“Here,” said he, leaning heavily on the arm of Monte-Cristo, – “here is the spot where my father stopped when the Pharaon entered the port; it was here that the good old man whom you saved from death and dishonor threw himself into my arms. I yet feel his warm tears on my face, and his were not the only tears shed, for many who witnessed our meeting wept also.”
Monte-Cristo gently smiled and said, – “I was there; “at the same time pointing to the corner of a street.
As he spoke, and in the very direction he indicated, a groan, expressive of bitter grief, was heard; and a woman was seen waving her hand to a passenger on board the vessel about to sail. She was closely veiled. Monte-Cristo looked at her with an emotion that must have been remarked by Morrel had not his eyes been fixed on the vessel.
“Oh! heavens!” exclaimed Morrel, “I do not deceive myself – that young man who is waving his hat, that youth in the uniform of a lieu tenant, is Albert de Morcerf!”
“Yes,” said Monte-Cristo, “I recognized him.”
“How so? – you were looking the other way.”
The count smiled, as he was in the habit of doing when he did not want to make any reply, and he again turned his looks toward the veiled woman, who soon disappeared at the corner of the street. Turning to his friend:
“Dear Maximilian,” said the count, “have you nothing to do in this region?”
“I have to weep over the grave of my father,” replied Morrel, in a broken voice.
“Well, then, go, – wait for me there, and I will soon join you.”
“You leave me, then?”
“Yes; I also have a pious visit to pay.”
Morrel allowed his hand to fall into that which the count extended to him; then with an inexpressibly melancholy inclination of the head he quitted the count, and bent his steps to the east of the city. Monte-Cristo remained on the same spot until Maximilian was out of sight; he then walked slowly toward the Allees de Meillan to seek out the small house with which our readers must have been familiar at the commencement of this story.
It yet stood under the shade of the fine avenue of lime-trees, which forms one of the most frequent walks of the idlers of Marseilles; covered by an immense vine, which spreads its aged and blackened branches over the stone front, burned yellow by the ardent sun of the south. Two stone steps, worn away by the friction of the feet, led to the door, made of three planks, which, owing to their never having made acquaintance with paint or varnish, parted annually to reunite again when the damp season arrived. This house, with all its crumbling antiquity and apparent misery, was yet cheerful and picturesque, and was the same that old Dantes formerly inhabited – the only difference being that the old man occupied merely the garret, while the whole house was now placed at the command of Mercedes by the count.