will be transformed into zealous,
active partisans of the order of things that is to be; poets, too, shall sing
the praises of freedom louder and more enthusiastically than ever
before; in fine, no instrument, no means, however humble and
apparently insignificant, shall be neglected when the proper moment
arrives, but until it does arrive I must wait, wait patiently, wait though
while waiting an internal fire consume me, and my veins throb with
anxiety and expectation to the point of bursting."
He sank into a chair, and, burying his face in his hands, was lost in
profound thought.
Meanwhile, a lovely woman, leading a beautiful girl of eight years and
a handsome boy of nine, had noiselessly entered the apartment. It was
Haydée, the wife of Monte-Cristo, Haydée grown mature and more
beautiful than ever. Her night-black tresses were gathered in two wide
braids at the back of her shapely head, so long that they reached below
her waist. Her eyes were as bright as stars, and her slender hands,
tipped with their pink nails, as white as the lily; her tiny feet, encased