Madame de Morcerf led her companion through an archway draped with trees. The path wound through a grove of lindens toward the conservatory at the far end.
"It was too stuffy inside, wasn’t it, Count?" she asked, her voice slightly breathless.
"Yes, it was. Opening those doors and windows was an excellent idea."
As Monte Cristo spoke, he felt Mercédès’ hand tremble against his arm.
"But aren’t you cold?" he asked, glancing at her thin dress. "That silk scarf isn’t much protection."
"Do you know where I’m taking you?" the countess asked, ignoring his question completely.
"No, but I’m not resisting." His tone was careful and measured.
"To the greenhouse. The one you can see through the trees."
Monte Cristo studied her face, searching for answers to questions he couldn’t voice. But Mercédès remained silent, and he chose not to press further. They continued walking.
The greenhouse rose before them, a glass palace filled with exotic fruits that ripened early thanks to artificial heat, a substitute for the sun that so often failed to show in their climate.
Mercédès released his arm and reached for a cluster of dark Muscatel grapes. "Look at these, Count," she said with a smile so sad it seemed tears might spill from her eyes at any moment. "I know they can’t compare to the grapes from Sicily or Cyprus that you’re used to, but please, forgive our northern sun for its inadequacy."
The count bowed politely but stepped backward, creating distance between them.
"You’re refusing?" Her voice shook.
"Please forgive me, but I never eat Muscatel grapes."
Mercédès let the grapes fall from her fingers. They hit the ground with a soft sound. She sighed deeply, then noticed a magnificent peach hanging nearby, ripened by the same artificial warmth. She plucked it and held it out to him.
"Then take this peach instead."
"Again?" The word came out almost as a sob. "You’re hurting me, truly."
Silence stretched between them. The peach joined the grapes on the ground.
"Count," Mercédès said, her voice taking on a pleading quality, "there’s a beautiful custom from Arabia. When people eat bread and salt together under the same roof, they become eternal friends."
"I’m aware of that tradition. But we’re in France, not Arabia. And in France, eternal friendships are as rare as that custom of sharing bread and salt."
"But..." The countess’s breathing became rapid and shallow. She stared at Monte Cristo with intense focus, gripping his arm with both hands until her knuckles turned white. "We’re friends, aren’t we?"
The count’s face went deathly pale. Blood rushed to his heart, then surged back to color his cheeks crimson. His eyes seemed unfocused, like someone suddenly blinded by light.
"Certainly we’re friends," he finally said. "Why wouldn’t we be?"
It wasn’t the answer Mercédès wanted. She turned away, and a sound escaped her, something between a sigh and a groan.
"Thank you," she whispered.
They walked on in heavy silence, traversing the entire length of the garden without speaking.
"Sir," the countess suddenly burst out after ten minutes had passed, "is it true what they say? That you’ve seen so much, traveled so far, suffered so deeply?"
"I have suffered deeply."
"But now you’re happy?"
"I suppose so. No one hears me complain."
"Has your current happiness softened your heart?"
"My present happiness equals my past misery," Monte Cristo said flatly.
"Married?" He actually shuddered. "Who told you that?"
"No one said you were. But you’ve been seen at the opera with a beautiful young woman."
"She’s a slave I purchased in Constantinople, a prince’s daughter. I adopted her since I have no one else to love in this world."
"No sister? No son? No father?"
"How can you exist like that, with nothing to tie you to life?"
"It’s not my fault. When I was in Malta, I loved a young woman. We were about to marry when war broke out and took me away. I thought she loved me enough to wait, to stay faithful to my memory. When I returned, she was married. That’s the story of most men who’ve lived past twenty. Perhaps my heart was weaker than most, and I suffered more than others would have. That’s all."
The countess stopped walking, seeming to gasp for breath.
"And you still carry that love in your heart," she said. "A person can only truly love once. Did you ever see her again?"
"I never returned to the country where she lived."
"Yes, Malta." ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ novelFirｅ.net
"So she’s still there now?"
"Have you forgiven her for making you suffer?"
"But only her? Do you still hate the ones who separated you?"
"Hate them? Not at all. Why would I?"
The countess positioned herself directly in front of Monte Cristo. She still held a portion of the perfumed grapes in her hand.
"Take some," she urged.
"I never eat Muscatel grapes," he replied, as if they’d never discussed this before.
With a gesture of pure despair, the countess hurled the grapes into the nearest bushes. "Stubborn man!" she muttered.
Monte Cristo remained unmoved, as if her reproach had been directed at someone else entirely.
At that moment, Albert burst into the greenhouse, breathing hard.
"Mother!" he exclaimed. "Something terrible has happened!"
"What? What’s wrong?" The countess seemed to wake from a dream, returning to harsh reality. "A terrible thing? I should expect terrible things at this point."
"Monsieur de Villefort is here."
"He’s come to take his wife and daughter home."
"Madame de Saint-Méran just arrived in Paris with news that Monsieur de Saint-Méran died suddenly. It happened just after they left Marseilles. Madame de Villefort was in good spirits and didn’t want to believe it, but Mademoiselle Valentine understood immediately despite her father’s attempts to break it gently. The shock hit her like lightning, she fainted."
"How was Monsieur de Saint-Méran related to Mademoiselle de Villefort?" the count asked.
"He was her grandfather on her mother’s side. He was coming to Paris to arrange her marriage to Franz."
"So now Franz has to wait. If only Monsieur de Saint-Méran had been Mademoiselle Danglars’ grandfather too!"
"Albert!" Madame de Morcerf’s tone carried gentle reproach. "What are you saying? Count, please, you think so highly of him, tell him he’s spoken inappropriately."
She took a few steps forward. Monte Cristo watched her with an expression so thoughtful and full of tender admiration that she turned back and grabbed his hand. At the same time, she seized her son’s hand and joined them together.
"We are friends, aren’t we?" she asked.
"Madame, I wouldn’t presume to call myself your friend. But I am always your most respectful servant."
An indescribable pain pierced the countess’s heart. Before she’d taken ten steps away, the count saw her raise her handkerchief to her eyes.
"Don’t you and my mother get along?" Albert asked, confused.
"On the contrary," the count replied. "Didn’t you hear her say we’re friends?"